The children, on the other hand, did not have even that. No one else could listen to their stories, no one else could take it. The adults among them could glance at the numbers tattooed on each other’s arms, could even speak of their past, of their dead, of their miracles, of their anti-miracles, yet for the most part, they could only do so with each other. The Greenhorns, as the survivors were called, gathered regularly to watch violent soccer games on Fletcher’s Field. There were jobs and synagogues there was health care and education. Montreal proved generous and open-hearted to the decimated Holocaust survivors who arrived in the late 1940s. We embraced each other each of us almost drowned in depths of thoughts that could only be measured in atmospheres. “You, Sam,” I couldn’t stop saying, “YOU?” “Joe,” he said, ever-gently, “I’m Sam Sieradzki.” Then, after a pause, he pointed to himself and added: “Auschwitz.” The last of this group was a guy whom I didn’t recognize, as grey as I was.
This advertisement has not loaded yet, but your article continues below. Manage Print Subscription / Tax Receipt.
0 kommentar(er)
