I grew up eating my cornflakes with Joachim's spoon.
My mum was German Jewish and Joachim was her younger brother, born in 1935. My mum escaped to Palestine from Nazi Germany in 1939. Her parents and Joachim stayed in Nordhausen.
After the war, my mum, having married and moved to London, wrote to her former non-Jewish neighbours. They were poverty-stricken and mum sent them food parcels. In return, the neighbours sent her Joachim's spoon.
Before they were sent to Theresienstadt in 1943, mum's mum had asked the neighbours to keep the spoon until Joachim returned home. They kept it, risking arrest if the Nazi authorities found a 'Jewish' spoon in their house, but the family never returned. My grandfather died in Theresienstadt; my grandmother and Joachim, in Auschwitz, aged 8 or 9.
To me, the spoon is a symbol of hope for humanity against atrocious odds.