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 …
This is what I HAVE to tell.
May the last words of the victim surpass and outlast those of the killer.
Mysteriously, we became their enemies.
All nightmare have a beginning, and this was the beginning of ours: Verboten.
Stories can be a constant source of pain and violence, although they need to be told to remind us that no society is free of prejudice.