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Whitaker lived in Boston, and they met for coffee. Whitaker told me that Laura reminded him of many young people who had contacted him after reading the book. At her appointments with her pharmacologist, Laura began to raise the idea of coming off her drugs. The doctors at the borderline clinic initially resisted her requests, but they also seemed to recognize that her struggles transcended brain chemistry. A few weeks later, she went off Abilify, the antipsychotic.

She began sweating so much that she could wear only black. If she turned her head quickly, she felt woozy. Her body ached, and occasionally she was overwhelmed by waves of nausea. Cystic acne broke out on her face and her neck. Her skin pulsed with a strange kind of energy. A month later, she went off Effexor, the antidepressant. Her fear of people judging her circled her head in permutations that became increasingly invasive. She began to experience emotion that was out of context—it felt simultaneously all-consuming and artificial.

Later, she found a community of people online who were struggling to withdraw from psychiatric medications. The Web forum Surviving Antidepressants, which is visited by thousands of people every week, lists the many varieties of neuro-emotion: neuro-fear, neuro-anger, neuro-guilt, neuro-shame, neuro-regret. For many people on the forum, it was impossible to put the experience into words. It took Laura five months to withdraw from five drugs, a process that coincided with a burgeoning doubt about a diagnosis that had become a kind of career.

When her aunt Sara updated the rest of the family about Laura, the news was the same: they joked that she had become part of the couch. Her family, Laura said, learned to vacuum around her. Others in her situation might have lost their job and, without income, ended up homeless. It took six months before she felt capable of working part time. Laura had always assumed that depression was caused by a precisely defined chemical imbalance, which her medications were designed to recalibrate.

She began reading about the history of psychiatry and realized that this theory, promoted heavily by pharmaceutical companies, is not clearly supported by evidence. Genetics plays a role in mental disorder, as do environmental influences, but the drugs do not have the specificity to target the causes of an illness. Wayne Goodman, a former chair of the F. Few studies follow patients who take the medications for more than a year.

A decade after the invention of antidepressants, randomized clinical studies emerged as the most trusted form of medical knowledge, supplanting the authority of individual case studies. For adolescents who go on medications when they are still trying to define themselves, they may never know if they have a baseline, or what it is. Antidepressants are now taken by roughly one in eight adults and adolescents in the U.

Industry money often determines the questions posed by pharmacological studies, and research about stopping drugs has never been a priority.

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Barbiturates, a class of sedatives that helped hundreds of thousands of people to feel calmer, were among the first popular psychiatric drugs. Although leading medical journals asserted that barbiturate addiction was rare, within a few years it was evident that people withdrawing from barbiturates could become more anxious than they were before they began taking the drugs. They could also hallucinate, have convulsions, and even die.

Valium and other benzodiazepines were introduced in the early sixties, as a safer option. By the seventies, one in ten Americans was taking Valium. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors, or S. There had been other drugs used as antidepressants, but they had often been prescribed cautiously, because of concerns about their side effects. Concerns about withdrawal symptoms emerged shortly after S. A third of the patients said they felt suicidal, and four were admitted to a hospital. One had an abortion, because she no longer felt capable of going through with the pregnancy.


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Internal records of pharmaceutical manufacturers show that the companies have been aware of the withdrawal problem. At a panel discussion in , Eli Lilly invited seven experts to develop a definition of antidepressant withdrawal. Guy Chouinard, a retired professor of psychiatry at McGill and at the University of Montreal, who served as a consultant for Eli Lilly for ten years and did one of the first clinical trials of Prozac, told me that when S. Chouinard is considered one of the founders of psychopharmacology in Canada. When he reinstated their medication, their symptoms began to resolve, usually within two days.

Most people who discontinue antidepressants do not suffer from withdrawal symptoms that last longer than a few days. Some experience none at all. Giovanni Fava, a professor of psychiatry at the University of Buffalo, has devoted much of his career to studying withdrawal and has followed patients suffering from withdrawal symptoms a year after stopping antidepressants. A paper published last month in a journal he edits, Psychotherapy and Psychosomatics , reviewed eighty studies and found that in nearly two-thirds of them patients were taken off their medications in less than two weeks.

