There’s a first-hand account of the liberation of Paris 60 years ago today in the Washington Post:
I was a 17-year-old Jewish girl who had been hiding under an assumed name with forged identity papers in the Pigalle district of Paris. I’d been waiting since 1940, when France fell, since 1941, when the Germans came for my father, since 1943, when my 13-year-old sister and I — sole survivors of our family — had to abandon our home and go into hiding. I was marking time, focused on one great expectation: deliverance.
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