i hate pancakes.
it seems i’ve always hated them….and i can’t eat enough of them…
my grandmothers bent figure, nightgown hanging from her gaunt body preparing silver dollar pancakes at the stove, cigarette close at hand…near the glass of whiskey…. neither of us able to look at each other and her terrible, silent imploring for my forgiveness…at what i’m not sure… her inability to help me? her unwillingness to help me?
i’ll never know now but she died without it…knowing that it was impossible for me to forgive her even if she was the only one that tried to make it bearable for me… i suppose she was the best of the death camp guards that really hated that they were assigned to this job, it’s not what they signed up for and, yes, he feels terrible about it all and so gives you extra rations or a thicker blanket in the snowy season…. but that’s just not. it’s an attempt to assuage their own guilty conscience for their participation and forgiveness cannot be.