TUESDAY, MARCH 12, 2013
Exactly seventy years ago today I was sitting on a rock waiting for my father to arrive, a wait that continues to this day. The last word he spoke before the shots rang out was
It seems like I’ve never stopped running.
My father was a Mensche. He taught us to survive, and because of the kind of person he was, we were helped by people who risked their lives so that we could keep ours’. Because of a Polish farmer and a Ukrainian Peasant and their Menschlichkeit, my brother and I are alive today. We are the last of the survivors. We never indulged in pre-pubescent dreams of vengeance and violence.
I never mourned him or said Kaddish, but made this day sacred and decided to make it a celebration of Menschlichkeit.
Soon I will join him and I know that the last word that will still ring in my ears will be