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…is when my 94-year-old grandmother, casting a glance at her glass, leans in toward my 95-year-old grandfather and whispers, “Weak drinks, Hermann. Weak, weak drinks…” and my grandfather, who thinks nobody is watching, quietly pulls his flask from his coat pocket, pours a generous amount of its contents into each of their glasses, and then raises his glass to my grandmother, who, in turn, raises hers, and they hold each other’s eyes, silently toasting each other with a long, long look.