When I was in lower school I first learned about World War II. As a child, the concept of war is incomprehensible. It didn't make much sense to me, but I could sense that the mention of it created a stifling atmosphere of quiet shame. But growing up in Germany, you don't remain ignorant for long. In 8th grade we read the Diary of Anne Frank. That was the first time I saw the war from a horrifically personal angle. I saw Anne Frank and her family and learned of her fate. I remember the shock of it well. In 9th grade they started teaching us about the war in detail. We learned about the Great War, the Treaty of Versailles, the Weimar Republic, the Night of Broken Glass and what ensued as the Nazi Party gained favor and rank. In 10th grade we watched a documentary. WWII in color, showing the horrors as if they'd been recorded with a modern camera. They didn't warn us going into it. We watched, and by the end I looked over at the girl sitting next to me and we both had tears running down our cheeks. After class, we all felt a bit emptier I think. Some dealt with the shock by downplaying it, some ignored what we'd seen, and some wanted to talk through it. But it didn't help, and I think that's what hurt the most. We didn't know how to fix this. That year we visited a concentration camp. Dachau. I will never forget that place. Walking over sprawling, barren grounds, so large you couldn't imagine how it could ever be overcrowded. Standing in front of the walls of remembrance, wanting to read all the names and knowing you couldn't. Touching the walls beside the rows of bunks, with thousands of etchings left behind, words from the voiceless. But I think the part I can't forget was the feeling. You could feel it was a place of evil. A place that had hurt, bled, seen death and torture and too many lives degraded and marked "subhuman". In 11th Grade we read the Vorleser. A disturbing book, but with an underlying question that resonated with us. How could the next generations even deal with what their parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles had done? My grandfather fought in the war. He was stationed in Russia. I know that he wasn't a Nazi, he did not support what they did, but he fought in their war, and he fought for them. I am half German, half American. I have always joked that I'm half perpetrator, half liberator. Not because it is funny, but how else do I make sense of the divide? I feel shame, yet I should feel pride? I carry the guilt, yet my family were some of the saviors. And if I feel this divided and upset as someone who never saw the war... Well. This wasn't my first book about the war. This won't be my last. But the Nightingale grabbed me and held tight, I feel empty yet full now that it's let go. I want it to come back, but I don't want to feel that pain again. Crying in the final chapter felt right. But now I look at the world around me and I think: are we doing it again? How can we? How dare we? But here we are, and I am scared. Books like these tug on your emotions. They make you feel so deeply it aches. Vianne and Isabelle became parts of me for the past weeks. Now I have to let them go. But I want to carry their lives and their lessons with me. Even when the world is a dark place, don't let it touch your heart. Fight for what is right, stand up for the innocent, go back for those who fall behind. Learn forgiveness, but don't forget. As a German, we are born with that lesson drilled into our hearts. I am glad that I remember, even when it hurts like a knife to the gut. Because they deserve it, they all do. That's why Isabelle's last words cracked my heart. If we remember we can learn, and if we learn we can change. If nothing else, this world needs change. And books like these inspire change.