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TO JACK
TO THE JEWISH COMMUNITY
TO THE MEMORY OF ALL THE VICTIMS OF NAZISM
WITH SUPPORT OF
God said: "Let there be light".
And then there was light.
That means that the spoken word came first.
A FILM BY TOMAS LIPGOT
But spoken words didn't come first in the Shoa.
The event came first, and then we questioned what it was.
At first, after the war, we couldn't speak,
because we didn't know what to say.
So people often asked where someone had lived before the war.
There weren't words like "Shoa" or "Holocaust".
They didn't exist.
THE TREE THAT GROWS ON THE WALL
Jack, the idea is for you to read out loud.
I want you to read some fragments I've selected.
No, I can't. It's very difficult for me.
- Really? - Yes, really.
I thought...
My granddaughter or daughter have to do it.
- Why? - It's very difficult for me.
You wonder why it's taken fifty or sixty years
for interviews or documentaries to be done about survivors.
I self-censored myself.
It wasn't that I purposefully didn't want to talk.
It was something that came naturally.
That's why survivors came together.
They could talk to each other without reservations.
We were reserved towards the outside world.
We felt guilty about leading a normal life, we could dance,
go to concerts, make new friends.
Other people couldn't understand this.
Hello, Elsa.
I'm well, how are you?
You must tell me when it's a good time for you.
He has a group of people with him.
Do you understand?
Who?
Yes.
No, he's Argentinean.
He is filming a documentary.
So, since he's here now, we can set up
the date that is most convenient for you.
Tomorrow morning? Hold on a moment.
- Tomorow morning? - Whenever, no problem.
Yes, tomorrow morning is fine.
- Right here - All right.
Everything is fine.
Don't say anything that could get me in trouble.
When the idea of making a film
about my memories and my life came up,
I was reminded of my first encounter
with Elsa Oesterheld.
She said:
"Jack, you are the only person I can talk to.
You are the only one that can understand me.
We both had something tragic in our lives."
Without realizing it
we were living the same story, without knowing it.
ELSA OESTERHELD Friend (His whole family was murdered during the last Argentinian dictatorship)
When we talked I found myself feeling
like I had known him all of my life.
Instead of feeling we had gone through
something tragic with irreparable damage,
we took it from a philosophical point of view.
I will never forget something Elsa said that made an impact
on me to this day.
She said: "Jack, I would like to know what the last hours
of my daughter's lives were like."
That is something that shook me because, like I said,
we have had something very similar happen to each other.
Since she said that I also wondered what the last hours
of life in Auschwitz for my family before they were killed.
The facts say it all, not what people say.
The history of humanity is a history of killing.
It's not a coincidence that one of the first commandments
states that "thou shalt not kill".
Why did they write this? Because people killed each other.
There was no law stating you couldn't fly.
Do you understand? It would be ridiculous.
For people that can imagine something like "thou shalt not kill",
it's a very strange concept.
It never ocurred to me to kill anyone.
Apparently humans are their own worst enemy.
SURVIVOR JACK FUCHS
HONORARY PROFESSOR JACK FUCHS
TEACHINGS OF THE MASTERS
OPENING OF BOOK "TIME TO REMEMBER" BY JACK FUCHS.
"TIME TO REMEMBER" BY JACK FUCHS
"MEMORY DILEMMAS", LIFE AFTER AUSCHWITZ BY JACK FUCHS
Human kind is both rational and irrational.
They do irrational things that they try to justify later.
If someone goes out on the street and kills people, they're crazy.
If they kill for a cause, because they don't like gays
or whatever, then it becomes...
less upsetting, because they're crazy.
Let's go, guys.
How are you, Jack?
- How are you? - How's it going, Jack?
Why don't you sell the newspapers?
They won't be worth anything tomorrow.
They'll be worth nothing, I better sell them today.
Bye.
What a beautiful day.
I don't know who will suffer the most, me or you.
TESTIMONY OF JACK FUCHS AUSCHWITZ AND DACHAU SURVIVOR
We'll share it.
One is a little used to it, it's been seventy years.
Really, it's been seventy two years, I can't even remember dates.
For your information, I'm about to turn 87 years old.
I have to go back to 1939, when I was fifteen.
People were talking about an upcoming war.
I'll say it again, this war was a war within a war.
It was to eliminate anyone the nazis of Germany
thought didn't deserve to live.
Declaration of notable person in Human Rights
I'm going to eat another sandwich.
