"Hindeleh," she said to me, "this Passover we will eat the plumpest, tastiest katchkeh in all of Krosno."

Now this was a pretty preposterous proclamation, for Krosno was a small village of not more than two thousand people, most of whom were poor, the rest of whom were robbers. My closest friend Sesha the daughter of Mortcha the blacksmith had never before seen a duck let alone bit into its juicy flesh. However, what my Tante Serkeh wanted to believe she believed; and no one, not even the great Reb Nachman of Bratslav himself, could persuade her otherwise. If I dared to enlighten her, she would simply bring an end to my challenge by reaching into her silver-plated candy bowl whose base reminded her of Paderewski's wild beard.

"Hindeleh, do you want a chocolate caramel?" she would say, dangling a handful of colorfully wrapped bon-bons before my eyes.

Those candies were so tempting, even the stoic martyrs of our people would have found their chewy centers difficult to resist. In those trying times of deflated spirits and inflated currency, life was onerous and there was neither time nor place for heated debate. Treats were therefore irresistible. The fields were yellow from lack of rain and everyone was as jumpy as hooked halibut. Most men were out of work and everyone was out of sorts. Scraps of paper and pieces of lint filled our pockets instead of coins, and every night for dinner we had sandy boiled potatoes and thin red borscht. The chickens were dehydrated and the cows were feeble from hunger. Before long, the terrified and the superstitious interpreted the affliction as a sign from God and began predicting a decimation even crueler than the Ukrainian pogroms. These visionaries included my parents, Kaila and Rueven, who fled to Antwerp in 1939 by train in the middle of the night. Upon their departure, they entrusted me to the care of my Tante Serkeh, my mother's older sister, who took the place of their own mother when she succumbed to influenza during the great epidemic of 1921. I was to wait with her and her husband, Uncle Leo, until my parents called for me; but I was impatient, and spent many afternoons waiting for the post, hoping for an air mail letter with fancy stamps and bountiful descriptions of a world in French. Between the lines, I imagined the hardships my parents' words had left out. 'Soon, Hindeleh," they would write in their florid, expansive script, "you'll be attending a wonderful school in a peaceful village, wearing patent leather shoes, a wool dress, and a silk-lined fur jacket." I knew their dreams were merely imaginations for my father was working as a messenger for a diamond dealer and my mother was sewing embroidered initials on the inside of mink stoles. However, they sent us whatever money they could spare, which helped us buy an extra egg or a Shabbos challah. But all four seasons had passed since their departure, and still my Tante, my Uncle Leo and I were hungry in Krosno. Nonetheless, every night before I went to sleep I would close my eyes and count days instead of baby lambs, hoping to accelerate time and thus be at the moment when we would all be reunited in freedom.

Until then, my Aunt and Uncle distracted me by keeping me so busy that I had no time to consider my temporary orphan status. They understood the pull of loss. Without children of their own, they filled the void by working for the Hevreh Kadishah, the holy volunteers who washed and sat with the dead on the eve of their burial. They also cared for many stray dogs and lonely children. However, in the time before the war, I was their only charge. They could afford no more. Normally, they would not even accept a single groshen from my parents, but during this time of depression and drought they were dependent on the smallest charity for survival. Therefore, you can imagine my dismay when my Tante suddenly announced that we were going to have a duck for our Seder! In my most fanciful imaginations, I had hoped for basic beef flanken. I thought she was just beginning another one of her imaginative fabrications like the fable about how one of her favorite stray dogs had buried her ruby engagement ring in her parsnip patch. In another lifetime, my Tante would have been a prophetess or even the writer of freilachen, those cheerful melodies that blasted on our Victrola on Saturday evening after we concluded our Havdalah prayers. But in those lean years, her elaborations were simply welcome fanciful tales. A duck? I couldn't remember the last time I had even seen one! When I protested that such an extravagance was totally unnecessary, my Tante spit on her handkerchief and rubbed away an eyelash that had fallen on my cheek.

"When I was child,' she exclaimed, 'ducks were not a luxury, they were dinner! Why should you be different?"

"I'm not a child," I protested.

