Chapter 3 third quarter

"My name is Anka. Anka? Pascurata. Your teachers introduced me as Mrs. Jones, which is indeed my current name. I came to your country in 1948, 1954 I've lived here since I got married. But today, for this lesson, I'm going to be Anka Pascurata again." "The surname comes from Romania, my homeland. I was born there and my parents and family are Romanians." The kids stared back at me blankly.I guess they are as indifferent to geography as they are to history and have no idea what Romania is. But that's okay. I sorted out my thoughts. "I wanted to introduce a little background on the war first, but your teacher showed me the materials you use for study, and I realized that you already know a lot about this, maybe even more than I do, so I thought, I There should be no need to say any more."

I felt my voice tremble and took a deep breath. "So, I will skip the beginning of the war and start from the end of the war, and my story begins there. Let me lead you back to the year before the end of the war - 1944." I paused and surveyed my audience, who were clearly bored.Someone quietly held back a yawn, a few were fiddling with their schoolbags and stationery, and some seemed to be secretly texting under the cover of a pencil case.I bite the bullet and continue, hoping to win their attention back. "I was twelve years old at that time, a little younger than you are now. Before that, I was also lucky to receive education, although the conditions are incomparable with yours today. At that time, our school was just a school. A simple classroom with no electric lights or heating, even paper and pencils are a luxury, our learning can only rely on memory, which is the most precious thing.”

I was relieved to see several heads turned to me.I continue to tell. "In that era, there were neither computers nor calculators. Even in a developed industrial country like the UK, television hadn't appeared yet. In a backward agricultural country like Romania, even radios and newspapers were rare in daily life. of luxury." The girls exchanged glances, perhaps trying to imagine life without computers. I said: "At that time, I naturally knew nothing about the outside world. I didn't even know what happened to the world war that had broken out for four years. I only knew that my country was in Nazi Germany. Under the rule of my country, I also vaguely know that some neighboring countries are involved in the dispute, but which side they are on and why, I neither know nor care. All I care about is my own little world: a Insignificant, backward and isolated Eastern European town."

A boy on the side seat turned and whispered to a classmate, and Mr. Wilkinson tapped the table with a ruler. "Ben, if you don't want to hear it, at least keep quiet. It's the most basic courtesy. Mrs. Jones came here all the time." A boy named Ben sprawled out in his chair in a deliberate indifference. "Yes, sir, but it's really boring. Why don't we just learn it on the computer, if we really have to? No one cares about history." The boy glanced at other classmates seeking approval, and then added: "Especially the history of the Holocaust." He looked straight at me: "Isn't it just a group of dead Jews?"

"Say one more word like that, and I'll take you to the principal." Mr. Wilkinson's stern tone made the boy shut up.He turned to me. "I'm so sorry, Mrs. Jones. Ben, apologize right away." Ben forced out a dissatisfied sentence: "Sorry, ma'am." Then he nestled back in his seat, complacent about his performance just now. I smiled and said directly to the boy, "I can assure you, Ben, that in spite of my age and frailty, I am alive and I expect to live for a few more years." The classmates in the class seemed to like my little joke, so I took advantage of this and continued: "Besides, what I want to say is that I am not Jewish either."

The teacher present cast a surprised look at me. I continued: "Mr. Wilkinson asked me to bring over the items I kept so that I could better present my story. For example, old photos of relatives and friends, memorials of that era, etc., all things about the Holocaust." I spread my empty hands dramatically. "But you see, I didn't bring anything with me." The eyes of the students all fell on my hands. "I didn't bring anything because I had nothing. Everything, everything I had at the time, was destroyed or lost. Not even a single surviving memento." Although these words tightened my throat, my listeners remained unmoved, and I knew that if I did not catch their attention quickly, I would never touch their hearts again.So I asked, "Please tell me, has any of you lost a father or a mother?"

There was a shocked silence in the hall.Both hands were raised stiffly. "With all due respect, can you tell me what happened to them?" Mr. Wilkinson gave me a nervous look, but I ignored his concerns and focused on the two children who raised their hands. "My mom, passed away in a car accident a few years ago." "I'm sorry, very sorry." I turned to the other child, a boy. "And you?" "My dad died of cancer shortly after I was born. I never got a chance to really get to know him." The students fidgeted restlessly in their seats.Mr. Wilkinson watched from the sidelines, not knowing how to respond.

That's not something I've been asked to talk about. "Thank you," I said. "It's really brave of you to say that. And I'm asking you this for a reason. Most of you have a living parent, and two classmates lost one. And I lost my father when I was twelve, not to cancer or to a car accident." I paused, trying to suppress the tremor in my voice: "He was murdered. He was shot in cold blood by a firing squad right outside our door. My mother, brother and I were forced to witness this scene." .” I had their attention: a class of clear-eyed kids who had never been exposed to evil.I worded my words carefully and proceeded.

"Historically, the war started in 1939, when Germany invaded Poland. That may be true. But for me, the war started with the death of my father." "My story begins as the war enters its final year, a few weeks after my father's execution. It was the early spring of 1944, in Megidia, Romania, on a storm-ravaged cemetery... ..."