“Right, you see”—her father pointed—“your grandmother’s maiden name, Batis. And then of course, their last name. Bezas.”

Bea was studying the plaque when a man hovering around the average age of the attendees to this somber reunion tapped Bea’s shoulder.

Bea turned. “Yes, hello there.”

“Kalimera,” said the gentleman. Good morning.

He was tall with kind, crinkly green eyes, wearing a yellow tweed blazer, matching pants, and a brown cap. He motioned to the woman next to him, who looked to be around Bea’s age and wore a floor-length brown dress smattered in pink flowers.

“My father thought you looked familiar,” said the woman in English. “He thought you looked like someone he used to know.”

“Oh really?” asked Bea. “Who?”

“Her name was Sarah Batis.”

Bea smiled. “Well, how about that, that’s my mother! Everyone says we have the same eyes.” She shook the man’s hand.

“So you’re here for the reunion?” asked the woman.

“Yes,” said Bea. “My parents couldn’t be here, but I wanted to come in their place. To be honest, neither of them spoke of the Holocaust much when I was growing up. But you get the gist when you’re the kid.” She twisted her hands. “Lucky me, who got a pair of survivors as parents. Probably just means I’m doubly fucked-up.”

The woman’s mouth parted but then closed. The older man let out a stream of Greek.

Joey and her father strayed back as the trio continued talking.

“Dad, is G a survivor?” asked Joey.

“You know the answer to that, JoJo, don’t you?”

Joey’s eyes settled upon the white wooden ark that held the Torahs. “The Holocaust gives me nightmares, you know that.”

“Well, your grandmother’s not a survivor in the sense that she went through it. But her whole family died in the war. They all got sent to Auschwitz.”

“And G escaped?”

“Right.”

“How?”

“You know, Joey, I don’t know the answer to that question. I don’t think even your mother knows the answer to that question. G has never liked talking about it.”

“Does Grandfather talk about what happened to him? About…” She didn’t want to say the word. Auschwitz.

“He has to me. You could ask them, you know.”

“You should ask them,” said Leo. “It’s your history.” Joey had almost forgotten he was there.

“Maybe,” said Joey, although she knew she would not.

“I think it’s important to know our ancestors,” said Leo.

“Why?” asked Joey.

Leo scrunched his nose. “I think who they are is a little of who we are. And if we want to be like them, then we know a little bit of how to get there. And if we want to be different, well, we get the clues for how to change course.”