"To me you are!" she laughed, brushing the hairs off my forehead. Squinting, she peered at me through her thick spectacles as if examining the facets of an uncut gemstone.

"Times were different," I continued. "You lived on a real farm. Food wasn't a problem." She persisted, combing my hair back with her hands. Before I knew it, she had stuffed an unwrapped caramel into my mouth and was leading me by the hand to the central marketplace.

Mind you, the Krosno bazaar was not the Paris of Poland. Women peddlers wrapped their bald heads in sackcloth scarves and dressed in flannel sheaths mended with old dishrags. Carving and peeling all day, their fingers were flaked with onionskin petals. But for my Tante Serkeh, the Krosno market was a holy place made musical by the adjacent convent's medieval bell tower. For her, the bazaar was THE place to promenade and be seen.

"Since you wear your best to synagogue," she would proudly proclaim, "why shouldn't you wear your best to market? You never know who might be there!" Winking, she would talk about how she had recently seen Bruno Kaplan, the young welterweight who had won a gold medal at the last Maccabeah Games, standing by the smoked fish peddler's stall.

"Really, Tante! Who's going to be in Krosno?" I would laugh and she would smack me hard, accusing me of insolence. When my Tante Serkeh believed something, it was easier to squeeze water from a stone than to convince her otherwise. So off we went without further protest, wearing our best Shabos dresses, my cheek throbbing, to purchase a katchkeh for the Seder.

At first we walked in silence, listening to the loose rocks rolling beneath our feet. But as we approached the market, my Tante started walking faster and faster, nearly breaking into a trot. Soon I was panting and sweating because I had to skip to keep up with her. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, my Tante asked me what was the matter.

"A duck is expensive, Tante," I said, wiping my eyes. "Why are we running to buy something we can't afford?"

She gathered me to her. Against the heat of her garments, I could feel her laughing.

"You worry too much for a little girl, Hinde. What happened to your imagination? Look here," she whispered, pointing to a pocket sewn into the hem of her skirt. Under the flap were two shiny 20 zloty pieces. It was more money than I had ever seen in one place in my entire life. "Your parents sent the coins with a friend who came home for the holidays. They wanted to make sure that you wouldn't miss them too much."

"Why waste it on a duck?" I asked, "when there is so much else that we need? Why don't we buy a barrel of flour, a carton of sugar, a flagon of butter!"

"Shah, maideleh," she said, pressing her forefinger to her lips. "Do you want to disappoint your parents? This is what they want for you! How could I face them again knowing that I had deliberately defied their specific instructions?"

"A duck it shall be," I laughed, hugging her. Taking her hand, we walked on in silence.When we arrived at the market, the day was still young but the shops were already loud with the clomping of horses' hooves and wagon wheels. A heavy crate accidentally fell out of an open cart onto my foot and hurt my toe. When I stopped to rub it, my Tante grabbed my hand and pulled me into the moving crowd. She would not let me stand still.

"They'll crush you," she said, referring to the beggars who had been hired to unload merchandise in exchange for a piece of day-old bread or a bottle of ale.

Women using straw baskets as compasses pushed their way through the dense crowd. Some paused to haggle with the stall owners. I noticed our neighbor, Mrs. Schwarzkopf, standing beneath a hanging cow's head swarming with flies, accusing Liebowitz of Chelm of passing off sour milk and day-old bread as fresh produce. Kneading her forehead, she proclaimed to God and to all his witnesses that she was the victim of a great economic travesty. Liebovitz of Chelm, a squat man with hair the color of dirty snow, turned his back on her. I begged my Tante to stop for I was sure a good fight would surely ensue, but she would not be stilled, not even for a brilliant argument, and so we continued to wade through the crowds of shoppers.

Tattered piles crowded the narrow walkways. One peddler prodded our ankles with her wares, crying, "two piasters, only two piasters!" My Tante groaned as she rifled through the rags, choosing one before throwing the woman a few coins.

After awhile, we emerged at the head of a long line of women waiting to buy lungs, hearts, brains and intestines from Yonkeleh the butcher. Many tried to push us to the rear, yelling, "Serkeh, do you think you're the only one who has to hurry home before your husband comes home from work?" But where my Tante thought she belonged, she belonged, and not even the great King Solomon could budge her.

