My 29-year-old mother was smuggled out of the walls of the Warsaw Ghetto one month before its obliteration. She had lived within the city all her life and inside the Ghetto since its creation, and had known hundreds in her home town by name, thousands by sight. But by March 1943 out of all of them—the girl who knew all the answers at school, the aunt whose dog sat beside her table eating from a plate, the dentist whose wife ran away to Paris, the geometry tutor who gave up early on my mother’s math—out of all the people, her father and her husband were the only ones she had left.