I hope there will be sunshine, meadows and music in the world beyond for this is what my mother loved most. As I sort through her keepsake box, which holds her memories, I cannot stop the crying. Touching the small items that seemed important to her somewhat eases the pain of losing her. Everything I pull from the box is carefully wrapped in tissue paper, which over the years has yellowed and now is fragile to the touch, but it also throws a shroud of mystery around her. There is a medal wrapped in an official document declaring my mother to be a “most honourable” citizen of the Third Reich for choosing duty over brotherly love. It is carelessly thrown in the box as if the owner was ashamed of its possession. I know very little about WWII, and this one sentence in this document is putting a fear into my heart and makes me hesitant about delving further into her life. Some of the things my mother had cherished make no sense to me. What mystery is in the jar of loose earth? Why would she have kept the feather of a rooster’s tail? What secret lies behind the remains of a straw star that looked like a broken Christmas ornament . . . what memory had it held for her? Carefully I re-wrap the star and place it back into the box. Among the many and mysterious things there is a small package carefully wrapped in silk paper. As I start to peel the paper away some of the old loose flakes of the dry leather binding cling to the wrapping and when I look at my hands I find them stained by the leather’s fading dye. New tears roll down my cheek as I realize it is my mother’s diary. Sometimes the words are a quick scribbling and are hard to read. It is not just the writing that upsets me so; it is also the contents that put a stone into my heart, for I cannot understand her devotion to a monster like Hitler. At times, I have to stop reading, for there is anger in me, and also an embarrassment that wants me to hide from the accusing eyes of Society. The dust and musty smell that linger in the attic, which before had bothered me, now no longer matter: it all disappears as I sit there on the attic floor, reading my mother’s diary. And as I keep reading it, page by page, line by line, little by little, her true life emerges. There, hidden under the surface of the dutiful citizen of the Third Reich, are the stories of her many rescue operations taking Jewish children out of Germany. My anger and embarrassment disappear and are replaced with pride and admiration. Now I wish I could follow in her footsteps. My lovely mother. My lovely mother.

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