How my grandad invented the Holocaust
My father’s father died when I was 16, 15 years ago. Or was I 18? I don’t remember exactly. It was a long time ago. My memory fails me, the daguerreotype has faded. I know that he was. And then he was not. I know this because I saw him when he was. And then I saw him again. And he wasn’t any more. He lived, and then he died. It is a fact.

My grandfather had a little sister. I know what she looked like. I have seen the photo. A 1941 photo. Or was it 1940? I don’t remember exactly. It was a long time ago that I saw it last. My grandfather knew. But he has been dead for a while, so he cannot tell me. If the photo was taken in 1941, that is the year my grandfather’s sister died.

In his 60s, towards the end of his days, my grandfather got very sentimental. He had had three heart attacks, the first one when he was in his 40s, so he wasn’t good for much towards the end of his days. He would sit on the couch, clutching his sister’s old photo, and cry. About 40 years had passed, but he would still cry. I can’t say for sure, but I suspect that, many years after my parents go, may they live a long life, I will cry exactly like he did. My people, the Jews, are like that. Cry babies.

So his sister lived, and then she died. It is a fact. I know that, because I have seen my grandfather cry over her photo.

I know how she died. I wasn’t there, because I had not been born and wasn’t born until 34 years later. I wish I had remembered the year of the photo. Anyway, I wasn’t there. My grandfather wasn’t there either. He was in the Red Army. He was, don’t laugh, a trumpet-player in the Red Army. He was a trumpet player in the Red Army, and he must have been a good one, because he got medals. I wasn’t there when they gave him the medals, but I know he got them, because I have seen them, and they are still at my grandmother’s. May she live a long life too.