In 1991, I attended a workshop at the First International Gathering of Children Hidden during World War II. I listened, hyperventilating and with tears welling up, while a tall woman with a French accent recounted how, earlier in the day, a journalist had said to her: "What kind of Jew are you!", as she talked about her warm feelings toward Christianity and her Christian rescuers. I had prayed fervently too, as a Catholic child, seeking redemption, protection. I would go on to heaven if I prayed. My family would be protected if I prayed. But down deep inside, I felt caught in a bind. Not quite right. Disloyal. Ashamed of my prayers, of my need to pray, as if I, or any other child, could have done anything but live what was passed down through the generations.