The Sandcastle Girls

But history does matter. There is a line connecting the Armenians and the Jews and the Cambodians and the Bosnians and the Rwandans. There are obviously more, but, really, how much genocide can one sentence handle?

When it seems you have nothing at all to live for, death is not especially frightening.

He recalls what that first German soldier said to his major: No God-not yours or mine-approves of what you're doing.

But history does matter. There are lines connecting the Armenians and the Jews and the Cambodians and the Serbs and the Rwandans. They are obviously morbid. Really, how much genocide can one sentence handle? You get the point. Besides, my grandparents’ story deserves to be told, regardless of their nationalities.

Those who participate in a genocide as well as those who merely look away rarely volunteer much in the way of anecdote or observation. Same with the heroic and the righteous. Usually it's only the survivors who speak-and often they don't want to talk much about it either. p. 75

How the Germans can remain allies with the Turks is beyond me. No European nation would ever commit the sorts of crimes that this regime is blithely committing right now.

we have on earth exactly the amount of time that has been allotted to us, no more and no less. We really have precious little control.

It was Aldous Huxley who observed, “Every man’s memory is his private literature.

be wary of what I might learn. “No. Do you think I should?” “I don’t know. Maybe,” she replied, and in my mind I saw her in her high-backed bar stool at the island in the kitchen where the kids scarfed down their Lucky Charms before walking down the hill to school. Then, before I could answer, she went on, “It will be weird if we’re related to the woman in the photo.” “In what way?” “She’s so …” “Go ahead,” I said. “She’s not like us. Even if she is related to us, she’s not like us. I don’t mean that in a bad way. It’s just that she’s from a different world.

She talks and talks because whenever she is silent she finds herself looking at him and her breath grows a little short.

are an Armenian,” says the Turk with the handgun. “I am.” “Where are you going?” “Damascus.” “Why?” “My sister lives there.” “What do you do?” “I’m an engineer. I’m working on the Baghdad Railway—the spur from Aleppo to Nusaybin.” “The British have captured Nasiriyah.” “I hadn’t heard that.” He nods. “Had you heard that an Armenian murdered a Turkish