![]() ![]() "Say 'Just a minute' and everybody will stop," Thelma Bergman said. Krasnik, once home to his entire family and 10,000 Jews, was on the seventh panel from the left and nine rows from the bottom, in a window suspended over the museum's atrium. "Could you take a picture if I stand right here, next to the glass?" Abe Bergman asked his wife. If you say, 'Stop, I'm taking a picture,' they'll stop. "Here it is! Here it is! Right here! Abe, take a picture." By now a crowd was trying to get through the narrow passage. "And what was the name of the town you lived in?" she asked, knowing very well it was Krasnik, Poland. And Thelma Bergman, a Nova Scotian married to the Holocaust for 38 years, gently and sometimes firmly drawing out her 68-year-old husband's thoughts but always anchoring him to the present. ![]() Abe Bergman, the Holocaust survivor from Dachau, escorting his wife through the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, looking as the terrors of his past unfolded before his eyes and made them mist. It would be that way for most of yesterday morning. "And what's this? Abe, let's go here," Thelma Bergman said, drawn by the names of once-thriving Jewish towns, etched in glass. ![]() My husband did, but I would never survive," Thelma Bergman said emphatically, and to no one in particular. It was a step through the ages for her, and a brief respite from memory for him. The tailor from Brooklyn, Abraham Bergman, and his wife came out of the Terror in Poland into the sunlit corridor. ![]()
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