My grandmother used to have a stool in her kitchen, a little rickety, three-stepped thing meant to help her reach the shelves. For me, though, it was a throne. "Keep me company", she would say, "Sit right here." And there I sat, regaling my grandma with three-year-old wisdom. She'd laugh as she baked and cooked; I was her entertainment. And her pre-dish-washing batter licker. She added her own stories, too, of life in Europe before the war, of her brothers and sisters, her friends and aunts and neighbors, who all perished and vaporized. She'd talk about it like it was no big deal that her world vanished when she was 18.