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I try to understand, how was it possible to survive amid this endless experience of dying?
Each time the truth is unbearable.
They died in the basements of the Gestapo, and their courage was known only to the walls. And now, forty years later, I mentally kneel to them.
In war everything happens more quickly: both life and death. In those few years we lived a whole life.
Suffering is a special kind of knowledge.
Love is the only personal event in wartime. All the rest is common - even death.
For me one human being is so much. There is everything in him - you can get lost.
The past disappeared, it blinded her with its scorching whirl and vanished, but the human being remained. Remained in the midst of ordinary life. Everything around is ordinary except her memory.
It's terrible to remember, but it's far more terrible not to remember.
You ask me: what is happiness? I answer...To suddenly find a living man among the dead.