The hateful killings in Orlando hang heavily on me. A man next to us at breakfast in our Berlin hotel reads a sports newspaper with headlines of the German soccer win. Peter says, look, no mention of the murders. Overhearing, he shows us the middle of the paper: there in huge black print is an article. Then he holds up three more newspapers with news of the massacre, adds, “Germans feel very close to the United States.” We sit discussing life with a stranger.

We meet our friend Gunda at the Jewish Museum. Sit outside sipping coffee in their café. I watch a group of dark haired, dark skinned young people sitting across from us on a sofa laughing and whispering. One man dozes. The men are unshaven. I begin to feel uneasy and think, STOP IT.
We walk through the museum halls read signs translated from the Nazi period. Jews not wanted in this town; do not do business with Jews; Jews need not apply; Jews not allowed; armbands with the Star of David. I spot a young man who looks like one of the group in the café. He has a red and white checked scarf around his neck, a phone hangs from his belt, I watch as he puts a wad of black cloth inside a fire alarm box. He walks away from it and talks into his phone leaning against a wall. What’s this man is up to? Should I say something to my husband? Then I see a young woman with a red and white checked scarf talking to another museum goer. I ask what her scarf means. She tells me employees wear it to identify themselves. I feel great relief. Am glad to have kept those suspicions to myself.

Memory pulls me back to a gas station in Richmond, California late one night fifteen years ago. My husband and I are lost. We need to find the freeway exit to Marin. We stop at the station.
Four young African-American men are filling up their car. We feel fearful being stopped in the middle of this neighborhood. We hesitate to get out of the car, hesitate to approach these young men. One walks over to our car and raps on the window. We roll it half-way. Are you lost? Perhaps I can help. The tone of his voice –– his demeanor puts us at ease. We talk briefly. My husband gets out of the car so the man can point the way.
Driving off we smile sheepishly: discuss our relief, how foolish we feel.

Here I am in Berlin doing the same thing. I confess that I even startle when I see a Muslim woman with a head scarf in our local market. Am I overly susceptible to suggestion (a bigot) or are my reactions normal in this world where violence may strike anywhere, anytime.