My Name

Albert was killed in a bombing raid over Germany in the early years of the war. He died young. That is all I have ever known about him. As a child I would watch my great-aunt mourn for him at memorial services in synagogue. The intensity of her anguish amazed and frightened me. Amazed because I never saw an adult get so convulsive over anything - except my father when he was angry - and frightened because I sensed I was mysteriously connected to the mourning. In carrying Albert's name, I feared that I also carried his fate. The crying, the wailing, was really for me.