"Yonkeleh, do you have a nice katchkeh for me?" my Tante smiled when it was her turn at his counter, batting whatever eyelashes she had left. She was blushing and winking at Yokeleh who had no hair or teeth and looked to me like a big brown egg covered with stray chicken feathers. "I'm sure you do," she smiled, jingling the coins hidden in the hem of her skirt.

"No, Serkeh, not today, I'm sorry."

"What do you mean 'not today, I'm sorry!' You call yourself a butcher and you don't have a fresh katchkeh for the holidays?"

Yonkeleh threw a rack of lamp chops against his cutting board and started shouting. "God in heaven, Serkeh, ducks are expensive! Who in this town would buy a duck from me? Can you tell me what would happen if I dared to bring one into my stall? It would sit there for days and smell. Everyone would say, 'Oy, Yonkeleh, what a nice katchkeh, I wish I could afford it!' but no one would buy it and I would wind up eating it and I can't afford it! I wish I could, Serkeh, just to have it here, sitting on ice, waiting for you."

"Yonkeleh, your lamb chops look fatty today," my Aunt remarked, peering over the bloody counter at the rack of lamb resting on a sheet of coarse brown paper.

"You want something else?" Yonkeleh smiled, wiping his hands on his apron. "Maybe a breast of veal or a turkey leg?"

He pointed to a pile of freshly cleaned carcasses, pink and pale as parchment paper.

"You should learn how to run a business," my Tante hollered, pressing her eyeglasses against the bridge of her nose. "Inventory is the difference between a rich and a poor butcher."

She forced me between the folds of her heavy black skirt and pushed me back into the crowd. We walked for hours, searching abandoned crates and garbage piles for our prize, hoping to hear the squawk or gaggle of a katchkeh. We asked many people where we could find one, but no one knew. Just when we were about to give up, when our clothes were so sweaty that they stuck to our bodies like uncooked bread dough, my Tante found her katchkeh. It was almost by accident. While trying to push our way out the market gates, we were shoved by the crowd into a narrow alleyway. There in a corner, seated on a splintered oak stool, was an old woman sprinkling breadcrumbs on the heads of a few bobbing chickens. She was not a religious woman for her hair was woven in kinky braids around her head. We approached her and sure enough, there was our duck, nudging his beak into the woman's bulbous rear end. My Tante's face, which had been so drawn and ashen just moments before, flushed as she eyed her prize. Straightening her kerchief and smoothing the wrinkles in her skirt, she glided towards the bird lady.

"Good morning Mrs. Gamekeeper," she smiled, "how much do you want for that skinny duck?"

"You should be so skinny," the woman sneered. She scratched her forehead as she eyed her prancing duck. "35 zloties. I won't go down."

"35 zloties!" my Tante shrieked. "That duck is so skinny, it looks more like a broom handle than a bird! I'll pay you 10 zloties."

"10! If you want to pay ten, why don't you buy yourself a chicken? This duck eats 10 zloties of food every month."

"If this duck eats 10 zloties of food a month, then you must be feeding him caviar." My Tante cried, cupping her cheeks and shaking her head in disbelief.

"Have you gone shopping lately?" the bird lady asked my Aunt. "Do you know the price of poultry feed?"

They haggled for over an hour, my Tante telling me not to listen as she called the woman a thief, a whore, a pig and a selfish donkey. They stamped their feet, turned in circles and raised their fists, needling the poor duck until its cries grew so fierce, a crowd gathered round. Unaware of their audience, their movements became quicker and wilder, their voices growing hoarser with each challenge and countering insult. After awhile, Moishe the Milkman begged them to stop for their screams were breaking his eggs, but they didn't pay him any attention. They simply continued until my Tante decided that she had walked away and returned to the bargaining floor the requisite number of times. Then she dug her hand into her hidden skirt pocket and pulled out a single 20 zloty piece that she threw at her opponent, hitting her left ear. Wishing a plague upon all her grandchildren, my Tante crushed the angry duck under one arm and grabbed me with her other, dragging us both towards the market exit.

