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Love is easy when all is going well, but it is one of life’s profound, humbling lessons that few people love you enough to wipe your butt.
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5126339
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"In the camps we ate whatever garbage they gave us." This according to my mother. "We had no choice." But I had eaten pig with gusto at an anti-Semite's table. Somehow this had to be undone. Burial in soil was all I could imagine.
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3883120
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During the liberation, a Jew in the Russian army, asked him who had been the cruelest. My father gave them the name of the farmer who had murdered his father, and was later told the farmer's son was sent to the front and killed.
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88186
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“Is that what six million looks like?” I wondered. I easily grasped the six part. I'd lived that many years. The Star of David had six points. So did each snow crystal.
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7894
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His flat hat, a fur-trimmed streimel, lay on his head like a platter of dead minks, the man's Shirley Temple side-locks dangling like pigtails.
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I heard the sound of a frozen flag clanging against its pole, ice on metal, the present on the past.
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Certainly leftover cyanide-based Zyclon-B pesticide from the gas chamber was used to purge the lawn of weeds, bugs and vermin. Very efficient. No waste. Perfectly recycled.
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She looked like Snow White’s step-mother, especially when primping in front of her three-way Hollywood mirror on her dressing table. My own mother bitterly complained about her.
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And just as always, as she uttered the syllables, they transformed into sparks charging the air, casting a spell, so that I could not grasp the answers before they evaporated like zeroes.
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“I knew you’s the snoop fiddling with that butcher knife. Show me the damage.”
He knelt to examine my finger.
“Cut your finger almost right off, Kitty Kat.”
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13361
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I envied the wings Thumbelina strapped on her back at the end of the story, so she could from that day forward rescue herself. I promised myself to add an impossibly flying chicken to my wall in the morning.
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Frankly, I would rather die than have my diary published. Now that everyone in the whole world knows Anne’s deepest secrets, I’m sure she would want to kill herself anyway.
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13453
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Mostly, Lucy and I call each other morons, stupid, and idiots, knowing how important it is to both of us to be smart.
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Whenever my mother’s will-to-live wavered and her hand reached out for the electric fence, my ash would whisper, “Live, live.”
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I remember the sound of it- the shatter, the way he'd calm after the impact and begin to beg, in his still child-like voice, slowly regaining control, "Mom, do you still love me? You do, still love me, don't you?"
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