The sidewalks of Amsterdam are spotted with little gold squares. You almost don’t notice them among the cobblestones at first. Each bears the name of a Jewish person who lived at that address when they were taken in World War II. Today, these buildings that were once their homes are now offices, posh restaurants, or art studios. If you don’t look down at the street, you’ll have no idea such a nightmare unfolded there decades before.

But in my recent visit to the beautiful city, I couldn’t help but look down just as much as I looked up. I saw the water, the art, the food, and the architecture. But I also saw the ghosts of past horrors—engraved in gold beneath my feet.

In 1940, three young friends stood where I stood, one with red hair just like mine. But when Hannie Schaft, Freddie Oversteegen, and Truus Oversteegen walked these streets, their Jewish friends weren’t allowed to walk beside them. The Germans had invaded, and the Holland they knew was rapidly changing.

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