The Holocaust has always been a part of my life, personally and/or professionally, since about the age of 7. I say “about” because that was a long time ago and I could have been 6 or 8. In any case, it was the very early 1950s, not much more than a half-decade after the liberation of the camps.
Back then, I would occasionally accompany my father, a radiologist, to his office. Mostly, I would hang out in the developing room and watch the X-rays come up, but one day, my father interrupted and marched me over to one of the nurses.
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