My Uncle
Such a simple phrase that just does not do justice to the amazing man the world lost yesterday. When I was little my Dad talked about his family in Slovakia to me. They didn't have names, he just said "my sisters", "my brother" and "my parents" and so I didn't gain a connection to them, they weren't mine, they were his. He never spoke of my uncle, aunts or grandparents. I find that sad now. At the same time I understand why he claimed them as his. He missed them and missed them terribly. Dad left home as a child really to be a Partisan fighter during World War 2. The family were in a situation that movies are made of and books are written about. Life was so challenging. One of my aunts died just after that war, and for most of it both Dad and my Uncle were presumed dead. I feel my Grandmother's pain to this day. It's called inherited grief. So, my Uncle was a prisoner in the Mauthausen Concentration Camp. He survived that - somehow