The Brink of Oblivion: Inside Nazi-Occupied Poland, 1939-1940
I wonder if the face that stares back at me in the article's photo is one of my family members.
Gone. Unknown. Unremembered by those who live after.
I am left only to remember the passed-down stories.
Those who could identify the faces of my unremembered family members are long gone.
I wonder if one of the color slides in Hugo Jaeger's leather satchel was a portrait of one of my great aunts, or great uncles, or my great-grandmother.
Stories buried in our archives can touch raw wounds that may never heal.
Our archives help define who we are and how we got here.
They help us remember that we are lucky to be here at all.
The grandchild of World War II Holocaust survivors,
who saves others' memories in part because she could not save the memories of those closest to her.
Her blood.
Her kin.
Our past.
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