human terror, and that was how I discovered the gap in the collarbone could assume many different forms.
Like Erika Fisherkant, I discovered that in a village in Byelorussia they selected a woman and her two children, aged five and seven, from the line. Without saying a word, they cut the head off one in front of the mother and shot the other in the face. They let her live on for a day so her suffering didn’t end quickly. Then they killed her.
I discovered that in Babi Yar the children fell either alive or severely wounded into the graves where they carried out mass executions. They fell on top of their dead mothers and wept for a long time until they were finally suffocated by the next round of corpses that buried them.
I discovered that they systematically smashed the heads of one or two-year-old babies against the road in the outskirts of ghettos.
I discovered that they cut off the breasts of twelve to fourteen-year-old girls in public before executing them.
I discovered that a huge SS on the platform in Auschwitz picked up a child by his hair with one hand and shot him in the ear with the other.
I discovered that in a village in Ukraine the police batallions crushed boys’ testicles under their boots before shooting them.
I discovered that sometimes, to amuse themselves, German soldiers would lift up a child by both ears and shake it several times in the air until its ears were ripped off its body. They laughed and nailed the ears to wooden posts.
I discovered that the Germans always laughed at their own brutality toward children. It was significant or atrocious for them. It was like destroying nests of sparrows or pigeons with their eggs. In these cases, they were only little Jewish chicks. Others needed to drink before they could kill children.
I discovered that in Crematorium 5 in Auschwitz the SS threw live children into the ovens.
I discovered that in a village in Lithuania several soldiers approached a group of children with their mothers. As soon as they were alongside them, on the spur of the moment, they suddenly took out their swords and knives and started to skewer the children. Not one managed even a whimper. It was such a shock. Their mothers went crazy before they died.
4
When it’s time for my daughters’ birthdays, I feel in a wild party mood. Fanny often tells me I become just one more child, a child like them and that the week before I’m all excited thinking the day is round the corner and that it will be spectacular. Come what may, the whole day is devoted to them, it’s a party for every member of the family, no one works, no one does anything routine, everything is special: the food is more lavish, the day’s timetable more uncharted (unlimited freedom to schedule things as the whim takes us), the clothes we wear are more random, the words we exchange less inhibited and every unexpected detail prompts jokes and laughter. I am an optimist, as Fanny says. The day before I buy presents for everyone, including Fanny and myself. And my own private ritual: our home dawns full of phigonias, Fanny’s favorite yellow flowers. That is how I want to celebrate that my daughters were born, and are alive and will live for a long time to come. My daughters’ birthdays—Mina in January and Zoe in June—are really gifts to me, and I cherish them mentally in my memory, scrupulously, as Fanny cherishes the memory of the phigonias I gave her. I treasure every year that passes with them and treasure the days that remind me how my life and theirs have experienced another year and become part of a common history that makes us what we are—together and alive—I don’t ever want to forget this, trivialize or take it for granted, because it is a gift amid all the suffering that has existed or will exist in the world—and I’d pay whatever price was necessary to guarantee that every birthday takes place inexorably, until, when they are older, they can decide by themselves how they’d like to
Like Erika Fisherkant, I discovered that in a village in Byelorussia they selected a woman and her two children, aged five and seven, from the line. Without saying a word, they cut the head off one in front of the mother and shot the other in the face. They let her live on for a day so her suffering didn’t end quickly. Then they killed her.
I discovered that in Babi Yar the children fell either alive or severely wounded into the graves where they carried out mass executions. They fell on top of their dead mothers and wept for a long time until they were finally suffocated by the next round of corpses that buried them.
I discovered that they systematically smashed the heads of one or two-year-old babies against the road in the outskirts of ghettos.
I discovered that they cut off the breasts of twelve to fourteen-year-old girls in public before executing them.
I discovered that a huge SS on the platform in Auschwitz picked up a child by his hair with one hand and shot him in the ear with the other.
I discovered that in a village in Ukraine the police batallions crushed boys’ testicles under their boots before shooting them.
I discovered that sometimes, to amuse themselves, German soldiers would lift up a child by both ears and shake it several times in the air until its ears were ripped off its body. They laughed and nailed the ears to wooden posts.
I discovered that the Germans always laughed at their own brutality toward children. It was significant or atrocious for them. It was like destroying nests of sparrows or pigeons with their eggs. In these cases, they were only little Jewish chicks. Others needed to drink before they could kill children.
I discovered that in Crematorium 5 in Auschwitz the SS threw live children into the ovens.
I discovered that in a village in Lithuania several soldiers approached a group of children with their mothers. As soon as they were alongside them, on the spur of the moment, they suddenly took out their swords and knives and started to skewer the children. Not one managed even a whimper. It was such a shock. Their mothers went crazy before they died.
4
When it’s time for my daughters’ birthdays, I feel in a wild party mood. Fanny often tells me I become just one more child, a child like them and that the week before I’m all excited thinking the day is round the corner and that it will be spectacular. Come what may, the whole day is devoted to them, it’s a party for every member of the family, no one works, no one does anything routine, everything is special: the food is more lavish, the day’s timetable more uncharted (unlimited freedom to schedule things as the whim takes us), the clothes we wear are more random, the words we exchange less inhibited and every unexpected detail prompts jokes and laughter. I am an optimist, as Fanny says. The day before I buy presents for everyone, including Fanny and myself. And my own private ritual: our home dawns full of phigonias, Fanny’s favorite yellow flowers. That is how I want to celebrate that my daughters were born, and are alive and will live for a long time to come. My daughters’ birthdays—Mina in January and Zoe in June—are really gifts to me, and I cherish them mentally in my memory, scrupulously, as Fanny cherishes the memory of the phigonias I gave her. I treasure every year that passes with them and treasure the days that remind me how my life and theirs have experienced another year and become part of a common history that makes us what we are—together and alive—I don’t ever want to forget this, trivialize or take it for granted, because it is a gift amid all the suffering that has existed or will exist in the world—and I’d pay whatever price was necessary to guarantee that every birthday takes place inexorably, until, when they are older, they can decide by themselves how they’d like to
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