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My parents died years ago. This is my first Passover without them.

The process of organizing my parents’ archive became a private pleasure, a soothing ritual. I would pour myself a glass of wine and pull out folder after dusty folder, eager to to find what marvels lay within: a signed letter from a famous luminary; a ship’s ticket from Rome to Haifa; a recommendation for a student now a leader in their field; a picture drawn by a grandchild

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