By LYNN HANRAHAN
Los Alamos

Winter of 1986 I wandered a small, snowy village in Central Europe killing time and working on my German. I thought I blended in but it seemed everyone knew who I was – Elsi and Erwin’s daughter in law from America. I was treated like visiting royalty. They liked Americans back then. At the village store people would help me find the tangerines without seeds or remind me to bring my Coke bottles back for the deposit.

I would recount my adventures to my in laws and learned to dread a certain look when describing who I had befriended. I can still see the look on my grandmother in laws face as she said, “Oh no, he was a Nazi!” This was forty one years after the end of the Second World War.

Sunday mornings in our neighborhood here in Los Alamos are usually lovely. Senior citizens, young families, cyclists, and joggers out and about in a relaxed give and take – especially on a morning such as this morning awash with autumn light, purple and yellow flowers, and a nice chill in the air. This morning was dead still.

Life has changed the past four years. Hatred has taken root. I never dreamt “it” could happen here, but it has. The easy neighborhood vibe has given away to everyone knowing who has what sign. I hesitate to wave at the local wood chopper whose saran-wrapped sign I feel is a testimonial to hate.

Forty one years. History will judge. I try not to, but I do. I wonder what my kids and grandkids world will be.