Chapter 3: Instead of sleeping with my Mom, I wanted to die in her beloved Poland (4)
After an unnerving night-ride back from miserable chilly Poland back to the capitalistic glory and wealthy comfort of the West-German home-turf, here I was, back on a sleepy early Sunday morning in spring-awakening Frankfurt, the town that had hosted my miserable childhood. I separated from my travel-group with false smiles, uncaring hugs and kisses, feeling how glad these people were to get rid of my sad, stupid brown eyes, that were so intensely staring at each of them throughout their boring Ausschwitz-Triblinka-Trip. Then, still very early in the morning, I stood in front of my parent´s double-bed, where like so many other children I had actually spent a lot of happy moments, when I was a child.
My dear old father, who, after all these miscarriages and difficulties of my mother, already was 50, when they had me, who, for the mathematical consequence of this had already passed his 70th birthday, my dear old father did not pay too much attention to the uninteresting crab I told them about this unnecessary trip to the old forlorn stinking country. Like every other morning, he was busy to read the Frankfurter Allgemeine in his bed, which did not come so easy to him, since his German was far from perfect, a handicap that was more than compensated by his near genius with calculating numbers. Not so for my Mom. Not only was she not so good with numbers, but much better in languages, she, the female, sensitive and – as I pointed out several times – REAL part of me, was crying. Not because crying was generally her main hobby, no, at this very morning she did not only simply follow the same annoying habit, this time it was much more for real. Her outburst of silent tears marked the painful memories of everything she lost in her life. Whatever God paid back to her, wealth in the land of the murderers, a highly insensitive, but at least smart husband and yes, even the two late born sons, that she naturally loved more than her own life; all this was no consolation for what God had taken from her away in the first place. This truth hit me and her crystal-clearer than ever on this beautiful morning, when another sunny German spring day was on its way, while my father’s and his newspaper’s indifference were mercilessly ignoring her inaudible soundless weeping, upon listening to my description of Cracow, the beauty of its main square, the Grinek, my enthusiasm about all these female Polish teenagers, about the little coffee-houses and lots of more interesting details and anecdotes, that I can’t recollect anymore today, after all more than half of my other life, e.g. more than a quarter of a century had gone by since then.