When my dad and I arrived in the United States to be with our loving family on April 26, 1948, I was surprised—but not unhappy—that not one person asked me about our experience during the war. I understand that they were all mourning their six sisters, brothers, and other family lost in the Holocaust, but I presume that their silence was out of consideration for me.
They weren’t the only ones who were silent. When I got married, my husband and his family and my American friends never asked anything about the Holocaust either. Even my European friends, who had experienced similar horrors, did not talk about that part of their lives. We lived in the present only. My father and sister also never talked about those things. In fact, I do not know anything about my father’s experience in Auschwitz or Buchenwald.
So, when my children were old enough to understand or be aware of others, I also did not really talk about my experiences in the war. My arm does not have a tattoo, so nothing about my experience was obvious to them, but somehow things were communicated. They knew I would not hide anything from them, and when they asked me questions, I answered truthfully. My sons claimed knowledge of my wartime history so quickly stopped asking me very much, and my daughter is still questioning.
My oldest and best friend’s husband, who also was a survivor, never stopped talking about the war and his life back then. His wife, my friend, on the other hand, never told me or anyone, including her children, a single thing about her life before or during the war. Her children sometimes ask me about their mother, but we were not together in Auschwitz or anywhere else, so I have no answers for them.
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