Anny Horowitz doesn’t run down the shopping aisles as your grandchildren do, she holds the trolley, steadying it with her hand, your ghostly friend, your little Jew. None sees her form, her bright blue eyes, her blonde hair tied with ribbon, her rosy complexion. She ghostly moves, amazed by the Aladdin’s cave of goods upon the shelves, the packets and boxes, the loud advertisements hanging from the air here and there, everywhere you and she stare. Neither Strasbourg nor Bordeaux nor Tours nor Auschwitz was like this,

no overpowering display of commodities on show of this she tells you and to a degree you know, and what was on show at Auschwitz is still there in memories or records or photographs with staring faces and deep set eyes. Anny waits and watches as the conveyor belt moves the goods to the woman at the till who pushes buttons or scans bar codes and pushes by to the paid for end and your son and grandchildren pack all away. Anny gazes on the process, then at you, smiles, your little friend, your ghostly Jew.

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