The Rest Of The Story – Nov.2nd,2013

02 Nov

Again I missed writing last week – it’s this darn computer that scares me. Once again the fear factor enters into everything I do.
Something reminded me last evening of all the things happening in my very early childhood that have contributed to my very low self esteem. I had a book signing scheduled that was advertised in the local news paper featuring my photo that is on the back cover of “The Chocolate Bar”. A man came in and hung around my table until the crowd dispersed. Then he walked up to me briskly and said “you are as beautiful as the picture but you look too young to have experienced the things in WW11 you describe in your book. Therefore I know it is a fake”. He walked away before I could think of a reply in my defense. I could have taken the comment as a compliment – but instead it devastated me to think that people might not believe me.
I will now skim over pages 77 – 90. I grew up always being different (not in a good sense) which led to a constant attempt to prove myself – and never being believed, i.e. the time in second grade when I drew the praiseworthy picture of an assignment and was accused of some one else having done that since I had the reputation of being retarded. When I lost my father Jan. 4th, 1945 I lost the only support system I had had in my first 9 years of my life. I had to rely only on myself and seeing myself through the eyes of others as being totally incompetent led to a very insecure life – a life of survival.
Frequently I am asked what the very worst thing of living on the front lines of the war was. People always expect an answer of the bombs, the gunfire, death and loss but that is never my answer. It is simply the filth. Not being able to take a bath of some sort with a change of under ware for months at a time – with skin rashes oozing and causing infections with no medical treatment. With no bed to sleep in. Being transported when lucky enough to find room on a train instead of marching for hours with the stench of people in sardine packed box cars causing vomiting and more stench – and being so bone weary exhausted that you envied the people who were being buried on the side of the road – that is what I remember as being the worst.
And after all that being attractive enough at the age of almost 78 and be doubted of your truthfulness – as the young people would say “It sucks”
So much for sitting in the pity pot- time to get back in the love bucket (Will that be my next book ?


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