What a Pretty Picture Mama

A little boy stands before a picture, yellowing at the edges. With a tiny finger, he points at the two people that he does not know and quietly remarks to his mother,

“What a pretty picture Mama.”

The mother turns and bends down to his level,

“You're most certainly right son that is a pretty picture.”

Grabbing his hand, they leave the museum. One day the mother will tell her son just how much pain is behind that picture. One day he will know just how lucky he is to be here today. It’s amazing how much a single picture can say. The mother knows just how much their small family had to endure.

One day she will tell him how those two people, that man, and that woman, survived something that millions did not. One day she will tell him about the pile of empty shoes that lingers in the background of that picture. She will tell him about the people who use to wear those shoes. She will tell him about the train ride they had to take and how they were forced from their homes. She will tell him about the ones that did not survive.

One day he will understand to be proud of who he is. He will know how mothers were separated from their children and he will know just what kind of evil can exist in this world. He will know how millions of people were found guilty of just being less than a society generated ideology of abnormal or substandard. She will be sure he understands that he is no better than the next person. He will know how hard it was to survive.

One day the little boy will understand the Star of David as more than just a symbol of religion. The little boy will know how it was used as a way to identify people. The mother will tell him about the Night of Crystal and how those in positions of power stood idly by while the very livelihood of a single group of people was destroyed. The mother will tell him of the man who stood atop it all. She will tell him of the pure hatred that one man held in his heart.

One day she will tell him of the torture used to break down the human spirit. The little boy will know how people's lungs filled with gas until they took their last breath. He will know how the killing of a people was turned into a sport. She will tell him the innocent were gunned down for nothing more than a good laugh. One day he will know how things were burned down to the ground until nothing but ashes remained.

One day the mother will tell him of the experiments. He will know how many children did not survive. He will know the Angel of Death. She will tell him of the camps and the people who died there. He will know of the rescue and of the heroic men who liberated that man and that woman in the picture. He will know of the cowards that fled to evade capture. He will know of the trials and what little justice they brought.

For now, the mother will wipe the tears from her eyes so he does not see. So, he does not see how much it still hurts. For now, the mother will let her little boy remain as optimistic as any other child. For now, all he will know is that man and woman as being in a pretty picture.

The little boy watched as a single tear escaped.

“Mama, what’s wrong?”

Painfully the mother smiled.

“Nothing my love, when it’s time I will tell you.”