I found myself looking at Deutschmarks, coins and photographs. Reaching under the counter, she pulled out an old, worn leather wallet, opened it and spread out its contents. She gave me a conspiratorial look and said, “Let me show you something we have but don’t put on display.” I thanked her for the tour and we exchanged friendly chitchat.Īfter a few moments, Laura stopped talking and turned to her right and left, as if to make sure no one was watching her. Laura*, the woman standing behind the glass showcase that served as the front desk, introduced herself as the proprietor’s wife. I approached the front desk to thank the proprietor for the tour he had given me earlier. Before leaving, I wanted to say goodbye to the owner, just as a guest might do before leaving a crowded reception hosted by a friend. I stopped at all the display cases, viewing the artifacts, and reading about various wars the US had fought. He gave me an overview of the exhibits and walked alongside me for several minutes as I started the tour. This man introduced himself by name and let me know that the museum was his. At that moment, I could not have predicted the chills I would feel later when leaving the premises in haste and confusion. As soon as I walked through the museum door on that hot and humid August morning and felt the relief of the air-conditioned room, a gentleman stepped forward to hand me a bottle of chilled water. Southern hospitality is not a myth, nor is its reputation exaggerated. Am I ignoring the same warning signs that so many of Europe’s Jews did in the early 1930s?īefore the pandemic, when I traveled to Georgia for vacation, I had no idea that I would come face to face with my personal history in a small, privately-owned military museum. The growing rate of antisemitism in the world feels dangerously familiar. As the daughter of Holocaust survivors, my nervous system is on high alert.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |