A legacy of haunting memories
Nov. 5, 2006. 08:22 AM
MICHELE HENRY
TORONTO STAR

In the stories she’d tell, my grandmother was always a heroine.

Blonde hair fastened into a ponytail, confident blue eyes and pale skin, she didn’t look anything like a Jewish girl born to shtetl-folk in Poland.

Lying beside me in bed when I was a child, she’d explain that growing up with those features in her small village was a curse — until the Germans seized power.

As I nestled into the blankets, she’d muse that those looks are probably what saved her from the Nazis.

“Tell me stories about the war,” I’d beg, as we drifted to sleep. “Please.”
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