My parents spent World War II in Nazi-occupied Holland.
As you can imagine, I heard several stories of that time. My sense, though, is that I did not hear all the stories. The stories I heard were of successes, things that worked, hiding from the Germans, and some of the tricks my parents and grandparents used to work around some of the shortages, or prohibitions, of the time.
There’s one story, of which I certainly only have fragments, that almost always comes to mind when I think about them during that time.
The time my dad and his brother escaped from a Nazi prison camp.