She needed a notary. How a Holocaust survivor became a friend.
“Are you a notary?” Ann asked me as I walked off the fluorescent-lit elevator and into the dimness of our apartment floor. She was hovering at the elevator bank, her gaunt frame hunched over her walker. Her blue eyes shone from her taut face, all encircled by a bird’s nest of frizzy gray hair. “Yes,” I told her, not stopping to chitchat. After an exhausting day at work, I just wanted to take off the pumps that were pinching my toes, change into sweatpants, and eat my leftover dinner in front of mindless TV. I did not want to notarize
