Commentary The Holocaust has always been a part of my life, personally and/or professionally, since about the age of 7. I say “about” because that was a long time ago and I could have been 6 or 8. In any case, it was the very early 1950s, not much more than a half-decade after the liberation of the camps. Back then, I would occasionally accompany my father, a radiologist, to his office. Mostly, I would hang out in the developing room and watch the X-rays come up, but one day, my father interrupted and marched me over to one of the nurses. “Mrs. Mindus, would you show Roger your arm,” he said—something like that anyway—because I remember distinctly Mrs. Mindus, a sweet Eastern European woman whom I thought agéd (she was probably about 40), proceeding to roll up her sleeve. For the first time, I saw the numbers the Nazis …