Bear with me. This is very difficult to write, but write it I must, however much the putting of words on paper intensifies the pain. When I was a small girl on a street corner in Budapest, watching a convoy of camp inmates being returned, I cried. No, not tears. By then I had learned not to cry, not to be a softie. You had to be tough to survive.
“Was this what they died for? My relatives, all those Jews, all those thousands of names on the memorials? Was this horror of a racist, repressive state the result of their deaths?”