Since his death, the physical remnants of my father’s mania have been kept in several plastic storage boxes marked “Family”.
The boxes are cracked and crazed, and some of the documents inside are so old they fall apart when touched. But I know what’s in there pretty well by heart. It was ingrained into my brother and me from childhood, like a slow-release poison, until we were old enough to run away.
For decades after that, I thought running away was the same as escaping. In recent years, though, there have been times – triggered by some memory or association – when the poison wells up anew and I imagine my father’s commanding tones delivering snatches of the terrible stuff he tried to make us believe in.
The most intense of these experiences occurred just a few months ago, while I was looking at photographs of Nazi war atrocities in a Berlin museum.
In one picture, a Jewish woman and her son are being dragged from their home by Gestapo thugs. The son, about 10, is straining against the meaty hand gripping his arm, his thin face captured in the moment when defiance succumbs to fear. It’s far from the worst scene on display, yet something about the frightened boy – perhaps a passing resemblance to my brother at that age – won’t let me move on.
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