Some years ago, writes Dr. Bauer, I went to the Czech Republic (former Czechoslovakia), where I was born, with my wife Elana.  We drove to the town where my grandparents had lived, Teplice-Sanov.  My grandfather had a stationery shop on a street I remembered very well, because as a kid I used to spend hours there playing with pencils and paper.  The distance from there to my grandparents’ house was not great, and I remembered:  it went through an alley, kind of up a gentle incline, until it reached a local rail crossing, and just beyond that was a small two-story villa, with my grandparents on the top floor, and another Jewish family—the Baers—on the lower floor.  There was a lovely little garden around; my grandparents were not rich, but quite comfortable.  Elana and I found the street of the shop, and then I drove up through the alley to the house, and was very proud that I had remembered exactly how to get there.  We stood at the garden fence, and I was explaining to Elana where my grandparents had lived, and as I was talking, two boys were looking out of the window of what had been the dining room, and they watched us very suspiciously.  Then they called their mom, obviously telling her there were two odd strangers pointing at the house and gesturing, and so on.  When the lady came to the window, I called out, in Czech, which I speak, that my grandparents had lived there.  She asked what their name had been.  I said, Rudolf and Camilla Bauer.  Whereupon, she said she was coming down.  They opened the gate and welcomed us into the garden—it was summer, and very nice.