To some degree, that makes sense: no one wants to deter people from taking drugs that may save their life or lift them out of disability. In a paper published last month in Lancet Psychiatry , he and a co-author reviewed brain imaging and case studies on withdrawal and argued that patients should taper off antidepressants over the course of months , rather than two to four weeks, as current guidelines advise. Such guidelines are based on a faulty assumption that, if a dose is reduced by half, it will simply reduce the effect in the brain by half.

Three months after Laura stopped all her medications, she was walking down the street in Boston and felt a flicker of sexual desire. The sensation began to occur at random times of day, often in public and in the absence of an object of attraction. When she was thirty-one, she began a long-distance relationship with Rob Wipond, a Canadian journalist. Everything was new to her. It felt synthetic. I did it! She felt fortunate that her sexuality had returned in a way that eluded other people who were withdrawing from drugs.

Although it is believed that people return to their sexual baseline, enduring sexual detachment is a recurring theme in online withdrawal forums. Audrey Bahrick, a psychologist at the University of Iowa Counseling Service, who has published papers on the way that S. There was this assumption that the symptoms would resolve once you stop the medication. I just kept thinking, Where is the data? Where is the data? Laura felt as if she were learning the contours of her adult self for the first time.

When she felt dread or despair, she tried to accept the sensation without interpreting it as a sign that she was defective and would remain that way forever, until she committed suicide or took a new pill. Laura tried to find language to describe her emotions and moods, rather than automatically calling them symptoms.

She wrote several letters to Dr. Roth, her favorite psychiatrist, requesting her medical records, because she wanted to understand how the doctor had made sense of her numbness and years of deterioration. After a year, Dr. Roth agreed to a meeting. Laura prepared for hours. How do you make sense of that? Roth opened the front door. She had always loved Dr. By the time Dr. Roth walked into the waiting room, Laura was crying.

They hugged and then took their usual positions in Dr. But Laura said that Dr. Kid in day camp; working from home; weather more than tolerable for Little Rock summer: June was a pretty big reading month. Some work stuff, but a few other things too, including a satisfying run of Esther Freud novels. All the code-breaking stuff went right over my head.

I guess I am more for suspense than puzzles. Better as a romance than a crime novel. They were booked on the infamous St. Louis the ship that was not allowed to dock in Havana, that FDR refused to give sanctuary to, and that had to return to Europe , but his father had something like a premonition and found a way to get on an earlier ship. Gaglow is a house in Germany. Freud sat for him in her younger days.

Gaglow is the Bellgards beloved summer home. Or it was: as they are Jewish it was eventually taken from them; in the post-unification present, the house may return to the family. Very satisfying. David E. At great personal risk, members of the Brigade smuggled documents into hiding in the hopes they would survive the war; surprisingly, some did.


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  • One of the remarkable people conscripted into this heartbreaking work was Avrom Sutzkever, probably the greatest Yiddish poet of the 20 th Century. Thomas Bunstead What a pleasant surprise! A triumph of ekphrasis, then. Only she hardly ever applies herself. It was like the soothing sound of rain on windows, my favorite lullaby, reassuring confirmation that the world was still going on even as I turned away from it.

    You can read more here. Reminds me in some ways of Night. Both are constructed in short fragments, emphasize the Death March, and focus on importance of family.

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    Leitner and Wiesel both lived in the Hungarian countryside, and were deported about the same time early Their tone is similar, too, and frankly it drives me nuts: portentous sacralizing. Like Wiesel in Night, Leitner offers no context: works like these are responsible for the common understanding of the Holocaust as a terrible thing characterized by cattle cars, barbed wire, gas chambers, and the triumph of the human spirit.

    What was that like? The afterword is the most interesting part of the book. Lots of things going on there: panic, rage, revenge, none of which we see in the memoir itself. My thoughts here. Lehmann appears mostly through the letters he wrote his wife during their various periods of separation in the s. He is paired in the novel by a similarly absent Nick, an architect in the present, and the sometime boyfriend of Lilly Brennan. Lily has come to a village on the Suffolk coast to work on her dissertation on Lehmann in the town where he summered.

