[She shrugs. It is, but to her it's background, like the cold of soviet winter, or the thinness of the alpine air, a permeating hushed ache that was simply always part of the world. No one ever really explained the gory details to her - no one wanted to talk about it, to taint their new lives that were already inevitably etched with the consequences of it, especially not to the children. She's done her own research, of course, but everything she's found in books feels separate from her, from the flinching silences she dimly remembers and her father's visceral frothing bellicosity.
Sometimes, it's the cheeks that get her - his cheeks stayed a little gaunt, all his life, and so did her mother's, a ripple of of the pictures of wraiths. Mostly, though, she feels as disconnected from the holocaust as she does the rest of history, even though it defined so much of her life.]
no subject
Sometimes, it's the cheeks that get her - his cheeks stayed a little gaunt, all his life, and so did her mother's, a ripple of of the pictures of wraiths. Mostly, though, she feels as disconnected from the holocaust as she does the rest of history, even though it defined so much of her life.]