'You have not worked the silences..."

                       I've never understood why this 'gift of remembrance' came to me.
Recently I read that silence and solitude cannot heal all things, all memories.  There are queries of the soul and heart too deep to bury; 'the very stones will cry out.'  His Sword has two sides: Justice||Mercy.  Both are gifts of grace and love.
Yesterday I ran across an admonition: "You have not worked the silences..."  Some of us are tapped on the soul to 'hold and carry' the wounded.  A few years ago I watched a retired psychiatric nurse who was grieving especially for her brother paint a picture.  The picture was full of the shadows of people...Those whose 'sight' includes those surrounding us with unmet needs can find themselves in battles few understand especially in a world that despises the spiritual, the soul, and holds contemplation in contempt.
This past year has been extraordinarily difficult and at times very painful so even though almost everything I post has some correlation to my promise 'to remember' I have not posted my annual story of Margaret of Hungary. This promise has profoundly rewoven the fabric of my being.  In so many ways she also remembers me.

Across the interstices of Eternity two women's lives have intertwined to such an extent that I would never believe it if I were not one them.  When I met Margaret she was an old woman dying.  I was a young student studying chemistry and Latin. I already had a history degree with a major in modern European history with a specialty in Holocaust studies.  However, as I was soon to learn, I knew absolutely 'nothing' about it.
Where we met was just as astonishing to me.  I was finishing up my studies at a university in West Texas.  She had come from Budapest, Hungary.  I was Roman Catholic.  She was Jewish. That which has always stood out in my memory of her: her beautiful eyes, her dark, raven hair, her rolling accent and the 'tattoo'.

When one studies science and has lecture in the morning with long Chemistry labs in the afternoon, time for work and study are at a premium.  Through the medical school I was hired to care for patients returning home from the hospital who still needed care.  It was called 'crisis care' and at that time there were no such programs.  Her son was a doctor and professor of physiology.  Margaret had suffered a massive stroke and needed constant care. I was assigned the graveyard shift.  While caring for most of my previous patients who eventually went to sleep, I could study which kept me awake.  This was not so with Margaret.  She was in distress and unable to communicate her needs.

That first night it was frustrating for both of us.  I finally realized she wanted to use the bedside commode.
She was dead weight but I was able to lift her onto the seat.  She still was crying.  I spoke softly to her trying to listen for her words when it struck me that one of the reasons I was having difficulty understanding her speech was that she had a very thick accent.  For chemistry I had studied German, French and Russian to read the journals so I said to her: "You're eastern European!"  All of a sudden this dying, lifeless woman raised herself up, threw back her head and with eyes flashing retorted, "I am Hungarian!"  We both smiled.

We were only assigned each patient for three weeks until the funding ran out.  Each evening I looked forward to being with her.  She pulled out her family album and showed me her pictures.  This small woman had been a concert violinist in Budapest.  She had married a university professor of physiology who was also a physician.  They had three beautiful children.  In 1944 they were rounded up and sent to Auschwitz.  After a time she was moved to Ravensbruck.  By some miracle they all survived.  Her children went to the United States.  She and her husband remained in Hungary.  In the Hungarian Uprising soviet tanks killed many, including her husband.  She had to flee Hungary.  Terrified she remained for months in Tunisia until her son finally was able to bring her to live with him in West Texas.

The night she revealed these dark things to me is tattooed on my soul.

She knew she would not live very long.  It was important this story.  I know it.  She had not been in West Texas long when her family was encouraged to get her out of the house and meet others.  None of them were that active socially.  The shades were kept down and there was a reticence to interact.  She finally allowed her son to take her to the senior center.  It was a warm, sunny spring day.  She sat alone at one of the round tables waiting for the noon luncheon when an older man entered the room.  He came and sat across from her.  She felt uncomfortable. With a smile he stared at her and said, pointing to her 'tattoo', "and you just thought you could get away from us."  For what seemed like eternity she froze, stunned.  Then she rose and went to the office where she came unglued.  They called her son to come get her.  The man had left.  She never left the house alone again.

I taught chemistry classes for years across from this center and would sometimes go to the window and stare at those who went in and out the front door.

The last day of my time with Margaret her doctor son came into the room.  He thanked me and said she seemed more alert and happy.  I told him that she had shared her life with me.  Tears filled his eyes.  "She has never spoken of it to any of us."  He was with her as I was leaving but I returned to her bedside and with tears in my eyes I hugged her and whispered, "I promise I will remember."  Unworthily I have kept my promise.  Each year for decades chemistry and physics students heard her story.  Now, as I am retired, I share it with those who will read it.
Thank you, Margaret. May you rest in peace.
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What brought it to mind today was this clip on Youtube:

1939 Last Days of Peace...