It’s been a bizarre week. On Wednesday, I sat in a hushed room listening to an 82-year-old Holocaust survivor talk about her experience for 90 minutes straight: her move into the Lvov ghetto when she was five; hiding in a basement for two weeks; her father securing fake Aryan papers for her and her mother; the flight to the countryside, then to Sweden once the Soviets invaded; her eventual passage to the United States and all the harrowing details in between.
Category: Life & Love
I am not a great writer. Not a particularly good one either but I do have a firm belief – even utter reverence – for words. Whenever I come across a beautiful sentence, a string of words arranged in an unusual or striking manner, I can bask in it at length, reading and re-reading it, going back to it, letting it swirl in my head. Sometimes I can be more attached to individual sentences than to a whole body of work.
Even in my fog-addled brain, after a sleepless night on the plane, I sensed immediately that the odd group of people boarding the transit bus next to me were no ordinary travellers. First of all, they were shepherded by a minute, Asian woman who made sure they got on the bus for Terminal 5 at Heathrow. At the other end, a young man, holding a clipboard, tried to corral them all in the same direction.