Chapter 6 Sections 11-12

Section 11 It wasn't until the fall that I completed Hannah's commission.The daughter lived in New York, and I was at a conference in Boston, and I took the opportunity to bring her the money, a check from a bank deposit plus change from a tea tin.I wrote to her, introducing myself as a legal historian and mentioning the court trial, saying I would be grateful if I could talk to her.She invited me to have tea with her. I took the train from Boston to New York.The forest is all colors, brown, yellow, orange, reddish brown, reddish brown, and the radiant red of the maple trees.This reminds me of the picture of autumn in Hannah's cabin.When the turning of the wheels and the shaking of the carriages tired me out, I dreamed that Hannah and I were sitting in a house on the colorful, autumn hills through which our train was passing .Hannah was older than when I knew her, younger than when I saw her again, older than I was, prettier than ever, at the age when her movements were poised and her body was still in good shape.I saw her get out of the car with shopping bags in her arms, saw her walk across the garden towards the house, saw her put down her shopping bags and go up the stairs in front of me.I miss Hannah so much that it hurts me.I tried my best to resist this longing, against this longing, which was completely unrealistic to Hannah and to me, to our actual age, to the circumstances in which we lived.How could Hannah live in America without speaking English?And Hannah can't drive either.

I woke up from the dream and realized again that Hannah was dead.I also know that the yearning that is closely related to her is not a yearning for her, but a longing for going home. The daughter lived in New York on a small street not far from Central Park, surrounded by rows of old houses built of dark sandstone, and the steps leading to the first floor were also made of the same dark sandstone.This gives people a strict feeling, houses are next to each other, the fronts of the houses are almost the same, steps are next to steps, and the trees beside the street were planted not long ago, the distance between them is the same, very regular, and the sparse branches Hanging sparse yellow leaves.

The daughter placed the tea table in front of a large window, from which she could see the small square garden outside. Some parts of the garden were lush, some were colorful, and some were piled up with household rags.She poured me tea, stirred it with sugar, and immediately changed the English in which she greeted me to German. "What brought you to me?" she asked me nonchalantly.Her tone sounded very businesslike, everything about her seemed businesslike, her attitude, her gestures and her dress.Her face is very special, and she can't tell how old she is.All the sullen faces looked just like hers.However, perhaps it was her traumatic early life that made her so rigid.I tried my best to recall her facial expressions during the court hearing, but couldn't.

I related Hannah's death and her commission. "why me?" "I guess because you're the only survivor." "Where should I use it?" "Things that make sense to you." "To give Ms. Smith a pardon?" At first, I wanted to refute, because Hannah is actually much more than that.Years of incarceration should not be merely a form of atonement.Hannah wants to give meaning to the atonement itself, and in this way Hannah wants to make its meaning recognized.I conveyed this meaning to her. She shook her head.I don't know if she wants to reject my explanation or if she refuses to acknowledge Hannah.

"Can't you acknowledge her without forgiving her?" she laughed. "You like her, don't you? What is the relationship between you?" I hesitated for a while. "I've been her reader. It's been going on since I was fifteen and it's been going on while she's in jail." "How do you...·" "I sent her tapes. Ms. Smitz was illiterate almost all her life, and she learned to read and write in prison." "Why are you doing this?" "We had that relationship when I was fifteen." "You mean, did you ever sleep together?"

"yes." "What a cruel woman. You have a fifteen-year-old with her... can you bear it? No, you said it yourself, and when she went to jail, you started reading to her again. You were married ?" I nod. "Then your marriage was short and unhappy. You did not remarry, and your children—if you had children, were in boarding school." "As often as this happens, it has nothing to do with Smith." "During your recent years of dealing with her, have you ever had the feeling that she knew what she was bringing to you?" I shrugged. "Anyway she knew exactly what loss she was taking on others in the camps and on the move north. Not only did she tell me that, but, in her final years in prison, she worked hard to Study it." I related what the female warden had told me.

She stood up and strode back and forth in the room: "So how much money is involved?" I went to the coat rack where I kept my bag, took out the check and the tea tin, walked back to her and said, "It's all here. She looked at the check, then put it on the table, opened and emptied the tea caddy, then closed it again.Holding the tea pot in her hand, she stared at it and said: "When I was a little girl, I had a tea pot for my baby. It's not like this, although there were already such tea pots at that time." It was written in Cyrillic letters, and the cover was not pressed in, but snapped on. I took it to the concentration camp, and one day it was stolen."

"What's in there?" "What, the curly hair of our puppy, tickets to the opera my father took me to, a ring I got somewhere or found in a bag - it wasn't stolen Because of what's in it. The tea caddy was valuable in itself and what people were able to do with it in the concentration camp." She put the tea caddy on top of the check, "Do you have any suggestions on how to use the money? Applying it to anything that has to do with the Holocaust really, for me, is a kind of forgiveness that I neither can nor want to give." "For those illiterates who want to learn to read and write, there must be such public welfare foundations and social organizations, and money can be donated to these institutions."

"Of course there would be such an institution," she mused. ""Are there similar Jewish associations and societies? " "If there are societies, you can be sure there will be Jewish societies. But the problem of illiteracy is not a Jewish problem." She pushed the check and the money over to me. "Let's do this: you go and find out about any relevant Jewish organizations, here or in Germany. Then, send the money to the account of the organization you trust the most. You can, too," she laughed. "If recognition is important, on Ms. Smith's behalf."

She took the tea pot into her hand again: "I keep this tea pot. Section 12 In a blink of an eye, it all became ten years ago.In the first few years after Hannah's death, those old questions haunted me, such as, did I reject and betray her, did I still owe her anything, was I guilty because I loved her, Do I have to disassociate her or get rid of her.Sometimes I ask myself if I was responsible for her death, and sometimes I get so angry with her, angry at what she did to me, until the anger becomes limp and the issues don't matter.What I did and didn't do, what she did to me—it just became my life.

Shortly after Hannah's death, I made up my mind to write the story of me and Hannah.Since then, I've written our story in my head many times, always a little differently each time, always with new images, new plots, and new ideas.Thus, there are many other versions besides the one I wrote.It is guaranteed that the written version is the correct one, because it was written by me, and I did not write the other versions.The version that has been written is what it wants to be written, and many other versions do not want to be written. At first, I thought the purpose of writing our story was to get rid of her, but, my memory is not there for this purpose.Then I noticed how our story slipped from my memory.So, I want to find my memory back through writing.But even writing does not induce memory.I haven't had cloud touch touch our story for a few years now, and we're fine.Instead, it came back, detail by detail, in such a complete, consistent, and correct way that I couldn't feel sad about it.What a sad story: I used to think so.That's not to say I consider it blissful now.However, I think it's true.In this premise, the question of whether it is sad or happy is irrelevant. When I think about it, I always think about it anyway.When I feel hurt, past hurt feelings come back; when I feel I am responsible for something, I am reminded of the guilt I felt at the time; if I desire something now, or Missing my hometown, then I will feel the longing and nostalgia at that time.Our life is one ring after another, and the latter ring is always inseparable from the previous ring. What has passed is not over, but is living in reality.I understand this.Still, I sometimes feel overwhelmed by it.Maybe my purpose in writing our story was to get rid of it, even though I couldn't do that. As soon as I got back from New York, I wired Hannah's money to the Jewish Anti-Blindness League in her name.I received a computerized text message from the Jewish Anti-Blindness League thanking Ms. Hannah Smitz for her donation.With the letter in my pocket, I drove to Hannah's grave.That was the first and only time I stood in front of her grave.