hermann goldberg. >> after the war, because i didn't see my mother, i had this fantasy that perhaps she did survive by some miracle, and that she was in one of those displaced people's camps. now, the fact that i never went to look for her testifies to the fact that i knew she wasn't alive. but i somehow needed to keep her alive in my mind, in my fantasy, so that i didn't actually have to deal with this terrible trauma that she had been gassed. i wrote a poem about it once when i was at a very low poi in my life. it was very short, it said, "mummy, who held your hand when you were dying? who closed your eyes when you were dead?" >> i did meet my father in auschwitz, surprisingly enough. but... i feel so sad, that i remember walking with him, holding my hand and my brother's hand, and was talking to my brother. he hardly said anything to me. and i felt as though i wish i could ask him or talk to him. but then i thought to myself, what must he have felt, holding my hand, 12 years old there, not being able to protect him? >> and those were the last moments you shared together? >> yeah. s.