Last night, I sat in bed with my journal, and found that no words came. Instead, my heart kept going back to my mother's brother, Henryk, or Heniek as she calls him, and to his death on the shores of the Caspian Sea.

This picture emerged.

In Memoriam Henryk Pepel d 5.9.1942 at Pahlavi 
It is said that as long as we keep telling someone's story, they remain alive to this world. I'm thinking today of Heniek, and once more sharing his story.

A boy, just on the cusp of adolescence. Two sisters he could no longer look after. Reaching Pahlevi after a nightmare journey on a crowded boat, already sick. Reaching a place with hot, hot sands. In a tent on the shoreline. Slowly fading from this world. 

I feel his circling presence.


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