Of course, it had an overwhelming effect.  After the war — I was 15 when I entered the camp, I was 16 when I left it, and all of a sudden you become an orphan and you have no one.  I had a little sister and I knew, with my mother the first night, that they were swept away by fire.  My older sisters I discovered by accident after the war in Paris, where I was in an orphanage.  But to be an orphan — you can become an orphan at 50, you are still an orphan. Very often I think of my father and my mother.  At any important moment in my life, they are there, thinking, “What an injustice.”  To date, I haven’t written much about that period.  Of my 40 books, maybe four or five deal with that period because I know that there are no words for it, so all I can try to do is to communicate the incommunicability of the event.  Furthermore, I know that even if I found the words, you wouldn’t understand.  It is not because I cannot explain that you won’t understand, it is because you won’t understand that I can’t explain.