“Leudloff said. We sat at her kitchen table. In her hand she held the pamphlet. She was reading it. "No, no." And she shook her head so that her shining bobbed hair shook, too. "This is not the Germany I know. Hitler is not Germany. He is not a leader. He is a madman." I sipped my soda and took a bite of a homemade sugar cookie. She'd washed my face and bandaged my knee. She'd made me sit, and she'd listened as I poured out my story to her. And my worries about what I would say to the reporter. ...Never did I think I could talk to her like this. Or to anyone. I think what made me do it was that she listened. Nobody ever listens to me in school or at home. Nobody cares what I think or fear. It was a new feeling, being listened to, and I liked it. When I protested that I couldn't stay, that I had to get home, she waved away my objections. "I'll drive you home in a few minutes," she said. "But the reporter..." "He'll wait a few minutes. He came to see you, not your mama." So I stayed. "I have people at home, in Germany," she told me.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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