Which one do you like, the ham and cheese one?
- Or whatever it is. - Yes.
- Is it kosher? - No, but it doens't matter.
Associating nazism exclusively to the destruction of Jews
is commiting grave omissions that are detrimental
to everyone, Jews and non-Jews.
FLORENCIA KIJAK Granddaughter
Among the first victims of discrimination and persecution
in Hitler's Germany, we can find political opponents:
communists, socialists,social democrats and syndicalists.
Another group of victims included people with a disability
and those who were confined to hospitals.
They were considered useless, a threat to the *** race,
and they took up beds that could be used for hurt soldiers.
The Nazi regime also persecuted Jehova's witnesses,
many of whom were sent to concentration camps.
Homosexuals were another target, as they were considered
an obstacle to the persevation of the German nation
and an element of corruption and immorality for society.
Thousands were killed in the concentration camps.
Jewish people commemorate this tragedy and remember it.
Many of the victims of the other genocides
commited during the Second World War don't.
I can't help but be amazed by the denial of victimized countries
and their short term memory.
They either deny it or ignore it.
Whoever denies the Holocaust also denies the death
of three million Poles at the hands of the Nazis.
Whoever denies the Holocaust also denies the death
of more than twenty thousand gypsies murdered in Auschwitz-Birkenau.
Of blacks, of homosexuals, of political dissidents,
members of the Catholic church and millions of human beings.
If that is denied then the whole tragic event is denied,
and in my opinion, that is where the biggest disgrace resides.
In Poland went by quickly...
On September 1st or 2nd
they threw small bombs on the city.
They didn't cause a lot of damage.
Seven days after that Lodz was invaded.
The first day of the invasion the Germans went in,
hung six people in the town square
and said that if anyone resisted they'd face
the same punishment.
There was no food, people starved,
they went blind, their feet were swollen
from lack of vitamins and nutrients.
Five or seven year olds didn't recall what a glass of milk,
a fruit or anything was.
Most died.
Every five or six months they performed "selections".
People usually think of selection as choosing what tie to wear.
It was something else entirely.
It was about who was going to die and who will live
a few more months to suffer and then die.
They installed a curfew afterwhich no one could go out.
A group of gendarmes and the SS
would take people out of their houses
and then checked to see if they were hiding anyone.
Children, elderly people and sick people were taken
to the train station for immediate deportation to the death camps.
AUSCHWITZ
Let's go have some coffee, yes?
Humans can't live only off of movies.
- It's written in the Bible. - Is it?
You'll eat "pierogi" over there.
Yes, it's very good.
- I'd like to sing you a song. - Go ahead.
Pierogi: "Marilu, Marilu is cooking pierogi.
The road is long and we have no flour."
JACK'S RESTAURANT
How can you talk to people?
If you speak without giving away some details
they think you're in denial.
But I sometimes say that it's to protect myself.
I can't transmit everything.
People expect a survivor to explain what occured.
I'm just a victim of what occured.
A victim doesn't have the knowledge.
They are a victim.
They are a victim for ten or five hours.
They are put in a cell, undressed, starved for days
and then killed.
Other victims don't know what happened.
The victimizer has a before, during and after.
But those people hid and never gave testimony.
We only have the testimony given by the victims.
After forty years I decided to visit my city of birth, Lodz.
It was both untouched and completely different.
There was nothing.
I walked around for a few minutes.
Absurdly enough, the only thing that was left
was the most important cemetery in Europe, the Jewish one.
As I often say jokingly: the only thing left standing
was the cemetery.
LODZ, POLAND
We've just arrived at the main monument.
I don't know why I came here.
There is a need for suffering and remembering.
Everything is mixed up.
One pretends to feel something in a situation.
I'm filming this tragedy.
How can I be this calm and just walk through the same
path that victims of the Nazis walked before.
It says that people died here...
All my languages are getting mixed up.
I don't know what to say, it's so moving.
I can't imagine this beautiful place in the middle of the woods
as the scene of so many crimes.
It reminds me of a song by Kaczerginski.
His song about Ponary.
Roads lead to Ponary througha road with no return.
Where your father dissapeared, and with him good fortune.
The world fell silent, the trees fell silent,
the sky fell silent.
What once was here, who can know?
Who can understand it?
These tombstones remain as a memorial, witnesses that in Lodz
there was once Jewish life.
The only evidence that remains, there is no other proof.
