The answer is arbitrary: as elusive as a throw of the dice.
The rejection was painful, especially since we could not fathom why it developed. We wondered if we were at fault, what we had done, and how we could make amends.
I had a friend. When I was eight years old, I had a friend. Her name was Anni.
When my startled parents opened the door, the uniformed men yelled, “Verboten!” They told my parents to get out: napping in the car was not allowed. To emphasize their new rule, they slapped both my mother and father in the …
Glucke mit Kücken, April 1928
This is what I HAVE to tell.
Memory is a blessing and a curse.
May the last words of the victim surpass and outlast those of the killer.
When I left the voting booth, no soldiers in uniform were visible; no swastikas were in sight. I was safe. My vote was secret.