I’m still amazed and surprised to see oranges on trees in spring, rather than at Christmas in supermarket shelves. Despite being often in Israel and other places where this happens every year: this wonder, that the trees are hanging full of oranges.
My mum is born in 1946. Pretty much exactly one year after the war finished and two years before the Deutsche Mark brought hope and prosperity to the perpetrators, the victims, the refugees from former German territories and their children.
My mum had a loving family, her father was a calm and quiet man who never raised his voice and let us grandkids braid his hair during his coffee breaks.
One single time in my life, my mum has been beaten up by her father. It was the day she saw for the first time in her life oranges. They lured at her in her village’s shop.
She could not resist, and took one, leaving the shop without leaving any Pfennigs or Deutsche Marks there.
I too remember the one time that I stole something as a child. It was not oranges, but a Bazooka Joe chewing gum for 30 Pfennig. It had a tattoo in the wrapper. I often tried to return the 30 Pfennig to Wamsgans, the local place that I shoplifted. They never took my money.
I’m not sure how often my mum thinks about the orange. I do remember the one-and-only thefts of my own kids. And I will definitely never forget my mum’s story and the oranges.
All images are taken in Thessaloniki, Macedonia, Greece. It’s my first time here. I’m attending the Thessaloniki Documentary Film Festival with a movie I shot. Yesterday it was rainy and today it’s sunny. I’m pretty sure there’ll be more to come from my trip.