    Got all that? In this way, the novel is also an investigation on the difference between history and fiction. Do homes center us or do they imprison us? Do we in the end prefer to mourn their passing? Totally engrossing. The father, an historian, is apparently modelled on Lucien Freud. Lara gets taken up by a louche expat set, falls in love, grows up a little, and is terribly hurt.

    The title is the name of a dangerous waterfall and a description of what happens to all of us. Worth reading. Anna begins to separate herself from her family, plunging with joy into night classes in painting and a love affair. Anna is married to a coming screenwriter and starting herself to become a writer. But her efforts in this regard are interrupted by a phone call from Germany. But she is still traumatized by her wartime experiences as a refugee, and Anna, like Art Spiegelman, has to cope with the fallout. I probably should write an essay about this.

    Reprint these books dammit! Cressida Connolly, After the Party Did you know many followers of Oswald Mosley the leader of the British Union of Fascists were held without charge in and eventually interned on the Isle of Man for much of the war? It helps, as it were, that her protagonist is a seemingly apolitical family woman who gets pulled into the Union through her sisters. I enjoyed After the Party about as much as I found it distasteful. But unlike his books, this one is mostly in third person. So that was June. Esther Freud is great.

    Judith Kerr is great. My only vacation reading plans are to avoid everything Holocaust for a few weeks…. Take this then as a menu of options, from which I choose based on our conversations:. It tells us interesting things about what Levi thinks he is up to in his book. As the final line suggests, Levi is at least in part motivated by the impulse to document. The things he will relate really happened.

    Levi was often asked whether the Holocaust could happen again. His response: it happened once, thus it can happen again. These texts struggle with its very textuality. Every text has some kind of shape or form. But what happens when the subject matter of that form is destruction, terror, violence, in a word, formlessness? How does he present himself? What do we learn about him from his memoir? What does Jewishness mean to him? How can you tell? This is a useful place for a mini-lecture on Jewishness as both religion and culture: my students, almost none of whom are Jewish, often have many questions.

    How does he end up at Auschwitz? That is, what brings on his deportation? For what? For fighting as a partisan. Mini-lecture on the partisans, and the situation in Italy before and during the war, especially What else do we know? How old is he? Why is that important? He tells us that he was neither too old nor too young—adducing as an example of the latter a teenage prisoner known simply as Null Achtzehn Zero Eighteen, the last digits of his tattooed number.

    No one likes to work with Null Achtzehn because he has no sense of proportion. He works flat out until he collapses, invariably bringing trouble on whomever happens to be his partner that day. What does this anecdote suggest? Dehumanization, of course—his name has been taken away along with his clothes, his hair, his belongings, his dignity , he has been entered into a vast bureaucracy.

    Which requires us to complicate the consoling idea that the Nazis are monsters, irrational, barbarians, etc. They are efficient, methodical, all-too-human. All true. But what else? What kind of person looks at their watch? Tricky question, getting more abstruse every year, as watches fade from memory. Students will offer hesitant replies. An anxious person? A punctual person? A detailed-oriented person? Levi was all of these things. Levi is bourgeois, a middle class professional.

    The Italian Jews—secular, assimilated—are known throughout the camp for being professionals doctors, lawyers, etc. What do other prisoners think of them? They laugh at them, think of them as useless, hopeless. He is a scientist, a chemist. It saves his life: he is transferred to a work detail, a chemical unit, which gets slightly better rations and, just as importantly, works inside, out of the worst of the cold.

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    I am always a little resistant to this idea, which always seems to me based on a crude idea of science, but they adduce his matter-of-factness, almost brusqueness, the absence of showy stylistic flourishes. I admit they have a point, especially when we think of how thoroughly Lei effaces himself in the text, and, more generally, how much he downplays agency, that is, willpower.

    Does Levi only know about science? Does he have other knowledge that appears in his writing? Levi is as much a humanist as a scientist. He is well-rounded, a real liberal arts guy. Levi is interested in everything pertaining to the human. This is usually in the second week of the semester. I always have my own example in reserve. Depending on how much time we have, we sometimes work through it. Sometimes students even select it: always a happy occasion.

    Levi is describing the arrival of his transport at Auschwitz:. The door opened with a crash, and the dark echoed with outlandish orders in that curt, barbaric barking of Germans in command which seems to give vent to a millennial anger. A vast platform appeared before us, lit by reflectors. A little beyond it, a row of lorries. Then everything was silent again.

