Air decay sirens would ring. It was an underground bomb shelter that made it possible for Jews, but only in a section that is, absurd, a glass roof. Every night, Mr. Lindenblatt would look at the panorama of aircraft flying above the head and bombs that fell. He could still see him as he spoke about it; He was there again, and it was easy to see what he looked like as a child, his eyes illuminated as he watched the light show.

In November, Mr. Lindenblatta’s mother at the Labor Camp was given the word that the family was in trouble at home, so he brought some guards and cut one night. Mr. Lindenblatta’s father arrived at the apartment to find his wife arguing with the Hungarian Gentiles in charge of the building, trying to move them out. Mr. Lindenblatta’s father offered all the money from money to a man – Mr. Lindenblatt does not know how much money he was there – and said that he would take him, that he would never ask him to help save his family. But the man put the belt in the kitchen stove and burned him, saying that his money was useless and would not do anything to help Lindenblatts. They couldn’t stay, but there was also no one. Mr. Lindenblatta’s father was supposed to be at the camp, so Mr. Lindenblatt and his mother and brothers remained to understand it. They started in a cold dark night, intended for God knows where.

I was born in 1975, in a world where people affected by the Holocaust looked very old and the war seemed to me a long time ago. But now I am almost 50 years old and realize that I am about as old as my grandparents were and that I was born and that the period between my birth and the Holocaust is about the same as between the now and the Challenger explosion. I’m not an old lady, and the tragedy of the challenger still seems scary to me recently. What was sure to try to explain all these things to the children who were simply met born when they were born. How I needed to understand that I hear a recent history; How I needed to understand that all my life wasn’t really a very long period.

Those who survived left Europe, mostly. They fled to Israel, to South Africa, to Australia, to America. They became congressmen and industrial designers. They assembled opera and pined electronic music. They won the Nobel Prize for Peace and for Literature and Economics; They won the Freedom Presidential Medal. They were the best -selling authors and celebrated pianists. They helped in the legalization of abortion. They won an Oscar. These were therapists and doctors, teachers and factory workers. My grandparents – let me remember my own family for just a moment – they were called Joseph and Raya Turko. She got a Hebrew middle name to me, Leah, after Joseph’s sister, who was killed in Lodz’s ghetto; My mother was named after her mother Rochel, who shared her daughter’s fate. My grandmother Raya was on the last train from Kiev before the Babi Yar massacre, the biggest murder conducted by the Nazis, killing 33,771 people over two days. My grandfather escaped to Lodz in Buhar, where he met my grandmother’s mother, who hired him to sell ice cream, of all things, in the Black Market. When the Communists caught him, they sent him to a work camp in Siberia. He came out, married his daughter of his employer, had my mother and aunt, and emigrated to Israel in 1950 and then to America in 1962. Here, my grandfather was host. My grandmother was an architect, which she studied in Kiev before the war. Their children had children and were dedicated, excellent grandparents. They bought a dining shop called The Chrome King, at the Atlantic Avenue corner and Eastern Parkway. That’s something else now, but the sign of The Chrome King was still under a new sign, and I checked the last one.

But that’s all I know. We never talked about the war in my family. The war was a killer standing over us, threatening to shoot if we look him in the eye. But it was there. It was there when my grandmother did not leave the food on the table and combine all the remaining liquids into one glass and drank them. It was there when my grandfather told me that he did not believe in God, because what kind of god would allow such a war to happen? In those moments, I saw the window of their suffering and saw the universe of pain without a floor or ceiling. Some survivors, like Mr. Lindenblatt, have done their mission to ensure that the world knows what happened to them. My family lived at the opposite end of the spectrum, which is not their moral failure, but I probably spent so long or not knowing myself to identify myself as a family of survivors. (This is obviously a common point of view, even though it is bad, according to people who know better. My family kills itself during and as a result of the Holocaust makes people in my family who survived him; often, while I wrote this article, I would hear about people who do not identify themselves as survivors while I wrote to you in races or silences. “)