considered that it might be beneĕcial for you to work through your
past?”
Work through it? I lived it, what other work is there to do? I want to
say. I’ve broken the conspiracy of silence. And talking hasn’t made the
fear or flashbacks go away. In fact, talking seems to have made my
symptoms worse. I haven’t broken my silence with my children or
friends in a formal way, but I no longer live in fear that they will ask
me about the past. And I have tried to embrace opportunities to share
my story. Recently, when a friend from my undergraduate days who
went on to pursue a master’s in history asked to interview me for a
paper she was writing about the Holocaust, I accepted. I thought it
might be a relief to tell my whole story. But when I le her house, I
was shaking. I came home and vomited, just as I had a decade before
when Marianne showed us the book with pictures of concentration
camp inmates. “e past is past,” I tell Lili and Arpad now. I’m not
ready to heed or even understand Arpad’s advice to “work through”
the past. But, like Viktor Frankl’s letter, it plants a seed within me,
something that will sprout and take root with time.
* * *One Saturday I am sitting at the table in the kitchen, grading my
students’ psychology exams, when Béla calls. It’s his day with Audrey
and John. My mind leaps to fear.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“Nothing’s wrong. ey’re watching TV.” He goes quiet, he waits
for his voice to catch up. “Come to dinner,” he finally says.
“With you?”
“With me.”
“I’m busy,” I say. I am. I have a date with a sociology professor. I
have already called Marianne, asking for advice. What should I wear?
What should I say? What should I do if he invites me to go home with