The black and white photos looked like sepia through her brown sunglasses. She smiled at the affect, sentimental.
“This is her,” said the woman. “My daughter.”
If this was taken back then, her daughter must be fifty by now. How old did that make this woman?
The girl looked like she was probably seven or eight here, maybe blonde hair. Pretty little dress, ribbon in her hair… “I assume this was before the Nazis caught you?”
“Yes,” the woman answered. “We were on the run for about six months before they caught up with us. This is her at seven. They caught us the day after her eighth birthday.”
Ah. “That’s sad,” she said.
“We were separated after that… I’ve never seen her since. She could be dead. She might have died long ago, but I never got over it. Even after the war… I was hysterical after the war, in fact. It wasn’t until then that it really sunk in… I was never getting my baby back.”
She nodded, sympathetic. “What was her name?”
“Käthe Egyedi. We called her Kitty…” she said, looking down at the photo sadly.