The Shadow of Secrets 

 Esther Krausz as told to Shoshana Gross

The door is heavy and solid, but I can see my father’s distorted face through the smeared panes of glass. He is a wavering shape, just beyond the place. I don’t know where I am, but I know I’m not home. I am three years old, and sadness chokes me.

Last night, a woman at the place beat me because I wet the strange bed, but I can’t find the words to tell my father. He smiles reassuringly, waves, and his straight back disappears in a blur of tears. I cry hysterically, and no one can comfort me.

The memory ends.

It’s my earliest remembered experience, but I never asked my father any questions about the place. Time blurs in my three-year-old mind, but I eventually returned home to my father’s words, “Esther, dus is Mami,” and my smiling mother handing me the rare treat of a rosy apple. The thrilling present banished lingering curiosity, and in any case, it was a time when people didn’t ask. Everyone was busy surviving and rebuilding.

But buried secrets cast long shadows, even if it takes decades to unearth the treasure of truth.