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The bridge always burned or was destroyed. There was no way to go back again. Once you made another step, you couldn't step back.
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In the years after her death, I uncovered an incredible archive of her life. She’d left behind boxes upon boxes of letters and photographs and diaries. There were preserved albums dating back to the 1920s and letters she’d sent to lovers. There were report cards and deportation papers and love note…
We went to the end of the world and back. We went to the site of their murder. We went to Sobibór.
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I always think how different it is, what is in your head and what is in your reality.
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“She’s 16. She should be in school. She should be with her family. Her letters shouldn’t be censored. Sentences shouldn’t be blacked out. Envelopes shouldn’t be stamped with a swastika. But I guess you can get used to anything.”
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