“Dadda will always love you…”
In the times of brutality of the Second World War in the concentration camps, this is a heartfelt letter written by a father to his estranged daughter that stretches across the world, from the concentration camps to the liberal states; from a remorseful father to an ignorant daughter:
Dear Helen,
When people ask me my age, I tend to say, ‘I am forty-five years old.’ Why are we ‘old’ when we are so young? It is because we know our birth date. If only we knew our death date, we would address ourselves young. It is a pity that we know nothing of our death as to prevent ourselves from getting harmed; trying to draw out our dear life. It is even more pitiful if we do know details of our death; we will die everyday with the fear of dying. I did not know how it must have felt for people with terminal ailments, waiting by the Death’s door. Even if I do come out of this unscathed, in one piece, these maimed lesions would torment me, and my mental turmoil will vex me.
The world has been cruel and horrendous to us. Not to mention, the people we knew personally deceived us. I was devastated, dejected and in pain for how they betrayed us and dubious about what lay ahead. Every day in this concentration camp is a lifetime in hell that I wished I were dead long ago. Five years in this concentration camp has only let down my hope and belief in humanity. How does being a Jew weed us out from others? How ruthless could they be?
I am being deported to the Auschwitz Camp tomorrow and I may never see you again unless the Americans liberate us soon; unless I am alive, and well. It is sad to tell you that I am to be executed, brutally, a few hours later. I feel death extremely near and the darkness is closing upon me. It is not worse than what we experience every day though. How painful would death be? I have been in extremely critical medical conditions in this camp, nearing the brink of death, but was still left to rot to death by the Nazis. We are no less than the walking dead. But I am fearful to discover as of what lies beyond; beyond death.
I write to you some of my memories, so that, when I am gone forever, I will leave a little of myself in this paper: The legacy of a man who survived through the torments of the concentration camp. The earliest of my memories was of my father coming home from work, reeking of sweat, having scraped together all money he could, to provide for my mother and me. He was an innovative man, his thoughts brimming up with ideas that could have bloomed into wonderful trades, if only we had had a little more money. They are now long-lost distant and shattered dreams of his. I had inherited his brains; but what good were they when my final resting place was upon a pile of rotten dead corpses; ignored and unwanted?
The last time I saw myself in a mirror was… I do not even have count. I am experiencing this hell for so long, that I have even lost track of time. When I looked into the mirror, I saw my father and my mother in myself, for I had his eyes and her hair. These were living memories, a proof that they had been real, that I had not imagined them myself to cope up with my allusions.
I met your mother when I was eighteen through our parents and got married. You were born under troubled circumstances Helen, when it was already difficult for us to cope with our barely-enough income for the two of us. But that did not stop me from loving and adoring you whole-heartedly. I watched you talk your first words, take your first steps, and walk up to me and call me ‘Dadda’ with your puerile words. These are priceless moments that I will cherish forever. They do not disappear, for they are beyond the idiosyncrasies of time. As your age increased, so did the distance between us. And when you started isolating me after knowing that I chose you over your mother to be saved at the time of your birth, I was losing everything; all over again. I felt you drifting away, into the abyss and I feared that it would take forever to find you again.
And the situation only grew worse, for we were deported to the concentrated camp. Before I could process the sudden metamorphosis my life had taken course into, I was pushed to ground, and bet till I bled profusely and lost my consciousness. And by time I regained consciousness, it was already too late; I could find you nowhere.
I wanted to talk to you again and tell you about how regretful I was for your mother and hug you for one last time before I am executed. But somehow, that chance never came up, and it is only a matter of hours before I breathe my last.
Daughter, when you read this letter, if it reaches you, I will be long gone; far beyond your reach. Ms. Tilly, my supervisor at the concentration camp was kind enough to risk her life to deliver this letter to you; for this is the testament of the brutality by the Nazis and the sufferance of a remorseful father. Thank her for me, will you? I am sure that many will have experienced such brutalities, and each will have their own stories to speak about. Though my life was not interesting and jovial as I had intended it to be, this is my story.
You never knew your mother, nor did she have much time left to watch you grow. We never took a proper family picture together, but I have a picture of your mother that I never got the chance to show it to you, for I was not aware that I had it in my possession until a few weeks ago. It has been put inside this envelope. This is all I can do for you, my dear. I can now close my eyes peacefully, for I have shared my profound thoughts from the depths of my heart, with you.
Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one remembers to turn on the light; there is always a little ray of hope. Remember, Dadda always loves you, no matter what. I will not be there to encourage you to live your days through, but my love is powerful enough to guide you through the path to freedom and soon, you will breathe fresh air, once again.
With lots of love, Father.