I was alone with fears that were tearing me apart.
In May 1945, when I arrived with four deportee friends at Namur station, bread was waiting for us. It smelled good. We smiled at it like Cheshire cats. We were overwhelmed with joy, a feeling that we no longer knew.
Soon we needed to be counted and registered. The torrent of questions left me exhausted. My four friends filled out the forms for me.
A rabbi from the American army took charge of us. Given our physical condition, he took us to hospital.
After we were discharged, he set us up in a house so that we could rebuild our strength. That was the last time we saw his face. For three months we got money in the mail for food; but he never paid us the visit that we were expecting to ask how things were going. It was with sadness and disappointment that we came to the conclusion that we were a useless burden, and that no one was interested in us. The life that awaited us would be a desert.
I no longer knew why we should live or die. Everything was without explanation and could not be explained.
Looks and gestures allowed me to be born again.
So that I would not be alone before she left for America, the woman with the smile placed me in an orphanage, where I stayed for four years. It was there that I realized I was truly alone.
There was no shortage of bread and water in the home, but the weight of sadness and the absence of warmth hung over the place. If I had not been lucky enough to take lessons in French and Dutch in order to study for my college entrance exam, I would have sunk into a bottomless pit.
The woman with the smile sponsored me. The head of the orphanage trusted me and gave me great freedom outside of the classroom. I discovered Brussels, museums, books, and lunchtime concerts. I felt encouraged and brought to life inside, and that made things easier for me.
The camps stayed in my unconscious laboratory.
A new life was opening itself up to me; I took it, with both its darkness and its light.
One summer by the shore, the head of the orphanage felt that I had a gift for working with children. When I told her that I wanted to study how to take care of abandoned children, she encouraged me to the hilt. I studied for four years. I was happy to be working. I got my diploma as an educator and a psychologist because I was determined to support these children. My work has constantly helped me to understand myself and to accept people where they are.
I was constantly helping myself to get there. I cut out little pieces of colored card on which I wrote in capital letters new words of encouragement every day: “Magda, you will succeed.” “Smile at life.” “Trust in yourself.” “Magda, you are helping yourself!” and “Don’t listen to people who discourage you.” I kept them in my pocket and let my fingertips run over them whenever I lost confidence.
That was how I realized that depression is not an illness. It is moments when I undervalue the life that is in me. The color of the day depends on how I feel.
We are never healed. We are always journeying toward healing.