I have a mezuzah on my front doorpost.

For those who don’t know, a mezuzah is a piece of parchment inscribed with verses from the Torah, rolled up into a scroll inside a small, decorated case. It is usually nailed to the doorpost slightly tilted in order to signify that God is protecting the home of the Jewish family inside.

My late husband, Ben Bradlee, was not Jewish, nor am I. So when we moved into our house 40 years ago, we knew what a mezuzah was but weren’t sure what it meant. We soon learned.

Art Buchwald, the late, great Post humor columnist, who was Jewish, was Ben’s closest friend. As soon as the moving vans began arriving at our house, Artie rushed over. He had brought us a present, he said, and it was terribly important that we put it up immediately. He had thoughtfully brought along a hammer and nail, and before we knew what was happening, he had attached a mezuzah to our doorsill. “Artie, what are you doing?” Ben asked. “I’m putting this up here for your protection,” he explained. “Don’t ever take it down.”

Years went by without incident. Not many people noticed the small adornment next to the door. One night, though, when we were having a dinner party, the Canadian ambassador and his wife, Allan and Sondra Gotlieb, who were Jewish, didn’t show up. I finally started dinner without them. In the middle of the first course, the doorbell rang. It was the Gotliebs, mortified. They had arrived on time, saw the mezuzah and assumed they had the wrong address.

At some point, we needed to have the woodwork repainted. The painters removed the mezuzah from the doorsill and discarded it.

That was when things began to go awry:

I was awakened late one night in 1992 by a noise downstairs and, leaving Ben asleep, got up to see what it was. Halfway down the stairs, I saw a man standing in the hallway with an armful of my coats. I let out a yell, and he dropped everything and ran out the back, climbing through a small window.

Several months later, in the summer, I went into the house from the backyard to retrieve something from my bedroom upstairs. When I came out of my room, a huge guy was coming down the stairs from the third floor. I was surprised, but I was accustomed to having workmen in the house, so I asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m James,” he responded, equally startled.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Jerome,” he said, and ran down the stairs and out the door before jumping over the wall. It was only later that day that I found some TV sets had disappeared from the third floor, presumably thanks to Jerome.

Then came December. Ben and I threw a big bash for the holidays. Just before the event, the caterers called to say that two of their regular waiters were sick but they were sending replacements. The party was a smash, and the last guest didn’t straggle out until almost 2 a.m. The next morning, having had a bit too much champagne, I staggered downstairs. To my consternation, several pieces of my underwear were hanging from the chandelier. A few hours later, I walked into the powder room and was horrified to see that someone had written “DEATH TO THE JEWS!” on the wallpaper with a black Magic Marker.

That did it. Ben called Artie and told him he had to bring over another mezuzah right away. It was an emergency. Artie was there in an hour. He nailed the mezuzah to the doorsill, and we all said a prayer.

I realize that there are many observant Jews who might think that my having a mezuzah seems frivolous. For them it is a religious symbol, the following of God’s word. For me it is more of a spiritual amulet, a blessing over my home from a beloved friend.

Several weeks ago, the New York Times ran a column by Brooklyn Rabbi Rachel Timoner, “Do Not Take Your Mezuza Off Your Door.” It was only then that I remembered I had a mezuzah on my door. I began to wonder whether I or my family could be targeted because of it.

And then I thought about my father taking me to Dachau. Inscribed on a stone near the huge iron gate there are the words “Denket Daran Wie Wir Hier Starben” — “Remember how we died here.”

I was stricken with shame. I knew that the silence of good people had enabled the Holocaust to take place. Of course I would not take the mezuzah down. It had protected me for 40 years. It would stay.