Look at Figs. 23, 24, and 27. Imagine yourself to be a Jew or a Pole in Nazi Germany. It is September 1941, and the law forcing Jews to wear the Star of David has just been declared. Write an account of one day in your life.

I woke up to the sound of distant boots echoing in the streets. My heart raced as I remember the new decree: the Star of David. We are marked now, like cattle branded for slaughter. I dressed quickly, my trembling hands fumbling with the fabric of my shirt. The yellow star sewn onto my chest felt like a lead weight, a constant reminder of my otherness. Outside, the air smelt of fear and desperation. The non-Jewish neighbours glanced away as I passed, their silence was louder than any insult. I somehow gathered the courage and reached the school. I knew, I was not welcome. Once familiar faces, look no more familiar now. I was told bluntly not to enter the campus. Broken and shattered, I came back home. Tomorrow, we’ll wake up and face it all over again.