One wonders why certain incidents stand out in a young mind while so many other fall by the wayside. The first conscious memory I have retained was of my Mother coming in and picking me up out of bed early one morning. She danced around the room with me and waltzed into the living room, where my Father was, “The war is over!” I really had no idea of what it signified, but I could feel my parent’s happiness as we had a three-cornered hug. “No more blackouts! “, my father said, “No more killings!”, “Friends will come home!” Though I didn’t understand their delight, it was a lovely, warm memory that stayed in my mind.
The next thing I remember clearly was my Father standing in the corner of the Living Room, crying. I had not known that fathers cried. My second baby brother had just died, after living only 36 hours. I was five years old at the time, my parents had lost another baby boy, two years earlier. How to explain the deep, deep pain of that for them, I do not know. But my Father sobbed and said, “Never again, we will be content with Ann.” I did not fully comprehend what was happening and thus had no concept of what he meant, but the sorrow was palpable. That night, when he hugged me and tucked me into bed, I sensed the fierceness of his feelings.