You can walk for hours without meeting a Jew.
The events that took place here.
This is what remains, only this, if these tombstones weren't here
or this cemetery, we wouldn't know there was once Jewish life.
No one would believe 200 thousand Jews lived here.
Not one Jew is seen walking around the streets of Lodz.
These tombs serve as testimony
that there was once Jewish life here.
Time and the vegetation
cover and hide the tombs and the dead.
There is no one to clean them,
no one is left.
After all these years it looks like a scrubland.
All these green leaves cover the tombs.
They were left covered and hidden...
buried like the rest of Jewish life in Lodz.
I can't speak anymore, there is nothing left to say.
It is incredible.
It's incredible.
That was also a Jewish house.
Here's Lichtenbaum.
Hello, Buenos Aires. Thank you for filming me.
It is my longlife dream to appear in your film.
Lodz was incorporated into the Third Reich.
The Germans considered it to be an annex,
not that they had occupied it.
Their plan was to make it into a nice city.
When the population began to decrease,
we started tearing down the houses
to build wider avenues.
That was the plan until the last minute.
I'm back in Lodz after 57 years.
I'm browsing through my own story.
I can't believe that I'm looking at my own story.
I'm a different person now, it's impossible to relive it.
I think those were taken in 1942,
when they brought Jews from Berlin, Frankfurt and other places.
Ask him, maybe he knows.
He probably knows, he works in this museum.
The ghetto began here, it was filled with old buildings.
How does being here make you feel?
It feels like everything and nothing is part of me.
It's as if I were speaking in the third person.
As if I were someone else, who was once "Yankele",
a small child walking through these streets.
And now there is nothing left.
Do you have any feelings about this place?
I can't feel anything because nothing resembles my past.
Not the people, or the buildings.
- Okay. - It's so strange.
What was your family doing in the ghetto?
My father, my mother, my brother and I worked in a shoe shop.
I had a little seven-year-old sister, but I must confess
I don't remember what she did.
I don't remember her face, I don't remember anything.
It's so terrible.
We were deported to the ghetto in the same train.
- To Auschwitz? - Yes.
And I still can't remember anything about her.
Do you remember your mother's face?
I remember my mother, my father and my sister's faces.
- Were you hiding before deportation? - Yes, we were hiding.
The whole family? Where?
We were all hiding.
On Brzezinska St. 30 or where?
We had a small room where we lived.
We blocked the door with some furniture
and hid in the room but they found us.
Who found you?
The Jewish and the German police.
They went from house to house...
Were you in the same train wagon as your parents?
Yes, we were deported in the same wagon.
You never thought of returning after the war?
You never thought of returning after the war?
No, because already in Auschwitz
we knew what had happened to everyone.
Did you know that your family had died?
Yes, we hadn't seen it but we knew.
What about your brother?
My brother died before, but we don't know how.
He was sent to another place, we don't know where.
In Chelmo?
- We don't know. - When did he die?
I think in 1942.
Was it during curfew?
Of course.
Whenever there was deportation...
it was during curfew.
I wanted to converse with Diana from the beginning.
There's a generation gap between us,
her parents were survivors from Poland.
We can talk about life in Poland, especially in Lodz,
before the war.
I try to emphasize the importance of talking
about how we have suffered or how we have lost.
We must talk about what we have lost.
You make an interesting point.
I always admired this from you:
DIANA *** Friend
You have a very vivid memory of your place, your city,
your childhood and all those things.
On the one hand you talk about all that was lost
during the Holocaust, but on the other hand,
within the memory of all that was lost you present
a vivid, pungent, bright, sometimes cheerful account
of what life was like.
There is something that happens to many children of survivors.
To paraphrase the Bible:
we believe that in the beginning there was the Shoa.
That nothing existed before that.
As if our ancestors' story had begun in this disaster,
- this universal catastrophe. - That's very interesting.
- There was nothing before that. - Interesting.
When you start to discover that your mother, father,
aunts and uncles lived in a world and a society
where there were political parties, artistic activities, schools,
families, fights, sports... My father was a sportsman,
he played football.
I used to say: "Football in Poland?"
I never imagined that they played football in Poland.
To me Poland was a death camp where Jews were murdered.
Your memories evoke that world that most children of survivors
yearn for.
I never talk about life in the ghetto.
It's very difficult to be objective and stick to the truth.
There's always something you hide from the listener and from yourself.
