Andreas agreed.
“It finally became clear to me why I invested so much time in the past,” he said. “I think my ancestors would want corrective action to happen, insofar as it’s possible. Realizing this, I’m much more at peace with them. I can stop questioning why they did what they did. I can focus on what I do now to contribute to peace.”
We’re born to love; we learn to hate. It’s up to us what we reach for.
KEYS TO FREE YOURSELF FROM JUDGMENT
Our best teachers. The most toxic, obnoxious people in our lives can be our best teachers. The next time you’re in the presence of someone who irks or offends you, soften your eyes and tell yourself, “Human, no more, no less. Human, like me.” Then ask, “What are you here to teach me?”
We’re born to love; we learn to hate. Make a list of the messages you heard growing up that divided people into categories: us/them; good/bad; right/wrong. Circle any of these messages that describe how you see the world today. Notice where you may be holding on to judgment. How is this judgment affecting your relationships? Is it limiting your choices or ability to take risks?
What’s the legacy you want to pass on? We can’t choose what our ancestors did, or what was done to them. But we get to create the recipe that’s handed down. Write a recipe for a life well-lived. Take the good things from your family’s past and add your own ingredients. Give the next generation something delicious and nourishing to build on.
Chapter 11
IF I SURVIVE TODAY, TOMORROW I WILL BE FREE
The Prison of Hopelessness
In Auschwitz, I was haunted by a persistent thought: does anyone know Magda and I are here?
Any answer pointed to hopelessness. If people knew and didn’t intervene, then what was the value of my life? And if no one knew, how would we ever get out?
When hopelessness overwhelmed me, I’d think of what my mother had told me in the dark, crowded cattle car on our way to prison: “We don’t know where we’re going. We don’t know what’s going to happen. Just remember, no one can take away what you’ve put in your mind.”
During the long, terrible days and nights in prison, I’d choose what to hold in my mind. I’d think of my boyfriend, Eric, how our romance kindled at a time of war, how we’d go picnicking by the river, eating my mother’s delicious fried chicken and potato salad, planning our future. I’d think of dancing with him in the dress my father had made just before we were forced out of our home—how I tested the dress to make sure I could dance in it, to make sure the skirt twirled, how Eric’s hands rested against the thin suede belt at my waist. I’d think of the last words he said to me as he watched my transport leave the brick factory: “I’ll never forget your eyes. I’ll never forget your hands.” And I’d picture our reunion, how we would melt into each other’s arms with joy and relief. These thoughts were like a candle I held through the very darkest hours and months. It’s not that daydreaming about Eric erased the horror. It didn’t bring back my parents or ease the pain of their deaths—or the looming threat of my own. But thinking of him helped me see past where I was, to envision a tomorrow that included my beloved, to keep starvation and torture in perspective. I was living through hell on earth—and it was temporary. If it was temporary, it could be survived.
Hope really is a matter of life and death. I knew a young woman in Auschwitz who became certain that the camp would be liberated by Christmas. She’d seen the new arrivals dwindle, heard rumors that the Germans were facing major military losses, and convinced herself that it was only a matter of weeks before we’d be free. But then Christmas came and went. No one arrived to liberate the camp. The day after Christmas my friend was dead. Hope had kept her going. When her hope died, she did, too.
I was reminded of this more than seventy years later, in a hospital in La Jolla, a few months after the release of my first book, The Choice. For decades, it had been my dream to finally put my story of healing on the page, to encourage as many people as possible all over the world to embark on and continue the journey toward freedom. Lots of amazing and affirming things were happening—every day I received moving letters from readers, invitations to speak at conferences and special events and interviews with international media.
One exciting day, Deepak Chopra invited me to participate in a Facebook Live event he would be hosting at the Chopra Center in Carlsbad. I was thrilled. And because physical maintenance takes time at my age, I immediately went to work. I scheduled hair and makeup appointments so I’d look and feel my best; I pressed my favorite designer suit; and I tried to ignore the painful flares I kept feeling in my stomach, burning cramps that cried out for attention, like the jabs of hunger I’d experienced in Auschwitz. “Leave me alone,” I told my tummy as I fixed my makeup. “I’m busy right now!”
I got up early the morning of the event and dressed carefully. As I adjusted my suit jacket in the mirror, I imagined my father watching me. “Look at me now!” I told him, smiling.
But when a friend came to pick me up to drive me to the Chopra Center, she found me hunched over, trying to ride another wave of terrible cramps. “I’m not taking you to the event,” she said. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”
I wouldn’t hear of it. “It took me two days to
