And after a year of surreptitious meetings with a same-aged nine-year-old Jewish boy who somehow manages every day to find time to meet him at an unobserved fence (!Their task transcends the mere recording of history. Holocaust literature, like the biblical admonition to remember the crimes of Amalek, deservedly rises to the level of the holy.
Without giving away the plot, it is enough to tell you that Bruno, the nine-year-old son of the Nazi Commandant at Auschwitz (never identified by that name, but rather as "Out-With" -- a lame pun I think out of place in context) lives within yards of the concentration camp his father oversees and actually believes that its inhabitants who wear striped pajamas -- oh, how lucky, he thinks, to be able to be so comfortably dressed --spend their time on vacation drinking in cafes on the premises while their children are happily playing games all day long even as he envies them their carefree lives and friendships!And, oh yes, this son of a Nazi in the mid 1940's does not know what a Jew is, and whether he is one too!No, there will never be too many books about this dreadful period we would rather forget.No, we have no right to ignore the past because it is unpleasant or refuse to let reality intrude on our preference for fun and for laughter.
It is the written word that will have to substitute for the heart-rending tales of woe shared by those who endured hell on earth.That is, after all, all that will remain of six million victims. They must speak for those who cannot, but whose suffering demands to be remembered and whose deaths cry out for posthumous meaning.