Mom was napping in her cot one day when there was a bombing raid. Her mother was ill at the time and her two brothers, both in their early teens, had carried her mother all the way to a relative’s house before they realized that they’d left the baby behind. Her oldest brother, my uncle Juny, who must have been thirteen at the time, ran back for her, pushing his way against a solid tide of desperate, fleeing people, with planes screaming overhead, dropping their deadly loads.

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