I miss my grandmother and I often think of her.
She died but her story still lives. In me, my family and actually anywhere in the world. War is really cruel and intensely sad. We can forgive, but we will never forget. Stories go from grandmother to grand daughter, from mother to child, but is the story still the same after all these years?
I have been given the chance to, just before it was too late, make a short movie about my grandmother and her story. The film is ready, and stands there in the cupboard. My grandmother past away, and the one thing I wished to get from her, dissappeared during the move of the house. The most precious thing has been thrown away because some one couldn’t see the beauty and the rarity of it.
A simple iron tea spoon. She always ate her yoghurt with this spoon. An ordinary tea spoon, could be from anyone. But it meant the world for me. This spoon was the only thing she took from Auschwitz, she always kept it. With this spoon she ate the little food they got served. And she promised me that I would get it when she died. Before I knew it was gone. Thrown away. Given away. Nobody knew about what spoon I was talking about.
I was torn by grief, but I could do nothing about it. Gone. Just like my grandmother. No keepsake, no jewellry, nothing that reminds me of my grandmother. Nothing to polish, to look at, to cherish. I can now only grasp my memory of her.