The set. A memory encased theatre, lavishly decorated and royally fixed, splendid and mysterious in all its grandeur. Eight hundred seats occupy the ravishing expanse that is the Shottenburgh, the smallest of all Broadway theatres. Everything about it is extraordinary and strange. Some sections of the theatre are overdone, and others look as though they are not completely finished. A large and eccentric Michelangelo-style painting adorns the high ceiling. Royal red carpet laced with dancing white streaks runs throughout the theatre, and is accented by golden posts and sculptures that were born to create a look that seems haunting, almost surreal.

The beautiful dark green curtains are closed, all stage lights are out, and the work lights are dimmed. Hidden behind the curtains is a three piece wooden stage. Not a sound can be heard as the silence begins to take on a life of its own.

I sit in the last row of seats at the very top section of the theatre. This room evokes a collage of ambivalent memories that are at once painful and contented. I do not wish to recall any of them. I tried to suppress them for as long as possible, but they remained hidden in the background, garnering strength from my senility and planning their horrible and insurmountable revenge. All at once I could feel it surfacing like a terror-ridden thunderstorm approaching the beach, silently at first, but about to explode into a forceful and deadly hurricane of lost events.

I had remained silent for far too long, and it was slowly beginning to destroy me. The cast and crew had unknowingly pledged their secrecy by the signing of long and technically painted contracts. I must now violate these written laws, if not for the rest of the cast then for my own sanity.

My legs are resting on the seat in front of me. My breathing has slowed, and I can feel the past swiftly approaching for its final curtain bow. If I only knew what that year had in store for me. It was a year that fate and luck had collided harshly, and brought me stumbling to a destiny that I always dreamed of, but knew nothing about. I would walk through the gates of Hell and be killed once a night. I would sing the tunes of Gershwin and receive a standing ovation each and every time. I would learn the secrets of the dark, and its power would haunt me forever.

I look down at the stage; the curtain is still closed and all is silent. My heart jolts when I see it. The glimmer lasts only a few seconds, but it's enough time to see the shiny top hats being waved under the bright yellow stage lights. We were dancing and smiling and kicking for all we were worth. Then the scene fades, and the green curtain and dimmed lights return.

I sit erect and don't want to look at the stage for fear of the next act. But I need to look. After gathering enough strength, I slip back down in my seat and look up to see the silky green curtains melt away into exanimate darkness.

The work lights come on at full blast and my pupils quickly react. The curtains, which are open, are made of canvas and look fake. They are painted red in the center, the color tapering off to blue on both sides. The stage now seems outrageously out of place, it's made from wood and painted black, an exact replica of the Meidim Theatre in the Vilna Ghetto.

My memory spins wild, my mind running through a blitzkrieg of indescribable thoughts and emotions. I can see silhouettes changing into lively figures. They are taking their place for the last performance. Then I sit up again and the figures disappear, but they will return. I know that the only way to heal is to go back , but I don't want to remember. No. I try to fight it. I cannot go back. As the figures slowly return, I realize it is too late.

The silence has been broken.