gray, unremarkable. I squeeze the stone. In Jewish tradition, we place
small stones on graves as a sign of respect for the dead, to offer
mitzvah, or blessing. e stone signiĕes that the dead live on, in our
hearts and memories. e stone in my hand is a symbol of my
enduring love for my parents. And it is an emblem of the guilt and the
grief I came here to face—something immense and terrifying that all
the same I can hold in my hand. It is the death of my parents. It is the
death of the life that was. It is what didn’t happen. And it is the birth
of the life that is. Of the patience and compassion I learned here, the
ability to stop judging myself, the ability to respond instead of react. It
is the truth and the peace I have come here to discover, and all that I
can finally put to rest and leave behind.
I leave the stone on the patch of earth where my barrack used to
be, where I slept on a wooden shelf with ĕve other girls, where I
closed my eyes as “e Blue Danube” played and I danced for my life.
I miss you, I say to my parents. I love you I’ll always love you.
And to the vast campus of death that consumed my parents and so
very many others, to the classroom of horror that still had something
sacred to teach me about how to live—that I was victimized but I’m
not a victim, that I was hurt but not broken, that the soul never dies,
that meaning and purpose can come from deep in the heart of what
hurts us the most—I utter my ĕnal words. Goodbye, I say. And, Thank
you. ank you for life, and for the ability to ĕnally accept the life that
is.
* * *I walk toward the iron gate of my old prison, toward Béla waiting for
me on the grass. Out of the corner of my eye I see a man in uniform
pacing back and forth under the sign. He is a museum guard, not a
soldier. But it is impossible, when I see him marching in his uniform,
not to freeze, not to hold my breath, not to expect the shout of a gun,