The women sat around the worn kitchen table talking in Yiddish about the neighborhood, their jobs and their families. One woman, though, spoke only about the family she once had. The Nazis killed them. Now Dora sat in a sixth-floor apartment in the Bronx, kibbitzing with friends, the numbers on her left arm showing when she reached for the babka. And so, before kindergarten, sitting with my grandmother's neighbors, I began to learn about the Holocaust.
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