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Scenes from a recurring nightmare: families gathered in an enormous yard, ignorant of where they are going and fearing the worst; bewildered strangers at the edges of a crowd muttering to themselves; despairing attempts to save a treasured violin; and then a train whistle, a noise so unequivocal in its associations that it has assumed the portent of a symbol, the permanence of a scar. The deportations to the Nazi death camps have become the Jewish Passion play, an event whose meaning lies as much in endless representation and reiteration as in the feelings of rage and grief that it calls up. In the most recent version, Roman Polanski's "The Pianist," we are acquainted with ...