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My generation is often accused of taking life for granted. We accept our everyday freedoms as common rights, never really thinking of how they came about. We have the tendency to rush through life, never stopping to look around and be thankful. I was once one of these stereotypical teenagers, until one person taught me that life only happens once, and that I needed to love and cherish every minute of it. She taught me that I should always treat those around me as if every minute was our last minute. My grandmother taught me never to leave regret as an option. My grandmother is a Holocaust survivor. I had only heard bits and pieces of her terrible story. The only information she ever let out was that she was originally from Austria and that she spent time in a concentration camp called Auschwitz. Nanny, as we call her, never ever liked to speak about those years. Whenever the subject came up, she would always talk around it. One night, Nanny started to take down some pieces of the wall she had built up. She told us her story. It was Christmas Eve. My dad, brother and I drove down to my nanny’s apartment to deliver her Hanukkah present. After we had set it all up, we went to the mall to do some very last minute shopping. Exhausted from all the holiday hoopla, we settled into a quiet restaurant to have a late dinner.
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