It was the autumn of 1938 and I had just turned thirteen, but instead of celebrating with joy and exuberance that year, I was filled with dread and terror. Summer in Berlin is actually the most beautiful time of the year, but by now, the leaves of the old trees we've seen everyday on our walk home, had started to morph into different colors and drift downward onto their new home for the season. It was the evening of November 6, and my sister and I were taking our usual route home. We were skipping and prancing, singing songs that my mother had taught us when we were young. Klara was on…
