|
|
 |
| |
were, and I had my answer, its full force coming at
an unexpected moment that recalled what Magda Bogin, who translated some of
these pages, has referred to as our "inter-changeability" with the victims. It
was on a summer day in Bar Harbor, Maine, where I was strolling with my
three-year-old daughter. We were two tourists among many, gazing into shop
windows. Thinking that she had her eye on me, I stepped into a shop for a
moment which must have turned into two or three. Suddenly, I heard a shriek
from the sidewalk. I dashed out to see my daughter's face filled with the fear
of having been deserted in a strange town. At that instant, I had a flash of an
image of her, separated from parents and uncomforted, first in the filth of
Drancy, then in a boxcar on the way to Auschwitz: the actual fate of 11,000
children arrested in France. Then I understood, not with my intellect but with
a father's protective instinct, why the Klarsfelds had always emphasized the
children.
As parents, we observe simultaneously our own aging and our
children's blossoming. Our expectations for ourselves are gradually transferred
to them. If we could put our bodies in the way of their pain, even trading our
lives for theirs, we would do so – as Arno Klarsfeld had done. The parents
of the children in this book could not do that. They were powerless even to
preserve the memory of their children. This memorial book full of innocent
faces accomplishes that sacred task.
Peter Hellman
New York, October 1996
|
|
| |
| |
| |
FRENCH
CHILDREN OF THE HOLOCAUST A memorial
Serge Klarsfeld
 |
Back |
Page X |
Forward |
 |
|
