In 2011, my then 10-year-old son Jonah and I visited the Holocaust Museum in Washington, DC.
The two-story room with the wall of photos brought tears to my eyes. Hundreds of family pictures and portraits from a small Lithuanian town that was home to 4,000 Jews for nine centuries. These people looked like my relatives. A young man in his 30s looked just like my uncle at that age; a 15-year-old kid looked like Jonah in five years; a Hasidic man almost exactly resembled my cousin who is a rabbi in Rego Park, Queens, and so on. The Nazis killed every single Jew in that town, in two days. Nine centuries of history and tradition were wiped from the face of the Earth in just two