When I was in high school in 1972, my mother hired an Estonian lady to teach me oil painting. She always wore long sleeves. One day, she was showing me some brush blending, when her sleeve slipped down from her wrist. She had numbers tatooed up her forearm. She had been in a concentration camp during the war. The rest of her family was never seen again. Your mention of Estonia reminded me of her.

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Just be yourself. The rest will fall in line.