They were there. I could see them, a few people in the distance, blurred by the fog. A disheveled group, they carried blankets and suitcases. All appeared frightened and transparent, a ghostly lot indeed. These were my relatives, the ones I had never met, the ones the ovens had claimed. Was I dreaming? I couldn’t be sure … “Get out,” voices yelled, “run away fast as you can.” Their English was not the English of my parents, it was flecked with Yiddish, and the guttural sounds of German.