“I gazed around the room and my eyes stopped dead on a little boy standing in the corner. This was a particularly eerie doll. Life-sized and blond-haired and blue-eyed. I saw a little Nazi boy, pockets probably stuffed with scissors and retractable blades. My grandfather on my mother's side was rumored to be half Jewish, which practically makes me Jerry Seinfeld's brother, and thus wary of blond German boys with their hands out of sight.”

“Sadie, please, come talk to me.” “I need to get to work.” He reached out for my hand, and I immediately snatched it back and pocketed both of my hands. “Sadie, please.” I hated the insecure, little boy I saw in his eyes and the fact it got to me. Dang it.”

“There is a little boy inside the man who is my brother... Oh, how I hated that little boy. And how I love him too.”

“One day, as My uncle Antonio was heading out to a cantina, I slipped a story I had written into his shirt pocket. It was story about a little boy who would poke his finger with a needle and make it bleed. The boy did it so he would get some attention from his mother. It worked out great for a while. But one day, his mother came into the boy’s room, lifted up his sheets and found the boy’s cold body. The little boy had bled to death. The next morning, I awoke to find a new black and white speckled composition notebook sitting next to my head....”

“By the end of the war, I could pick out Jewish people almost as if I had a sixth sense about it, even if they had blue eyes and blond hair. I would have been a very valuable Gestapo person.”

“Yeah. That boy over there. He’s my friend.'My gaze followed his pointing finger toward a little boy wearing a stuffed steering wheel attached around his waist and running around a racetrack laid out on the floor. 'Oh, yeah? What’s his name?''I don’t know.' Simon shrugged, unconcerned, and headed back to the playground.I watched him leap right into the game with a friend whose name didn’t matter.”