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When I was twelve, I read The Diary of Anne Frank.
I identified with her having to live
stories above a busy street
over a business, and having to keep quiet
for hours at a time.
I’d pad about on…
The officer stared at them grimly.
“Now,” Mama said in a strong voice, “you have seen that we are not hiding anything. May my children go back to bed?”
The officer ignored her. Suddenly he grabbed a…
I thought of the beautiful angel in the picture that had hung over our bed before the war. Her giant wings hovering over, almost enveloping two children crossing a bridge over a ravine. Please make my…