Helen Segall doesn’t remember what she said to her father. She can’t find the words. But she remembers other details, like how warm the August sun felt shining down that day as her father sat with his arm around her near the cellar entrance.
Maybe they were saying goodbye. Maybe they were saying “I love you.” Maybe they were sitting quietly, like fathers and daughters sometimes do.
It is a tiny hole in the greater fabric of Ms. Segall’s childhood memories, a blank she is unable to fill.
“What I do remember is a man with no face, a man — and I would learn this later — who was a local Ukrainian schutzmann, a Nazi collaborator, and actually wearing a mask because they wouldn’t want to be recognized when they came for my father,” Ms. Segall says.
She was a carefree Jewish kid in Dubno, Poland, when the…
View original post 1,402 more words