For those who never knew the scent of freedom;
For those who would not even dream of keeping a diary;
For those who couldn’t tread beyond Odessa, although they were learning Italian in secret;
For those who never believed that someday their torturer would be brought to justice;
For those who never even thought it possible to hear the word out loud;
For those who never owned their home or land, because it had been collectivized, before they were even born;
For those who had to wake up their children in the middle of the night, to go wait in the queue so they could get an extra ration of milk;
For those who could never tell their children a syllable of truth;
For those who could never tell.
For those who could never own.
For those who could never be – true – not even in the company of their family alone; not even in the company of themselves.