The pieces of my parent's story are all gradually falling into place

It's clear to me that neither granny nor grandpa nor mom nor dad (while mom was alive) wanted to dredge up the painful memories of separation and loss that the war inflicted on all of them. I find it hard going to hold and contemplate these wartime letters written by auntie Elisa, (who was sent to Aushwitz) and Granny Regine (who was sent to Treblinka) in my hands. It's hard to read the letters granny carefully treasured and kept in a red wallet from Grandpa - where he repeats over and over again, Mien Liebling this and Mein Leibling that, referring constantly to Babylein.

It's difficult in practical terms too, because I don't speak German. But they have to be read. I am a member of the first generation that has enough distance from these traumatising events and experiences, I hope, to be able to look the bad stuff right in its damn face.

I forget that this was everyone's trauma and still is. 6 million Jewish people died. That makes an awful lot of bereaved relatives. Not to mention all the young soldiers sent to die and the civilians killed in Russia and the rest of Europe. This story is hardly unique in this way.

And Tere reminds me.

"Don't get obsessive and maudlin about the war. You know they are in heaven right now, and even if you don't believe in heaven, then they stopped suffering at least 65 years ago. If you are going to write about your mom and dad then remember that almost their defining characteristic was the way they made the best out of any situation and remember your mom's wonderful sense of humour."

And Tere is right, of course. I can imagine how irritated mom would be if I went for a depressing sort of "sturm and drang" narrative. I'd better buck up good and proper.

And I thank dad, wherever he may be, for filing and organising everything so well. I've made a right mess of it all and I can here him bellowing in irritation, but I promise to tidy all the letters and photos up and file them away again neatly. Perhaps I'll bind the letters themselves into a book. Mom is such a brilliant writer; dad too.

I have a lot of stuff here. For example I have mom's diary of a trip they took through India during a famine. She sent it to me while I was at boarding school. It difficult to read. A small extract from the ten page document:

"At the Hindustani Christian Church mission here we met Stina Larssen, who runs three village feeding schemes for Oxfam. She's one big hearted and sensitive lady. Speaks English with a mixture of Swedish and Indian accent, and speaks Marati as the village people, not the townspeople do. She fears that the rains will fail again - fears it personally, says she won't know how to face up to the death and disaster that may come. She tells of over fives in the villages who are bewildered at being turned away and refused food - of three girls who keep coming back in spite of being chased away: because they are girls they get almost no food in their poverty stricken home, what there is is reserved for the men and the boys."

I have the letters mom wrote to her parents before during and after she went to jail. In jail she sounded so positive but she had a breakdown inside and it took her a long time to recover. Mary Turok said it was because she felt it was something to do with the war - as if she was finally being sent away to a camp - as her childish precocity percieved she might be - as she saw how her auntie did not return and then heard or overheard how her grandmother was taken away.

It hurts to say that and reach that conclusion and to think how she must have feared. I think it is the right conclusion, though. I hate any kind of fascist with such a burning eternal hatred. I hope there are millions of family members of people who suffered in the war who feel the same way. Never again! There are many people who suffer today under the jackboot, too.

But I had better brighten up, as Tere suggests.