Or so I have been told.
My mother was born in Munich in 1934, and spent her childhood in Nazi Germany surrounded by nice people who refused to make waves.
When things got ugly, the people my mother lived alongside chose not to focus on “politics,” instead busying themselves with happier things.
They were lovely, kind people who turned their heads as their neighbors were dragged away. I don’t remember the first time I heard the stories my mother told me; I feel like I always knew them.
She’s dead now. If she were alive, I imagine she would be quite sanguine; all her anxieties would be realized, so there would no longer be anything left to fear. More goodness at link.
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