Excerpt from "The Story of a Son Who Didn't Want to Become a Father"

Sunday meals

On Sunday at noon, the house was prepared as if for a ceremony. The light tablecloth, the dishes brought out of the cupboard, the roast meat filling the hallway with its aroma: everything suggested a more elaborate meal than usual. Yet, for Gerhard, it wasn't a celebration. It was an ordeal.

His father took the place of honor at the head of the table. His mother busied herself around him, attentive to the slightest sign. His older brother, meanwhile, waited for his moment.

One Sunday, he declared in a confident voice:

— “Our teacher says Hitler destroyed Germany.”

Silence fell for a moment.

The father put down his knife and raised his head.

— “Nonsense. That’s what the victors say.”

The brother did not lower his eyes.

— “But he showed us some texts…”

The father gave a brief, ironic smile.

— “We always choose texts that serve a purpose.”

Gerhard watched, saying nothing. He saw his brother advance, then run into a wall. His father didn't get angry. He spoke calmly, but his voice drowned out everything else.

Another Sunday, the brother came back with another argument:

— “We saw a film… the camps… it couldn’t have been made up.”

The father burst into a dry laugh.

— “Images! Do you believe everything they show you?”

The argument lasted longer that day. Then silence fell again.

Gerhard then understood something simple: arguing with his father was always losing.

Once, however, he dared.

— “But, Father… why are you so sure it’s not true?”

The father turned slowly towards him.

— “Because I know. Because I was there.”

Gerhard lowered his head.

And he never dared to ask another question.