I was 17 years old in May 1985 when I walked into our living room and found my father on his knees, sobbing as he watched President Ronald Reagan and German Chancellor Helmut Kohl in some formal ceremony at a seemingly random cemetery in Germany.
I was taken aback and found my father's emotions jarring and unsettling. When I asked if he was okay, he brushed it off as sadness associated with his disgust with Reagan—he was a Kennedy Democrat—but that explanation didn't add up. I walked away troubled but gave him his space.
Seven years later, my father almost died of a heart attack and my mother decided to share one of our family's darkest secrets.
My Mom said that she needed to tell me something and declared: "Your father is Jewish".
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