At first, I felt it odd the level to which author Mouilott took ownership to trauma as horrific as the holocaust, which had happened to her own relatives just one generation before her.
But the further on I read, the more it made sense, and the more I couldn’t blame her. In fact, I ended up growing to love her for the boldness with which she pursued a story from generations past, trying to bring it to life for her own clarity of where she came from.
During one of her visits to the home in the south of France that her grandparents had purchased together during their short lived marriage, she writes of it,
“But I knew, deep down, that I didn’t really live here, and that made me sad. At times I felt as if I’d never been so at home, and at times I felt like a beggar at a window, dazzled by a thing that wasn’t mine. Already, I was plotting my return. I couldn’t help but believing that if I came there for good, I would be freed from the weight of my history, that I could escape the past by living somewhere that embodied it.” P. 76
This passage is striking to me because it so perfectly describes quite a few places in my life actually. Places that feel like mine but maybe aren’t. Though, I’m not sure who makes the definitive decision on that sort of thing anyway. But I understand the need to go after those places, and unveil their mysteries. To find out what piece of the puzzle they play in our past and in telling why we are, who are, today.
Mouilott’s storytelling ability is beautiful and appreciated. She brought to life a time and season that has so many dimensions, the story often still feels untold completely.
I feel I should also add, I love this growing genre of memoir; of telling the stories of generations past. It seems as we live in a world where the majority one generation is more likely to live in another city, state, or even country, then the generation before them, the desire to uncover their shared history grows.
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