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I have asked each of my daughters about their experience of this they’re far enough apart in age, and grew up in such different circumstances, that they had very different childhoods.
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If we give them too much safety, they might not learn how to protect themselves. If we give children too much support, they might not learn that they’re capable. Now, after a lifetime of experience as a mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and as a clinical psychologist, I’ve seen the ways protection can backfire. Often, our impulse as mothers is to give our children what we didn’t have growing up and to shield them from pain.
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I don’t like the image of myself as emotionally distant and fragile. Read: Elie Wiesel and the agony of bearing witness “If we were in pain, you’d be sad for us, and that put you in pain.” Audrey’s dominant impression was that in our family, “we just didn’t touch the sadness.” There’s a lot we didn’t tell you,” my elder daughter, Marianne, has said. Sorrow was present and palpable in our house, but it wasn’t acknowledged or explained. She knew I went into the bathroom to cry. For decades, I never spoke of the death camps, never told anyone, including my children-especially my children-that I was a survivor.Īudrey, my younger daughter, has said she was aware of my sadness when she was growing up. I resolved never to freight my children with my sorrow or trauma. I was also determined, after so much pain and loss, to be a source of life. I was still reeling from the loss of my parents, and struggling with my guilt for having survived, when, just two years after the war’s end, I became a young mother. My father also died in Auschwitz, but I have never known exactly when. In May 1944, when I was 16, my mother was killed in the gas chamber on our first day in Auschwitz. “Help me, help me,” she’d cry as she cleaned and dusted. Even today, I hear her moaning in front of the portrait of her mother that hung over the piano in our living room. A woman who created everyday feasts and bountiful picnic baskets, yet was starving inside. But I also remember her sorrow-for the mother she’d lost when she was only 9, and also, I sensed, for the woman she herself had become. In my earliest memories of my mother, I see her braiding the challah for our Friday-night meal, cutting and laying sheets of strudel dough across the dining-room table, feeding the goose she kept in the attic of our home in Kassa, Hungary, for her decadent foie gras.