My father told me how he and my little brother have been in Berlin a while ago. Visiting friends, father-son-weekend, something like that.
Amongst others, they went into the city centre, to the area around the Brandenburger Tor. Summer, capital, many people around. Together, they were walking through the groups of people. At some point, they passed a girl, which was crying. My father was already passing her as anyone else, when my brother asked whether they should not ask her if something happened. Our father agreed and they went back to the crying child. She spoke Russian or another Slavic language, which the two did not understand. But they could bring the little one to an official place nearby, where someone took care of her and found her family. And what was stuck in my mind from this story? How my brother paid attention to the other child and helped her, while so many grown-ups had seemingly overlooked her.