Museum of Tolerance

The shirtless man by the ticket counter has already broken the gloom here, his crowd of two boys and the cashier with the Star of David gathered around and mouthing astonishment as he tells the tale behind every scar. Yes, this one on the side was from the camp — he tells them not to be shy to ask — when he tripped into the ditch on the run after stealing cigarettes, the one on the knuckle from punching the soldier in the bar, brave with whiskey, a decade after. Touch it, he snarls, jutting out his fist. That split a real Nazi’s lip. In the rooms behind him, the voices lay low but touch is the rule, the extended families passing in fours and fives as tight as at church or the carnival. Are they all survivors here, dazed and exhilarated by the fate that dropped them so far from blight? A father heads the line, shirt fat with muscles and a single proud thumb pushing the stroller; the woman and girl hug sideways, then again, tight as dancers in a row. At each display, the time lines and the whispered assurances reiterate that what is done is done. Pol Pot is dead, the children of Kampuchea reading again to go to college; Rwanda has forgiven itself and opened supermarkets; the ghettos are demolished, the Cold War won. Sudan, they skip. For now, the beasts are gone. They face the new life, the one after the mending, after the last mistakes were made.