Broken Beginnings: Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen:

I sat in my room, tired from physical therapy, but not ready to sleep, instead I grabbed Bubbe’s journal, and looked at the photos I had of her, dating back to the year after the Holocaust though there had been one saved from her childhood, she had to have been about four or five, somehow the photo had survived all the years, the way the journal had. It had been nothing short of a miracle I knew that.

I fingered the fading letters on the journal, the journal Bubbe had written in all of those years ago, the fears she wrote were real, what she had lived through, something that I could not even begin to understand, because I had not lived through it. Bubbe had, she was strong, she had survived Hell, and I was thankful that she had. I was thankful that I had the privilege of knowing her for fourteen years, the privilege of being her Granddaughter. She had taught me so much, I would always be thankful for that.

I opened the journal to July, Bubbe’s journal entries had been sporadic because of all that they had endured during 1941, but somehow she would manage to sneak moments to write even if it was only every few weeks. Sometimes she’d write more often, but mostly she wrote to make sense of things., things that she would really never be able to make sense of, because nothing could have made sense of the Hell that was the Holocaust.