Being Jewish after Auschwitz: writing modernity's shame

Part I: Auschwitz and the Time of History My family dates time from the moment my father and uncle re-united in Melbourne. The last time they saw each other was in Auschwitz. It got into The Sun. People talked about it on trams. Conductors, drivers, passengers, ticket inspectors. All the trams were talking. All over Melbourne. Moreland Road. Sydney Road. St. Kilda Road. Everyone knew about us. I wave to surprised strangers at tram stops till my mother tells me to stop. My family burst out of a clamshell like Botticelli's Venus in one of the art books Leon kept in a suitcase under his bed. (Rosa Safransky, ‘History in the Kitchen’, p. 146)