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53 The Red Boots She has been waiting for days to show me the red boots, pulls me into the store Smell the leather, my daughter cries, running her hands along the fine workmanship I take the boot bring it to my nose, feel the swell of memory, searing, burning my nostrils. I am back in Father’s shoemaking shop in our small Dutch village, the tanned hides stacked one upon the other disguising the hollow in the floor where we hid Jews, smell of life, smell of death, those who escaped, those who died trying, all the faces I can’t remember. Buy them, I say. They make such a statement. But she can’t possibly know just what I mean ...

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