Summary

Trude was my grand-mother. An admirable woman, a survivor from the camps, a terrible woman. The imperious will to survive. I wouldn’t film her, ever. I didn’t want to look back, I didn’t want to hear of death, I didn’t want survival. I wanted life. I wanted to be free. Until Trude’s unbending way of speaking started to bend. I then understood the time had come to come to her and look at her, freely. To film life and death, my own way, at the present.