I remember that the summer in Hamburg in 1943 was unusually dry and hot. Three of us now lived in the fifth-floor apartment on Hasselbrook Strasse: my mother, my baby sister, Renate, and me. I was eight years old and a respectful, obedient child. But one day in late July my mother asked me to do som…
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‘I think there should be a National Service of Hospitality. The best way to see the true face of humanity is to serve it a plate of chips.’
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