<x-html><!x-stuff-for-pete base="" src="" id="0" charset="iso-8859-1/macintosh"><STRONG>Thanks for sharing this sad story, Lucca. </STRONG><STRONG>
As a child the unfairness is particulary hard to understand. I will always remember this other story my father told me when I was six. He was 14 and lived in Czernowitz</STRONG>: "<EM><STRONG>One day, at school, I was asked, I think it was on a physics problem, I did it right and the teacher told me that I deserved 100/100 but since you are a Jew I can only give you 49/100. I came back home that day, crying, saying to my father Its not fair and my father said Its over, you cannot go to that high school, anymore."</STRONG></EM><STRONG>I just add, as you said before: comparing it to other calamities, it moves into the right proportion, which means - the realization that this mishap was minor. </STRONG>
<P><STRONG>Mariette</P>
</STRONG>--- Lucca Ginsburg lucca99_at_netvision.net.il a crit: Tragedy is of course relative and during World War II so many bad things happened to good people! Thus, looking back at this sad day in my childhood, and comparing it to other calamities, it moves into the right proportion, which means - the realization that this mishap was minor. I was about 14 or 15 years old when this happened. It was the second invasion of the red army into our city. One of my most priced possession - if not really the most priced - was my piano. I was no great pianist, I played a bit of classical etudes, sonatinas, light Beethoven, Bach, Schubert. Being at romantic age, I played fashionable romantic music, often moving myself to tears... One day a Russian officer entered our house and approached my piano directly: <B!
R>
"This, he said to me and my mother, comes now with me! You have played enough, now it's my children's turn to play! Here, I pay you for it!" He threw a few rubles on our table. Two soldiers came into our house and carried the piano away. The whole action had not taken more than a few minutes. The corner where my piano had stood was suddenly empty and I broke out in tears. The officer, maybe moved just a bit, said to me: "We live across the street, whenever you feel like playing you may come and play at our house!" Homesick for my piano, I accepted his offer. Only once. After coming back home I had a terrible itch on both hands. Our neighbor, a doctor, looked at my hands and diagnosed: "scabies! Where did you get this? What did you touch?" In addition to having lost my piano, I had also acquired a shameful disease, !
one
caused by dirt and neglect. One more memory from troubled times.... mariette Gutherz<p><hr size=1><font face=arial size=-1>Do You Yahoo!? -- Une adresse @yahoo.fr gratuite et en franais !
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Received on 2004-01-19 10:27:30
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