I remember that day. I was in Germany at the time.
It was a beautiful September day — no, not that one. I was 9 years old and very excited about the Olympic games in Munich. My dad had told me — I have mentioned, somewhere, right that my dad is an idealist, a dreamer, always ready to believe the best of people and institutions — that the Olympic games were a way for the whole world to come together in peace. For a child of the Cold War, this was an important symbol.
And then the illusion was shattered by Black September.
It was a beautiful September day. I was 38 (corrected the age. You know there are ages you attribute things to? Well, the year I turned 33 is one of those. Ridiculous of course, since that’s when I had younger son.) and just the week before I’d thought “these are the best years of my life.” My husband…
View original post 808 more words