The Postcard

by Anne Berest

absolutely nothing—mattered as much as that I was descended from a line of Jewish women. Nothing else had ever characterized me as strongly in the eyes of the men I’d loved.

‘There are, in the genealogical tree, traumatized, unprocessed places that are eternally seeking relief. From these places, arrows are launched toward future generations. Anything that has not been resolved must be

repeated and will affect someone else, a target located one or more generations in the future.’

How many more forgotten books were there, hidden away in trunks and armoires?

“A true friend isn’t the one who dries your tears. It’s the one who never causes them to be shed.”

The pattern was undeniable.

Something had to be learned from all these lives. But what? Reflection. Examination. A deeper questioning of that word whose definition remained ever elusive. What does it mean to be Jewish?

What does it mean to wonder what it means to be Jewish?

So yes, it would suit me not to think about Auschwitz every day. It would suit me for things to be different. It

would suit me not to be afraid of the government, afraid of gas, afraid of losing my identity papers, afraid of enclosed spaces, afraid of dog bites, afraid of crossing borders, afraid of traveling by airplane, afraid of crowds and the glorification of virility, afraid of men in groups, afraid of my children being taken from

me, afraid of people who obey orders, afraid of uniforms, afraid of being late, afraid of being stopped by the police, afraid whenever I have to renew my passport. Afraid of saying that I’m J...

Not “when it suits me.” I carry within me, inscribed in the very cells ...

of an experience of danger so violent that sometimes I think I really lived it myself, or that I’ll be forced to relive it one day. To me, death always feels near. I have a sense of being hunted. I often feel subjected to a kind of self-obliteration. I search in the history books for the thin...

They’d each had something tragic happen to them when they were teenagers, Jacques at age seventeen, Nicole

at nineteen. No one had connected the dots. Because of the silence. And because, in this family, we didn’t believe in psychoanalysis.

‘I can’t forget them. If I do, there will be no one left to remember that they ever existed.’”