    Someone translated: we had to climb down with our luggage and deposit it alongside the train. In a moment the platform was swarming with shadows. But we were afraid to break that silence: everyone busied himself with his luggage, searched for someone else, called to somebody, but timidly, in a whisper. A dozen SS men stood around, legs akimbo, with an indifferent air. At a certain moment, they moved among us, and in a subdued tone of voice, with faces of stone, began to interrogate us rapidly, one by one, in bad Italian. Healthy or ill? In less than ten minutes all the fit men had been collected together in a group.

    What happened to the others, to the women, to the children, to the old men, we could establish neither then nor later: the night swallowed them up, purely and simply. Today, however, we know that in that rapid and summary choice each one of us had been judged capable or not of working usefully for the Reich; we know that of our convoy no more than ninety-six men and twenty-nine women entered the respective camps of Monowitz-Buna and Birkenau, and that of all the others, more than five hundred in number, not one was living two days later.

    After the opening crash of the transport doors and the barked orders, there is only silence. This is matched by the casualness, even indifference of the SS, their legs akimbo. There is no sadism here. And the scene is the more terrible for its absence. Though Levi will certainly experience that later, not least in a famous scene when, tormented by thirst, he has tried to grab an icicle from a window only to have it snatched away. The guard responds, chillingly: Here there is no why. In this passage as elsewhere , he is chary with metaphor.

    The SS men have faces of stone, the night swallows up those sent to the gas chambers, but those are the only examples. The description in the first paragraph of the ramp swarming with shadows is probably literal, given the glare of the lights. I suggest the scene is more report than narrative.

    And Levi makes it clear that each of us must take up the task. Perhaps for this reason—his desire to record the truth about an experience the significance of which extends beyond himself—Levi often writes in the kind of judging, assessing, almost omniscient style we might find in Balzac, or, more pertinently, Manzoni. Maybe there is a buried reference to the thousand-year Reich here, too. Levi and his fellows are so many kilojoules, units of work to be extracted before their bodies are discarded as useless husks.

    Arrival records from Auschwitz. Kraus is one of the thousands of Hungarians who flood Auschwitz and its sub-camps in the summer of By now it is November and it is raining. The veterans, like Levi, who counts as one after having survived nine months, fear the onset of winter. Kraus, though, is still a newbie. For some reason, which he cannot or will not explain, Levi suddenly addresses the man in pidgin German. He tells Kraus he dreamt about him. In the dream, the war was over and Kraus visited Levi in Italy, bringing a warm loaf of bread with him. Levi puts him up for the night, introduces him to his family, they share good fellowship.

    What a good boy Kraus must have been as a civilian: he will not survive very long here, one can see it at the first glance, it is as logical as a theorem. If only he knew that it is not true, that I have really dreamt nothing about him, that he is nothing to me except for a brief moment, nothing like everything is nothing down here, except the hunger inside and the cold and the rain around. What, is he bad? Well, no, not bad. The situation is bad. The whole book is about that.

    Why this moment? Discussion ensues. Yeah, the way all the veterans are mean to the new arrivals, retorts another. Alberto was another Jewish deportee from northern Italy; Leonardo a civilian worker sent from Italy to support the war effort. As a non-Jew, he lived in a different kind of camp, had access to food parcels, and received a much greater ration.

    The two encountered each other by chance one day and realized they were both Piedmontese. For six months Leonardo left a pint of soup each day for Levi. By comparing these descriptions of friendship to the example of Kraus we can think further about whether solidarity is a meaningful concept in the world of the camp.

    Since everything in the book goes back to the concept of the human, we can think about how solidarity might preserve humanity. Why does the book end as it does? Why is the last chapter presented as a diary, unlike anything else in the book? Even though it is clear that the diary is fake—that is, written retrospectively. Interestingly, Levi wrote this chapter first. Why does it end so abruptly? The students and I note that liberation is presented neither as a triumph nor an invitation to resume life. The abrupt ending suggests that something has ended, but nothing has yet replaced it.

