‘They were at school together in Bratislava. One day, they didn’t come home. Later on, they came for us . . . for the whole family.’

‘Mmm-hmm.’

‘What about you?’

‘Me? I . . . well, I . . .’

‘One of your parents?’

‘Yes . . . my father . . . My father was at Birkenau and at other camps . . . miraculously he survived. I never knew, he never said anything . . . I only found out recently, by accident, after he died.’

‘I understand . . . You mustn’t feel bitter . . . there are things you cannot speak of to your children. Believe me, it is almost unbearable to speak of them even with those who were here.’

We came to a crossroads. Her group was heading towards their bus, I had to follow my journey to the end. As she was getting on to the coach, I suddenly rushed up to her, gripped her elbow and said, ‘I wanted to apologise . . .’

‘But what have you to apologise for, young man?’

‘I . . . life has been cruel to you . . . to your family, your parents . . . I feel somehow responsible . . .’

She looked at me, her old, beautiful eyes had known too much pain, and taking my hand she said, ‘Thank you, child, I’m very touched. No one has ever has ever said sorry to me before.’

I leaned and kissed her on the forehead. A gesture of friendship, of solidarity across the gulf that separated us.

I was overwhelmed by the encounter. This woman did not deserve for me to lie to her. I had the sickening feeling that I had robbed her of her life, her dignity. But I told myself perhaps she had long since done her mourning and that it would have been cruel to wake the dead. In fact, I realise the only person I have lied to is myself, no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again. If I were her, Helmut Schiller, I would have spat your apology into the dust.

It was time I left. I had no business being here, I have no place here. I should never have come, I have defiled it.

Malrich’s Diary - February 1997

Malrich’s Diary

February 1997