A Star in the Shadows

Yesterday was an unexpectedly emotional day. We went to Redlands for lunch and took a stroll through a large antique store downtown. As we made our way toward the exit, we passed several display cases filled with various collectibles. One caught our eye— memorabilia of some of our favorite childhood cartoons. But as we examined them, something else, much more somber, on the shelf below drew my attention.

Taking up nearly three full shelves was a collection of World War II-era Nazi paraphernalia: the eagle crest of the Third Reich, officer badges, Iron Cross medals, SS insignia, death's head signet rings, and numerous swastika pins. Scattered among them were German banknotes and identification cards, their faded edges bearing the patina of time. And then, tucked away at the back of the display case, amidst these symbols of hate, was something that made my breath catch in my chest—a tattered and worn armband bearing the yellow Star of David. The armband itself was small, but it bore the immense burden of its past. The faded blue and white striped fabric was stained, its seams frayed with time and wear. A crude Third Reich stamp marked it with the insignia of oppression, a stark contrast to the yellow Star of David sewn onto it—a symbol of forced identity, of suffering, of resilience.

Wave after wave of emotion crashed against my heart; my throat tightened and tears welled at the corners of my eyes. Seeing the armband of a Holocaust victim placed among the so-called "honors" of those who persecuted them was a grotesque and heartbreaking injustice. Not only that, but to place it in the back of the case like an afterthought felt like yet another cruel indignity—as though the suffering it represented was being overshadowed, diminished, or forgotten. It did not belong among the medals of those who enforced oppression; it was not a relic of power, but of persecution. The frayed seams and faded fabric told a different story—one of unimaginable loss, resilience, and lives stolen too soon. To see it treated as just another item for sale, rather than a solemn reminder of history’s darkest chapter, was a stark reminder of why remembrance is not optional—it is essential. I had been holding a few small items to purchase, but at that moment, I set them down, prepared to walk out without spending a single penny. How could this store justify placing these objects together, much less selling them at all?

But as we turned to leave, something stopped me. I turned back to the case, my whole body trembling. I have always believed that certain objects carry the weight of their history, especially those tied to violence and suffering. Standing there, I felt it—a barrage of emotions: grief, anguish, despair. I broke down sobbing. I have taught high school English for fourteen years, and in that time, I've led my students through studies of the Holocaust and the stories of its victims and survivors. Even after fourteen years, the impact of those stories has not faded one iota, so this chance encounter amongst the clutter of decades past only deepened my conviction that these stories must continue to be told. Standing before that display case, I was reminded that history is not just something we read about in books—it lingers in objects, in places, in the weight of memory. To see the armband of a victim treated as just another dormant artifact for sale was a stark and painful contrast to the lessons I have strived to impart to my students: that remembrance is an act of resistance, and that the past must never be allowed to fade into indifference.

I knew then that I could not leave that armband behind. So I bought it—not as a collector’s item, but as an act of remembrance. It will not remain in that case, treated as a curiosity. I will be taking it to the Los Angeles Holocaust Museum, where it will be preserved and honored, ensuring that the life of its wearer is never forgotten.