Hidden in plain sight in the dining room of our apartment was an ancient trunk. That was before we moved out to the suburbs. It stood in the corner underneath a faded remnant of green cloth as sort of an impromptu table for our record player.
One day, when I was in Kindergarten, I pulled back the green cloth to reveal what I'd always thought was a table was really an old trunk made of grey canvas with wooden spines and metal brackets reinforcing its corners. That night, I dreamt that the trunk was a pirate's treasure chest, holding riches so dazzling it would blind the eye. In my dream, I opened it up to reveal gold doubloons, pieces of eight, strands of pearls, and diamonds, rubies, and sapphires; riches beyond anything anyone could ever imagine.
As I grew older, I became aware that the trunk had once belonged to members of my father's family who had perished in the Holocaust. Not knowing what else to do with it, my father had inadvertently become the trunk's permanent caretaker. Perhaps he was holding on to it with the hopes that his relatives might someday come back for it, even when reason dictated it was something he should have discarded long ago. Like the remnant of green cloth my mother had thrown over the trunk, the trunk itself was the last remnant of my father's relatives who had perished. To throw it away would have meant discarding any remaining connection my father held to these loved ones.
I'd never known what the trunk held inside, but I have a photograph of me with it when I was eight years old. I am with my sister and one of her friends; the three of us are dressed up a fairy princesses. We are all wearing striped stockings on our heads and dancing around the trunk. Youthful and carefree. Unaware of the Holocaust and the trunk's secrets.
