But she knew that she certainly wasn't going anywhere without her flaxen-haired friend, her treasured doll. And so she snatched it up, and took it with her as they were herded onto the train and into the ghetto. In the days that followed, as the tornado whirled around her, it was to her doll that she turned for solace and comfort and companionship. But not for long. It is not a splendid adventure, a glorious proving ground for manhood, a noble exercise in mailed chivalry.
War is, truly and like few other things on earth, hell.
People are dislocated, killed, left bereft of possessions, family, hopes. But even within hell, it takes a truly twisted and evil mind to smash a jackboot down on the face of a porcelain doll and declare war on a child. I thought of my mother's doll when I saw a recent newspaper photograph. It showed the twisted remains of a wrecked car, a shattered windshield, and a small body face down, arms and legs wildly akimbo. For one heart-stopping moment, you think it is a baby.