Let compassion breathe in and out of you, filling you and singing[1] The day was beautiful. I felt energetic and looked forward to office hours. Several new patients were scheduled, which always adds adventure to the routine and the possibility of an intimate moment of connectedness. About mid-morning I entered one of the examination rooms where new patient was waiting. She was slightly overweight, in her fifties, and after her morning her accent revealed her to be German. Her chief complaint was that her shortness of breath was getting worse. She had sought me out because her friend told her that I spoke German, which would make communications more comfortable for her. When I started taking her history we switched to German. During the system review I asked about her family. Her husband had been killed fighting for the Fuher. Her son was in the Hitler Youth; he was only ten when the Allies overcame the Reich. She and her son had come to the States reluctantly, but food and housing in Germany were scarce after the war, and she had sister in New Jersey who could provide both. Her role during the war was to supervise slave laborers--Jews, Poles, and others--in defense plant near her hometown. She did regret using these Minderwertigen (scum, low-downs) to further the goals of the Vaterland. There was little doubt in her mind that these vermin got what they deserved: elimination by hard labor and starvation. When I finished taking her history my script was almost illegible, due to my shaking hand. Could I treat this person? Could I be compassionate? Neutral? Should I tell her that I am member of the vermin, the Jewish race, that my father had been in concentration camp, that many of my relatives had died there? What would I accomplish by telling her this? Should I refer her to pulmonologist for her chronic obstructive pulmonary disease and thus resolve my dilemma? Would that fulfill my professional ethical responsibilities? It certainly was the first time that I was confronted with anti-Semites who, unaware that I am Jewish, emptied their venom in front of me. It was the first time, however, that I was presented with Nazi, whom I was to heal, who, as all patients, demanded and deserved compassion. This was different relationship from that of casual acquaintance, with whom I could try to reason; different also from the patients who, while visiting me, make denigrating remarks about Asian Americans or African Americans. I tell the latter, without hesitation, that I do share their viewpoint. I explain to them that people are refused service in my office because of race, religion, sexual orientation, or diseases that they have contracted. This response takes into account the obligation that Dr. Loeben assigns to the physician not to condone or facilitate prejudice.[2] It also fulfills the need of the healer to speak out in private and in public about her values, need that has been identified as a distinctive feature of the profession(s) from before medieval times.[3] My Nazi patient presented different scenario. Hers was an assault on my personhood, on an open wound that had healed. Could I put my experiences of the past aside sufficiently to be good physician to her? Should I give her the opportunity to go elsewhere? She might prefer to be treated by someone whose religious orientation was reason for her to detest that person. I know, and have lectured to medical students many times, that respect and trust are basic to good doctor-patient relationship. Could this patient respect and trust me? I am familiar with the person who rejects contact with all Jews (or Catholics, or African-Americans) except the one with whom she is confronted. The white sheep, among herd of black, is singled out for being different from the rest of the herd and therefore acceptable. I have always been extremely uncomfortable being the white sheep. …