I have fragments of vivid memories of the ghetto.
I remember that one day my feet were very swollen.
I showed them to my mother and started crying.
There were two maladies in the ghetto that meant death:
blindness and swollen feet due to lack of vitamins.
When you speak about those things you don't know the damage
you might cause to the other and to yourself.
And also, what your story contributes.
While you talk to me I get flashes of memories,
but I don't know how to put them into words.
Did you have a girlfriend in the ghetto?
- No, not a girlfriend, but... - Someone you fancied.
- Someone you fancied, like they used to say. - Yes.
We did some revolutionary things.
You were activists, I want to talk about love
and you talk about revolution.
There's a saying in Yiddish.
"A female comrade is not a woman."
Between you and me, we know that's a lie.
That's Podrzeczna, it was , it used to be called "Idishe gas" (Jewish street).
I was born on this street.
Two blocks away there was a dead end street
where we played football because no cars or carts would drive by.
This is the street, but I can't recognize it,
it looks so different.
They tore down the wall over there and now it's a wider street.
I remember they used to sell ice here, down that street.
I have that memory.
This is where my school used to be.
There's nothing here now.
It was an old Polish public school.
There was a Jewish school not far from here.
I'm getting so mixed up with languages I don't know what I'm thinking.
It was a Jewish school for Jewish children.
There was an old building this way, which was our school.
But it's been torn down now.
It's interesting.
One can't imagine that all these windows we see here,
every room, every one bedroom apartment,
were places where people worked.
You could hear the sewing or knitting machines,
or, how do you say this?
- You could hear hammers.
People gathered here and performed.
They sang, did acrobatics.
Everyone would look out from their window and cheered.
This place was full of children and life.
Now, as a monument, all that is left is quiet and nothingness.
Those are my memories of this place from 62 years ago.
Like I said before, German nazis invaded this place
but I would have never imagined that what happened was possible.
I wouldn't have imagined that after being deported
57 years ago to Auschwitz, that I'd return here
with my daughter.
I don't know why the older I get the less able I am to cry.
When I talk to Marianne she cries.
I'm going to the toilette, Jack.
- I'm going to the toilette. - Yes, that's a good idea.
Would you like some tea or something?
- No. - Did you have lunch?
- Yes, I did. - Are you sure?
There's always some tea if you'd like some.
No, thank you.
Here you are in Auschwitz, where else did you go?
I went to Lodz, Krakow, Warsaw.
A friend of mine said: "Is it your first time in Auschwitz?"
And I said, "No, my second time.
That time I had to pay to get in, the first one I got in for free".
I have a very black sense of humor.
- Were you very religious? - No.
But at some point did you ever get to the point
of disbelieving in everything, of losing faith?
I never believed, soI didn't have that conflict.
That means that you were never in Auschwitz or the ghetto
and said: "that's it, it's God's will if I live or die".
- You never had that conflict. - No.
I had other conflicts, but not that one.
I never had that problem.
There were so many stories.
They said that German Jews would arrive in Auschwitz
after the selections, and they'd see the chimneys.
They were told that their families would be incinerated there.
They wouldn't believe it, they said they burned rags there.
They couldn't believe it.
Like Elie Wiesel said: "Whoever was there
could never transmit what they experienced,
and those who were never there couldn't ever imagine".
It's impossible to imagine.
Some of my older friends ran an underground radio
and we heard from BBC London that all forms of transport
that went from our ghetto every day carried
ten thousand people to the death camps.
I heard this piece of news and discussed it with my friends.
We believed it to be impossible in the twentieth century.
We thought it might be propaganda form the Allies
to deprecate the Third Reich.
When I arrived at Auschwitz they put me apart
to be taken to Germany.
I met a friend on my first day and he said he was dying of hunger.
I said: "How can you speak of being hungry, Martin?"
I passed out, so he kicked me and told me to stand,
otherwise I'd be sent to the ovens.
The secret was out.
When you were deported to Auschwitz from the Lodz ghetto...
- We were in the same wagon. - With the rest of your family,
- except for your brother. - Yes.
When were you separated?
When we arrived they separated the women from the men.
- You were with your dad, then. - Yes.
You never heard of your mother and sister again.
- Your two sisters. - No, I heard of a friend
of mine who travelled in my same wagon, that when we arrived
they wanted to separate my mother from the two girls.
But my mother refused to separate.
At that moment they weren't so rigorous.
They allowed her to stay with the girls.
