Sometimes when I tell people (as I just did in the coffee shop I am sitting in in Lublin) that my mother was born in Lublin, and that my great-great-great-great (pra-pra-pra-pra) grandmother was as well, I feel like I am passing as a non-Jewish Pole, like my mother did during the War. The woman I told this to said, “Wesołych Świąt!” (Happy Holidays!) and I did not say that Easter is not my holiday. There’s a remnant of both my mother’s guilt and her satisfaction at passing as a non-Jewish Pole during the War. Something to explore further.