Children Of A Survivor

Before leaving Warsaw we visited a woman who had survived the camps, and she and my mother, who had never met, hugged and cried and talked like old friends. She lived quietly in a shabby building watched over by a large statue of the Virgin Mary in the courtyard. Graffiti on the exterior walls proclaimed that Poland is for the Poles, a vivid reminder of anti-Semitism. Beside her bed were an old radio and a pair of reading glasses and above them a shelf with framed photographs. She pointed to the pictures of her children who were killed during the war and I was startled to find myself thinking, “they too are children of a survivor.”