When they wanted to separate me from my father,
he was holding my hand and a Kapo came
and told my father he better let me go.
"You better let him go".
So I left, I didn't insist on staying with my father.
What was I feeling at the moment? I didn't know what could happen.
The Jewish general said that my father better let me go.
No one imagined it.
It's like death, no one can imagine it.
It's automatic.
Did you take any object to the Shoa?
HIGH SCHOOL STUDENTS
Something that you had with you from beginning to end?
The only thing I had I traded.
I had some shoes my father made,
it was the only thing they allowed out of Auschwitz.
They were very good shoes.
When we worked in construction there was an Ukranian man
wearing wooden clogs, so I traded some bread
for my shoes.
I feel guilty about it to this day.
Perhaps that piece of bread allowed me to live,
but they were the only thing I had.
If someone asks my how I managed to survive
I can't answer them.
The only thing I know is that if the war
had lasted two more days I wouldn't be here.
Just two days.
It's a logical question, but I don't come from a world
where things were logical.
Where there was...
The Allied troops came and lead us to some open train wagons.
I walked a little and found a house.
I went in and climbed on the stack of hay.
The heat and the smell of the hay put me to sleep.
I went with the Red Cross, then the United States' army,
and then some other place where they took my clothes off,
they shave all the hair off of my body,
gave me a disinfecting shower,
and gave me some pijamas.
That's when I thought: Now I can die.
Why did I think that? Why not live?
With much philosophising, I might have said that
because if I would've died then it would have been as a person.
Two or three weeks before, in the camps,
there was a pile of bones, not people.
- Are you hungry? - Not now.
- Maybe a little. - Sorry?
Maybe a little, but I don't want to make you cook for me.
- Sorry? - I don't want to inconvenience you.
Why not?
I don't want you to cook.
Why don't you want to inconvenience me?
Why does it bother you?
It makes me uncomfortable.
Suffer a little.
I'm going to make you something very special
that we eat during Passover.
This is too much.
No, eat. You can eat the rest later.
I have to eat the whole thing.
It's not a problem, I have a system you might like.
You eat a lot now and then tonight you can eat less.
- You lost some weight. - Yes.
- You look much better. - Good.
I remember we didn't know how to write you down.
He wanted to put all of his family there,
but we didn't know how to put him.
- Remember? - Yes.
We didn't know whether to put you and in what year.
That was made by...
Often times I had the idea of leaving something behind
when I died that would remind people.
Since there are no memorials or...
How do you say this?
- Tombstones. - Yes.
This will serve as a tombstone.
Sometimes I think it's worth it to remember,
sometimes it doesn't makeany sense, the past can't be changed.
Only historians can alter the past.
But a single person can't.
Why did it take so long to be able to talk about it?
EDUARDO MINCES Psychiatrist
Thirty or forty years.
Him and many other people.
In my opinion it could be two things:
For one, you must take into consideration
that Jack, and other survivors, lived through something too
intense to be able to process it easily.
Too many events and surreal situations.
It takes a lot of time for our psychic apparatus to process.
He often states that he doesn't understand things.
There are things he hasn't been able to grasp yet,
but not because he can't, because it can't be done.
How does one comprehend anything that happened?
How do we comprehend what happened during our dictatorship?
One could try to find an explanation,
but from there to actually understand it requires
a lot of time.
It also requires time to understand that we are all right now,
that it won't happen again.
- We were doomed to live. - Exactly.
- Others were doomed to die. - Exactly.
- That's the truth. - It's the way it is.
It's very difficult to talk about it.
It's very difficult for us to feel it,
to relive the whole internal thing we carry.
That's why we can talk about it with each other.
It makes us happy to feel the other one's pain.
Pain is trustoworthiness between us, it's hope.
For other people it's hate.
We don't have hate.
Remember that I told you there is a recurrent thing?
EVA PUENTE Psychoanalyst
Beyond natural laws, it's as if one activated it.
You were released at 21, right?
You form a family at 42, with much fear.
You were afraid that death and loss would return.
You told me this.
And then your wife died when you were 63.
It's as if every 21 years something happened.
These are meaningful dates that carry a lot of pain.
What I was saying before is something Wiesel says,
he talks about the relationship between death and dignity.
That day, I understood that the real horror
was a human one, one that leads us to die in an indecent state.
That was something that revealed a truth that relieved me.
That's why I asked you what happens to life after horror.