    Levi would write another book about the many months it took him to return home. The last chapter describes the stages by which the prisoners slowly inch towards becoming human again, the best evidence of which is their willingness to help each other. Survival in Auschwitz is organized thematically, not chronologically. But it is also a function of the way time changes in the camp. The days are all the same, only the weather is a little better or a little worse.

    The linearity we attach so much importance to in thinking about our lives is gone. There is no beginning, middle, and end. The final chapter, then, is important as a marker of change. Liberation returns Levi to time. But we return to Levi throughout the semester. He becomes our touchstone, not so much the arbiter of how to think about the camps, but the one most interested in documenting it as scrupulously as possible. As if Levi were merely transcribing, rather than also shaping experience.

    But Levi came more and more to embrace the term. One of the key testimonies of the 20 th century, it is the book I recommend when people ask me what they should read to learn about the Holocaust. Readers in the UK know it under that title. Plus we can have a useful conversation about the differences implied by the titles. What follows is likely more useful for those who have read the book.

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    Not fundamentally, but the more time you spend with a book the more clearly you see how its parts fit together. He uses the terms sinking and touching bottom when speaking of death in the camps. Even if physiologically alive they are mentally and spiritually dead.

    They are barely human. But this would be a terrible distortion of what Muslims mean by that term. No prisoner could live much more than three months on the rations they were given without succumbing, without drowning. Only those who could find a way to cheat the system, to gain some small privilege that will result in an extra half slice of bread, an extra ration of soup had a chance of surviving.

    The saved are not better than the drowned. In fact, in an essay written much later, Levi argued they were in fact worse, because they had to have compromised their morals in some way. He does not exempt himself from this charge. Students struggle with this. To that end, I ask them to close read this sentence:. All the musselmanns who finished in the gas chambers have the same story, or more exactly, have no story; they followed the slope down to the bottom, like streams that run down to the sea.

    Why do streams go to the sea? Gravity, someone will say. What, then, is the implication of these answers for our understanding of the drowned? Is it in their nature to drown? Is Levi describing something like fate? Is the universe just made for them to succumb? Is Levi judging the drowned? If I could enclose all the evil of our time in one image, I would choose this image which is familiar to me: an emaciated man with head dropped and shoulders curved, on whose face and in whose eyes not a trace of a thought is to be seen.

    As a Jew, I was sent to Fossoli, near Modena, where a vast detention camp, originally meant for English and American prisoners-of-war, collected all the numerous categories of people not approved of by the new-born Fascist Republic. At the moment of my arrival, that is, at the end of January , there were about one hundred and fifty Italian Jews in the camp, but within a few weeks their number rose to over six hundred.

    For the most part they consisted of entire families captured by the Fascists or Nazis through their imprudence or following secret accusations. There were also about a hundred Jugoslavian military internees and a few other foreigners who were politically suspect. The arrival of a squad of German SS men should have made even the optimists doubtful; but we still managed to interpret the novelty in various ways without drawing the most obvious conclusions. Thus, despite everything, the announcement of the deportation caught us all unawares.

    On 20 February, the Germans had inspected the camp with care and had publicly and loudly upbraided the Italian commissar for the defective organization of the kitchen service and for the scarce amount of wood distribution for heating; they even said that an infirmary would soon be opened. But on the morning of the 21st we learned that on the following day the Jews would be leaving. All the Jews, without exception. Even the children, even the old, even the ill. Our destination? Nobody knew.

    We should be prepared for a fortnight of travel. For every person missing at the roll-call, ten would be shot. Only a minority of ingenuous and deluded souls continued to hope; we others had often spoken with the Polish and Croat refugees and we knew what departure meant. For people condemned to death, tradition prescribes an austere ceremony, calculated to emphasize that all passions and anger have died down, and that the act of justice represents only a sad duty towards society which moves even the executioner to pity for the victim.

    Thus the condemned man is shielded from all external cares, he is granted solitude and, should he want it, spiritual comfort; in short, care is taken that he should feel around him neither hatred nor arbitrariness, only necessity and justice, and by means of punishment, pardon.

    But to us this was not granted, for we were many and time was short. And in any case, what had we to repent, for what crime did we need pardon? But that evening the children were given no homework. And night came, and it was such a night that one knew that human eyes would not witness it and survive.

