ב"ה
Miriam Shapiro |
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![]() Visiting the Concentration Camps
The bus drove by a group of schoolchildren. These children wore jeans, colored sweatshirts, sneakers—they looked like "real kids." My eyes met those of the little boy nearest the bus. I smiled at him, waving. The little boy raised his arm and pointed. "Zy...
“Me, too,” I lied. “It’s . . . indecipherable.” I had seen that word the day before in a copy of Time magazine lying around the house, and decided that it sounded as glamorous as any other.
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