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My mother and I are out walking. I ask if she remembers the women in that building in the Bronx. “Of course,” she replies. I tell her I’ve always thought sexual rage was what made them so crazy.…
When first touched by memory, I found myself already in the midst of [ . . . ] ominous twilights which came intermittently, in series, and have stayed with me as the keenest memory of childhood.
Our…
“You found the victim?”
She nodded.
“Was she conscious at the time?”
“Yes. Baruch Hashem.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing. Mrs. Adler was conscious.”
“That’s fine,” Decker said. He faced the uniforms. “Cordon off…
She was still upset,
she wanted to tell me,
she kept remembering
his terrible hands:
how she came, a young girl
of seventeen, a freckled
fairskinned Jew from Kovno
to Hamburg with her uncle
and…
What can we do to ensure that Holocaust memory not only views male suffering but also recognizes women’s special and separate agony?
Meg:Well—it’s very, very nice to be here tonight, in my house, and I want to propose a toast to Stanley, because it’s his birthday, and he’s lived here for a long while now, and he’s my Stanley now…