Dear friends, it is with pleasure that I present "The Labyrinth" translated into English. The idea and the whole work of translation (which was amazing, by the way) was our dear friend and author Bea Valkyrie. Please read, comment, share what they found. I am very happy that this story can reach more readers from this translation. A big hug to everyone. Claire de Jour

Out of the window of the train, I could see the station, Vienna Westbahnhof. It was the first time I had been to Austria, and incidentally, the first time I had returned to Europe, for over ten years. I felt a shiver run down my spine, like a bad omen. Before that, we had been through London and Prague, but those places had felt perfectly pleasant. In Vienna, I felt strange.

It is an odd feeling, which disturbs my thoughts. My husband, Samuel, seems to notice, because he grabs my right hand and holds it tightly. I understand he does so with the best possible intentions and give a shy smile; the same smile, weak and stressed, which has accompanied me since those terrible times in Poland.

Think I'm so close to my hometown either makes me happy. Actually, I don't know what is and is not genuine happiness since those horrible days in 1940 when I, my father, my mother, and my sister Anna were uprooted from our home, and forced to take no more than a suitcase each for the uphill struggle in the cold towards the Krakow ghetto. For almost three years, we lived cramped and cornered like rats in a dark, damp, smelly hole. The bouts of bronchitis which follow me to this day must be a consequence of all that moisture, which ate into the body and froze the soul. Perhaps all that cold has helped me keep my emotions frozen, somewhere inaccessible in my heart, never revealed. But, well, I am alive, and that's what matters.

Samuel startles me from my reverie and holds out my handbag.

- We need to get off, baby, come on!

I force another half-smile, and take my bag from his hands. I hope his mother and father have left their seats and followed the group; one step at a time towards the exit of the train running towards Vienna.

At the station, I continue my daydream. In my life, I don't know if I can truly smile anymore, and I feel bad about it, because I was once a young girl with an easy, open laugh. Things change, and I too have changed a great deal since the war. I don't know whether for better or worse, but I certainly don't smile with the ease I did in my youth. The war and its deprivations have hardened me too, which is a shame because I miss this carefree joy which I am told was one of my most striking features. Samuel always says he wishes he had known me before the war, because he would have liked to see a real smile. It makes me smile, though a little ruefully, to recall the amount of times he has said it.

- Are you happy? Samuel asks me, still holding my hand.

- Yes. Why wouldn't I be? I lie. I think he is satisfied with my dishonest reply, because he smiles (a genuine smile, of course) as we lead the way to the taxi stand.

- Ah, Vienna has not changed since I was here in 1935… My father-in-law, Leopold, says.

- Of course it has changed, Leo, please. It is 1956. There was a war here! Samuel's mother, Beth, interrupts her husband, as always.

- Oh, please! Don't tell me that… Vienna was not attacked. Ask Sammy here, who fought the krauts in Normandy. Or ask Helen, who was imprisoned in that horrible camp in… Where was it, my dear?

- Dad, please! Sammy interrupts. - Helen doesn't like to remember the camp…

- Plaszow. I reply dryly, trying to put an end to the conversation. - I was in Plaszow, on the outskirts of Krakow, Poland.

I must have looked awful, because my in-laws and my husband fell silent. Perhaps the dry tone scared them somewhat, as I tend to speak in a kind, pleasant tone of voice.

But please, not today… I do not want to talk, here in Vienna, of Krakow, or Plaszow, or anything that reminds me of…

The past is a strange thing. You can cross an entire ocean as I did, and go to a country where the language is foreign to you, meet people who you could never have imagined meeting during what you went through, and still feel as if the years have not passed. Being stuck in the past is disturbing. And not even my therapist, who kindly made room in his tight schedule, could make me talk about a few things from my past which are always present in my life, every day, no matter how often I turn from them, how much I talk about my feelings in a language not my own… I live a life that is not mine, but which I forged for myself as a means of escape, as an attempt to keep what sanity I have left, if I really am still sane.

My husband, Sammy – Samuel, to those who don't know him well, fought on the front. An American from New York, he enlisted voluntarily after Pearl Harbour, a sudden patriot. He was a member of Easy Company, was in the Airborne Division. He landed in Normandy, killed people, did things that he despised, and still walks around the house like a ghost, shackled with strong chains that frighten and haunt him, night after night. But even with this trauma, Sammy copes well with his guilt; at least he seems to handle it better than I do. Perhaps it is because he excels with any musical instrument which falls to his hand. He is a conductor, and a musician, and truly believes that not only is music a powerful healing tool, but also a powerful souvenir. Today, Samuel Horowitz is the youngest conductor of the New York Symphonic Orchestra, and I am so proud of him. He remade his life because he himself needed to be remade, because he needed to forget. Music saved him! Music brought us together.

- Helen. Helen!

- I think she isn't listening, Sammy. His mother says, shaking her head distractedly. - I must go to the bathroom – would you be so kind as to check in for me, I just can't wait any longer… She exits the car and goes on ahead, disappearing from view.

- Honey… Oh dear, you're so distracted. We're at the hotel – you can get out of the car. Samuel says.

In fact, I heard everything, but I just did not want to. - Sorry, my left ear, I…

- All right, my love. I know you lost considerable hearing in your left ear. Let's get out.

The excuse of my partially deaf ear is always convincing. With it, I can afford to pretend not to have heard certain things; partial deafness allows me to be more selective with what I want to listen to, or whether or not I respond.

I smile another half-smile and walk from the taxi towards the hotel, heading for my European holiday, nearly eleven years later. Of all the places in the world, Vienna was certainly not part of my plans. But, for better or for worse, I am here.