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Creation Out of Nothingness is certainly not the first book written about the Holocaust, but it might be among the last. The plethora of informative material about this atrocity attests to society’s desperate attempts to come to terms with its significance. Academic researchers, politicians, novelists, and even anti Semites have carefully extracted relevant facts and presented them in chronological order so that we can learn, understand, and reach conclusions. Even Holocaust survivors and their offspring have courageously shared their experiences with others.
It would have been nice if my childhood had proceeded unhindered by the pervasive influence of the past. Mom and Dad would have waited until I was deemed mature enough, sat me down in a comfortable armchair, and told me about their dark past in an organised manner. But, life is not like that.
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Mom helped us cope with Dad’s tormented soul in many ways. At ten years old, I recall wanting to buy Dad a special gift for Father’s Day. Stubbornly, I would choose the surprise on my own. It was a new set of pyjamas. I carefully wrapped the gift and coloured in a card saying,” Especially for you, Dad!” Dad received the gift early Sunday morning while still in bed. As he un-wrapped the surprise, I saw shock and horror in his eyes. He threw the partially unwrapped gift at my feet and sent me to my room crying out, “You stupid boy! You stupid boy!” over and over and over again. I was confused. What could I have possibly done wrong? I had no idea. Mom gradually consoled him in a similar manner in which she would awaken him from his dreams. It was no surprise to me, then, that this had something to do with the war. It seemed ages until Mom finally entered my room. She gently lifted my head from the tear-soaked pillow and explained how the striped pyjamas had reminded Dad of the war. Unintentionally, I had handed him his concentration camp uniform. “But, how was I to know?” I pleaded. “You know your father,” she replied,” it’s the war…the war. No one’s at fault, it’s the war.” This was the secret password for forgiveness. It was non-debatable, incomprehensible, unpredictable and totally un-fair. Mom comforted me, consoled Dad and helped me choose a more appropriate gift. It was never discussed. The matter was anything but closed.
As with most immigrant families, home life was vastly different than life outside. At home, Yiddish was spoken. We children tended to respond in English. Occasionally, Mom and Dad would entertain fellow survivor friends at home. The children played together in an adjacent room while the grown-ups sat at the table full with tasty delicacies of herring, salami, pickles and cheese. They spoke Yiddish. We played freely as our parents joked and even argued politics at the table. Inevitably their conversations became more solemn. As it did, so did our play. Like barometers we sensed the heavy atmosphere of the war nearby. Some would concoct arguments, or even cry, forcing their parents to break the circle of pain and attend urgent matters at hand. We, however, were curious intruders. I wanted to be invisible; I wanted to listen yet be somewhere else.
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