My parents met in Poland, just after the war. They were the only survivors of their families. My brother was born in a refugee camp in Germany. I was born in Jerusalem. My parents never told us about what happened to them “there”, and we never asked.
When I was 10 years old, listening behind a closed door, I found out that my father had a wife and two children who were killed during the war. I ran and asked my brother if he knew about that. He said yes. We never mentioned it again. I don’t need the Holocaust Day to be reminded of what happened. Everyday of my life, I feel as if I, myself, were at the death camps.