It's Holocaust Memorial Eve.
Each year, instead of washing away, fading - it gets more vivid, as if Time is not moving forward but going in reverse.
Again the radio is full of testimonies and debates and historians, philosophers, psychologists, everybody brings to this sea of agony his or her spoonful of amazement: How could it have happened.
Still, the feeling is of complete silence.
A friend in the south tells me how she had to take a Hebrew name when she arrived here, a child alone: "I'm sorry I did it," she says, "my name was the only thing that I have left from my parents."
At the age of four her parents, who later perished, brought her to a local woman, whose dubious engagements with German men were carried on in the room next to her hidding place.
To this day she keeps silent, refuses to go into the dark recesses of that time.
The name she was given at birth was, Hope.
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