All these years later I can still see it clearly, at least I tell myself that's true. A worn bit of yellow, worn felt, held in the hands of a woman who seemed old to me at the time.
One of the better professors at school was, you could say, a refugee. If you took enough of her German classes, the advanced courses, you might hear her tell about growing up in occupied Holland, near the far more famous Frank family. She talked of hardship, of what amounted to starvation, of her husband (who also was a professor) being a part of the resistance (and surviving in part because he started hiding early in the war), and after VE Day waiting to hear if any of the people you cared about had survived being hauled off to parts then unknown.
She was an avowed pacifist.
She’s on my mind frequently of late, as well as that Judenstern (Jew’s Star) she would take out and show her stunned students during the retelling of her family history. That bright symbol her father was forced to wear is haunting me these days.
I’ll admit that for all of the tactics and history I have been taught by disparate sources, I have no idea how we win this fight that appears to be before us. These days my thoughts often turn dark and return to that piece of cloth. Part of me hopes it’s just my pessimism.
Other times I think she would say now is the time to fight, because of what lies ahead if we chose to passively watch the future unfold.
