I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read: “I am a cancer survivor”, and I thought of my mother, not because she had cancer, but because she was a survivor — a Holocaust survivor. In the heart of Nazi-occupied Czechoslovakia, she hid in a basement for years, relying on the charity of her protectors, and living by her wits when she went out looking for food or contact with other family members. One of her brothers was fighting with the Resistance Movement, headquartered in the surrounding woods; the other was in a forced labor camp with her parents. My mother didn’t see herself as a hero for surviving, but I did. Here’s one of my favorite stories of hers.