It’s a museum now, with a purple door. I remember the purple being darker. And I remember my grandmother’s fresh pfeffernüsse cookies that once lingered behind that door on so many Saturday mornings.
I didn’t know then that not every grandma hid families in the attic, families you could never speak of. Until the day they came to take the families away, and they took my grandmother too, the neighbor’s yelling “Juden” and ” Schieß” at all of us, even though we weren’t Jewish. I never saw my grandmother again.
Tears fall hot down my face as I touch the gold chain. At least now their memories will be honored. Finally.