Mrs Epstein. She was an old lady. Her son and daughter had left Germany before the war. She’d loved Germany too much to consider leaving, she’d told us. Then when she wanted to leave, like so many of us, she was trapped.
Mama and Aunty Gitta talked of days when they lived in proper houses. They knitted or sewed while they spoke. Mama suddenly took to carefully unpicking wool from worn-out jumpers and reknitting the old wool. She was knitting the world’s longest scarf. Mama wasknitting her family, she told Aunty Gitta. She knitted Papa, and the birth of Miri and me. She knitted Aunty Gitta. She knitted her parents, and their parents before them. She knitted her cousins, scattered around Germany. She knitted Erich and Agnes. Each colour of the world’s longest scarf represented a different person in her family.
‘You should knit something more useful,’ commented Aunty Gitta.
‘I am knitting my memories,’ Mama replied.
‘Where am I on the scarf, Mama?’ I asked.
‘That’s a secret. One day you will look at it and know immediately where you are.’
‘Knitting your memories?’ scoffed Aunty Gitta. ‘Knit a blanket; something practical. Memories won’t keep us warm.’
‘Ah, but they do.’
On Friday nights after the first stars appeared in the sky, we sat around the kitchen table and said Sabbath prayers. From turnips and old vegetables and occasional potatoes and water, Aunty Gitta and Mama made soup. Candles were lit to welcome in the Sabbath, and around their flickering flame Mama, with her head covered by a scarf and her hands circling the candles in prayer, asked God to bless the Sabbath, to keep us safe.
I concentrated hard and no longer pulled faces at Agnes, even though she pulled faces at me. After all, I’d made a promise to God.
We only had the candles lit for a short while as we didn’t have many left. There was no wine for our blessing of the Sabbath but we could always pretend. We held up invisible wineglasses and toasted in the Sabbath.
‘Now, that was really good,’ Papa said, licking his lips. ‘Invisible wine. The best wine made in the best year.’
Real wine was dark red and sweet. I could almost remember the taste.
We saved some of our bread rations and used a little of the bread Mrs Liebermann had given us. Mama magically coiled the bread into a plait. Miri told me that this custom went back so far in time that nobody knew when it first started.
Papa pulled the coiled bread apart, threw it carelessly to everyone and then we children threw bread at each other. This had nothing to do with religion. It was our family custom, invented by Papa, from a time when there was no war, no worries, no machine guns, no Nazis and no Hitler.
Then one day there was a thud at our door. A large boot kicked the door open. Four armed Nazis stood there, tall, with horrible skinny lips that hardly moved. ‘Is Ernst Schwarz, the tailor, here?’ a soldier asked.
Uncle Ernst stepped forward awkwardly, his lips trembling. ‘Here I am,’ he mumbled.
I truly wanted to faint. I wanted to wake up somewhere else, where there was sunshine and green grass and my family was safe, and there was plenty of food, and Nazis had been put in a spaceship and sent far, far away.
What did they want with my uncle? Aunty Gitta, who stood behind him, also took a step forward. Mama tugged at the belt on Aunty Gitta’s dress, pulling her back.
‘Schwarz, you are to come with us. Now.’
Uncle Ernst stared vacantly in front of him. He turned to Aunty Gitta. ‘Maybe it’s just a bit of tailoring. Sewing, some clothing. Just some tailoring…’
Papa nervously asked the soldiers, ‘When will he return?’
‘Quiet,’ one of them replied.
Aunty Gitta’s eyes seemed to sink into her head. Papa put an arm around Mama. Her face was blank with shock. Agnes stood there, open-mouthed. Erich, usually so quiet and studious, suddenly ran to his father and stood protectively in front of him.
‘Don’t take my
Mama and Aunty Gitta talked of days when they lived in proper houses. They knitted or sewed while they spoke. Mama suddenly took to carefully unpicking wool from worn-out jumpers and reknitting the old wool. She was knitting the world’s longest scarf. Mama wasknitting her family, she told Aunty Gitta. She knitted Papa, and the birth of Miri and me. She knitted Aunty Gitta. She knitted her parents, and their parents before them. She knitted her cousins, scattered around Germany. She knitted Erich and Agnes. Each colour of the world’s longest scarf represented a different person in her family.
‘You should knit something more useful,’ commented Aunty Gitta.
‘I am knitting my memories,’ Mama replied.
‘Where am I on the scarf, Mama?’ I asked.
‘That’s a secret. One day you will look at it and know immediately where you are.’
‘Knitting your memories?’ scoffed Aunty Gitta. ‘Knit a blanket; something practical. Memories won’t keep us warm.’
‘Ah, but they do.’
On Friday nights after the first stars appeared in the sky, we sat around the kitchen table and said Sabbath prayers. From turnips and old vegetables and occasional potatoes and water, Aunty Gitta and Mama made soup. Candles were lit to welcome in the Sabbath, and around their flickering flame Mama, with her head covered by a scarf and her hands circling the candles in prayer, asked God to bless the Sabbath, to keep us safe.
I concentrated hard and no longer pulled faces at Agnes, even though she pulled faces at me. After all, I’d made a promise to God.
We only had the candles lit for a short while as we didn’t have many left. There was no wine for our blessing of the Sabbath but we could always pretend. We held up invisible wineglasses and toasted in the Sabbath.
‘Now, that was really good,’ Papa said, licking his lips. ‘Invisible wine. The best wine made in the best year.’
Real wine was dark red and sweet. I could almost remember the taste.
We saved some of our bread rations and used a little of the bread Mrs Liebermann had given us. Mama magically coiled the bread into a plait. Miri told me that this custom went back so far in time that nobody knew when it first started.
Papa pulled the coiled bread apart, threw it carelessly to everyone and then we children threw bread at each other. This had nothing to do with religion. It was our family custom, invented by Papa, from a time when there was no war, no worries, no machine guns, no Nazis and no Hitler.
Then one day there was a thud at our door. A large boot kicked the door open. Four armed Nazis stood there, tall, with horrible skinny lips that hardly moved. ‘Is Ernst Schwarz, the tailor, here?’ a soldier asked.
Uncle Ernst stepped forward awkwardly, his lips trembling. ‘Here I am,’ he mumbled.
I truly wanted to faint. I wanted to wake up somewhere else, where there was sunshine and green grass and my family was safe, and there was plenty of food, and Nazis had been put in a spaceship and sent far, far away.
What did they want with my uncle? Aunty Gitta, who stood behind him, also took a step forward. Mama tugged at the belt on Aunty Gitta’s dress, pulling her back.
‘Schwarz, you are to come with us. Now.’
Uncle Ernst stared vacantly in front of him. He turned to Aunty Gitta. ‘Maybe it’s just a bit of tailoring. Sewing, some clothing. Just some tailoring…’
Papa nervously asked the soldiers, ‘When will he return?’
‘Quiet,’ one of them replied.
Aunty Gitta’s eyes seemed to sink into her head. Papa put an arm around Mama. Her face was blank with shock. Agnes stood there, open-mouthed. Erich, usually so quiet and studious, suddenly ran to his father and stood protectively in front of him.
‘Don’t take my
Similar Books