Our first reaction was to hold on to life.
Our revenge was to show that despite it all,
the nazis couldn't take our humanity.
They took everything from me, my family, my friends, my health,
but they couldn't dehumanize us.
After our liberation, we made new friends, learned how to love,
respect people, be moved.
There isn't always a logic to remembering.
I think we remember for lots of reasons.
One is because we just do.
The intellectual reason is because by giving testimony
or remembering we can learn something.
That's the only reason to remember.
Not to hate, or teach people that they must hate.
That's my motto.
Remember that man is capable of two things, to love and to kill.
My message is to try to remember the past,
but not live in the past.
We must live in the future.
We must go deeper, and learn,
at least for the people who run the world,
how to eliminate this disease called hate.
We know how it starts, but don't know how it ends.
FOR GRANDPA, WHO ALWAYS COOKS DELICIOUS THINGS.
LOVE YOU, DEBI.
Here you are with your family.
Where is this?
This is about ten kilometers outside of Lodz.
At that time ten kilometers was far, but there was a tram.
It was still considered to be far away.
We would rent a room for three weeks.
She looks like my mother.
- They look the same. - Completely.
This photo is very valuable to me.
When I was liberated I had no photos or documents.
Who are these people in the photo?
My parents, my brother, my little sister and myself.
I found this picture in Argentina.
It was sent here sixty years ago.
Sixty five years ago it was sent to one of my uncles.
I recovered it later.
This photo is the most precious thing I could've recovered.
Did you lose your family?
Yes, all of them.
My little sister is missing, she was born in 1934.
I was one of the first ones to arrive in 1945.
I arrived in the United States in April a year later.
When I got to the United States through an international organization
that charitably took care of the Jewish collectivity
by feeding us and finding a place for us to live.
They asked me if I had any family around the world.
I remember I had an aunt and uncle in Argentina.
I don't know why, but I said I didn't want to go.
I didn't want to go to Argentina because my aunt
would've asked me what had happened to my sisters,
my brother, my father and mother, my cousins, my uncle,
my neighbours.
They would've asked me what had happened
that everyone died and I lived.
I was afraid.
I want you to understand that I didn't do it because
I knew I was afraid, it was just intuition.
Subconciously I was afraid and felt guilty for having lived.
I decided not to go.
Then ten years passed and I decided to come visit
my family in Argentina from New York.
To tell you the truth, they didn't ask anything,
I didn't tell them anything, only a thing or two.
Then I went back to New York and a few years later returned.
I don't know what happened, that's for another class.
So I stayed and got married to another refugee from France,
I now have three beautiful granddaughters,
a lovely daughter that takes care of me.
It's like a dream, something that doesn't belong to me
and at the same time it does.
It's as if Jack died a young man
and then a new one was born.
When one of my granddaughters, who was seven years old
and never asked me about my past, said: "You speak funny, grandpa".
I said I was born in Poland, she said:
"It's not pronounced Poland, it's pronounced Cologne".
I remember when I went for work to Puerto Rico for a while
and I couldn't have imagined such a dreamy and paradisiacal place.
I couldn't believe it, you could touch the palm trees
and bananas grew everywhere.
The beautiful ocean and the peace.
The first thing I thought was if it had been the same
while I was in the ghetto and in Auschwitz.
Life has a way of sprouting.
I get emotional about some things I remember from the ghetto.
Like a small tree around where I played football.
It grew on this wall we had in Poland,
it was a brick wall.
A tree grew, and during our freezing and windy winter
it lost all of its leaves...
Sometimes you remember things that are embarassing to tell...
It was so strong, this little tree,
when spring came along the leaves sprouted.
When I close my eyes I can see the wall and this tree.
Its roots were holding on to the wall so tightly.
It held on to one or two bricks and never let go.
It wanted to live, and it did.
I can relate to that tree.
Where did it get so much strength?
A human being is not like a tree,
but it has something that is a mystery.
It's very difficult to situate oneself.
This is where you draw the line between yourself and that.
Sometimes you ask yourself if it's worth it to come here
and bother you.
There was a great poet called Elie Wiesel who said
that every person that hears a testimony of the Shoa
becomes a witness.
You are now witnesses of the Second World War.
- Did you suffer much? - It was my pleasure.
Let's stop now.
Otherwise I'm going to start speaking nonesense.
All right, we'll continue some other time.
This is like a therapy session.
We'll continue next session.
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