This week, my family held a ceremony to mark the installation of a Stolpersteine in the pavement in front of the house from where my family was deported to Theresienstadt in 1943.
The Stolpersteine, which literally means ‘stumbling block’ in German, was an idea of a German artist Gunter Demnig who wanted people to discover the last address of those deported by the Nazis by accident as they walked along the street.
They were Jewish, Roma, gay, political opponents, or sometimes just people with a mental illness or disability.
The Stolpersteine ceremony was moving. Many of my friends came, my primary school teacher, family. We even had the 5th generation with us, my grandchildren.
So now, people walking on that Prague embankment will look down on those golden tiles, and think about the Holocaust, and how we should never let anything like that happen again. There are four names. My grandmother and mother who survived and my grandfather and uncle who didn’t.
“They didn’t come back”, a strange euphemism for murder.
The next day, we travelled to Terezin-Theresienstadt and saw the museum, the town, remembering the stories my mother and my grandmother used to tell me.
Two days remembering my family’s fate in the Holocaust was a bit too much. I had to go back to normal life.