    Everyone felt this: not one of the guards, neither Italian nor German, had the courage to come and see what men do when they know they have to die. All took leave from life in the manner which most suited them. Some praying, some deliberately drunk, others lustfully intoxicated for the last time. But the mothers stayed up to prepare the food for the journey with tender care, and washed their children and packed the luggage; and at dawn the barbed wire was full of children's washing hung out in the wind to dry.

    Nor did they forget the diapers, the toys, the cushions and the hundred other small things which mothers remember and which children always need. Would you not do the same? If you and your child were going to be killed tomorrow, would you not give him to eat today? In hut 6A old Gattegno lived with his wife and numerous children and grandchildren and his sons- and daughters-in-law. All the men were carpenters, they had come from Tripoli after many long journeys, and had always carried with them the tools of their trade, their kitchen utensils and their accordions and violins to play and dance to after the day's work.

    They were happy and pious folk. Their women were the first to silently and rapidly finish the preparations for the journey in order to have time for mourning. When all was ready, the food cooked, the bundles tied together, they unloosened their hair, took off their shoes, placed the Yahrzeit candles on the ground and lit them according to the customs of their fathers, and sat on the bare soil in a circle for the lamentations, praying and weeping all the night. We collected in a group in front of their door, and we experienced within ourselves a grief that was new for us, the ancient grief of the people that has no land, the grief without hope of the exodus which is renewed every century.

    Dawn came on us like a betrayer; it seemed as though the new sun rose as an ally of our enemies to assist in our destruction. The different emotions that overcame us, of resignation, of futile rebellion, of religious abandon, of fear, of despair, now joined together after a sleepless night in a collective, uncontrolled panic. The time for meditation, the time for decision was over, and all reason dissolved into a tumult, across which flashed the happy memories of our homes, still so near in time and space, as painful as the thrusts of a sword. Many things were then said and done among us; but of these it is better that there remain no memory.

    With the absurd precision to which we later had to accustom ourselves, the Germans held the roll-call.

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    They then loaded us on to the buses and took us to the station of Carpi. Here the train was waiting for us, with our escort for the journey. Here we received the first blows: and it was so new and senseless that we felt no pain, neither in body nor in spirit. Only a profound amazement: how can one hit a man without anger? There were twelve goods wagons for six hundred and fifty men; in mine we were only forty-five, but it was a small wagon.

    Here then, before our very eyes, under our very feet, was one of those notorious transport trains, those which never return, and of which, shuddering and always a little incredulous, we had so often heard speak. Exactly like this, detail for detail: goods wagons closed from the outside, with men, women and children pressed together without pity, like cheap merchandise, for a journey towards nothingness, a journey down there, towards the bottom.

    This time it is us who are inside. Sooner or later in life everyone discovers that perfect happiness is unrealizable, but there are few who pause to consider the antithesis: that perfect unhappiness is equally unattainable. The obstacles preventing the realization of both these extreme states are of the same nature: they derive from our human condition which is opposed to everything infinite. Our ever-insufficient knowledge of the future opposes it: and this is called, in the one instance, hope, and in the other, uncertainty of the following day. The certainty of death opposes it: for it places a limit on every joy, but also on every grief.

    The inevitable material cares oppose it: for as they poison every lasting happiness, they equally assiduously distract us from our misfortunes and make our consciousness of them intermittent and hence supportable. It was the very discomfort, the blows, the cold, the thirst that kept us aloft in the void of bottomless despair, both during the journey and after. It was not the will to live, nor a conscious resignation; for few are the men capable of such resolution, and we were but a common sample of humanity.

    The doors had been closed at once, but the train did not move until evening. We had learnt of our destination with relief. Auschwitz: a name without significance for us at that time, but it at least implied some place on this earth. The train travelled slowly, with long, unnerving halts. Through the slit we saw the tall pale cliffs of the Adige Valley and the names of the last Italian cities disappear behind us.

    We passed the Brenner at midday of the second day and everyone stood up, but no one said a word. The thought of the return journey stuck in my heart, and I cruelly pictured to myself the inhuman joy of that other journey, with doors open, no one wanting to flee, and the first Italian names