"You see, Hinde, patience," she said, "patience and firmness. That's the difference between a good and a bad bargainer."

Though I agreed that patience was a virtue, I thought 20 zloties was a lot of money, even for a katchkeh. But I didn't say a word for my mouth was filled with the halvah I had bought from my Tante's friend Amalia whose sweet stall stood at the market threshold. As we walked home, we stopped every so often for the crazed bird was digging its feet into my Tante's bad hip and she had to put it down and talk to it in order to get it to be still.

When we came home, we placed the duck in the coop with the emaciated chickens. Then we baked him a feast of rich egg noodles to fatten him up for the holidays. We spent hours rolling the heavy, sticky dough. When Uncle Leo came home that evening, he peeked over my Tante's shoulder to see what we were doing.

"Oy, Serkeh, don't tell me you're making my favorite noodles and soup again after so much thin borscht," he smiled, rubbing his silk skullcap against the back of his head. When he laughed, his golden molars glowed.

"Pooh, pooh, Leo, go away," my Tante said, smiling. "The noodles are for our holiday bird. We have to fatten him up. Of course, I'm making you potatoes and borscht for dinner. If you're lucky, I might make you some cabbage stew."

"Wonderful. I have a katchkeh that eats like a gourmet and I eat sandy potatoes and thin red borscht four times a week."

"Leo, go read the newspaper. You'll see what a beautiful, fat bird we'll have for our Seder."

And with that, my Uncle, who was not a young man, pinched my Tante's behind, causing her to raise her hands and spray cooked noodles all over the kitchen floor.

"Oy, Leo, do you see what you've done?" she said, laughing, her eyeglasses lined with strings of wet noodle dough.

From then until Pesach, it was my responsibility to feed the katchkeh three times a day. My Tante Serkeh told me so, and whatever she told me to do, especially with a leather strap hanging from the hook in her pantry, I obeyed. And did that duck get fat. He got so fat, he didn't waddle around the yard with the chickens anymore. He was too plump too even move. He just sat in the corner, ruffling his feathers like he would be looking in the mirror, waiting for me to come and feed him his rich, hot egg noodles. I did this for almost two weeks until Mr. Lubeniecki, the local police chief, came strolling into our yard.

"Good morning, Hinde," he said, his hands hidden in his pant pockets. "That's a nice duck you have there."

"I call him Latke," I blushed, revealing what I had told only my Tante.

"Is he your pet?" he asked, trying to stroke Latke's neck, but the bird just shirked and squawked, waddling away.

"No, my dinner," I laughed.

Mr. Lubienecki cleared his throat and pushed his cap back against his head. His eyes were so small they looked like pencil points. "Is your Tante Serkeh in?" he asked, his voice darkening. "I want to speak to her for a minute."

Whispering goodbye to Latke, I ran into the kitchen to get my Tante. When she came out, Mr. Lubienecki told her that Mrs. Eisger, the wife of the big lawyer who lived in the house on the hill across the bridge, reported a stolen duck three weeks before. Mrs. Eisger lived in a mansion that had ten rooms, a gas oven, telephones and motorized bicycles. She could afford more than one katchkeh, she could afford an entire gaggle. Mr. Lubienecki explained how he had only just learned that my Tante had purchased a duck from an unknown vendor at the marketplace. He was curious to see if that purchase was the stolen bird. After my Aunt heard his story, she began to howl and thunder like a turkey in a rainstorm.

"Mr Lubeniecki, would I steal anything? My mother, may she rest in peace, was without money for most of her life. She had six children to feed and never did she take a groshen from anyone! Not charity, not anything! Knock on wood, I have a good life, I have money. I PAID 20 ZLOTIES FOR THAT DUCK. And if I didn't have the money, would I buy a katchkeh? I would buy an old egg! Mr. Lubeniecki, I may be a lot of things, but I'm not a thief. Are you accusing me of being a robber?"

"No, Serkeh, it's just..."

"Did Mrs. Eisger, in her throne room, send you down here to take away my duck so she could have the nicest, best katchkeh this holiday season? We'll see..."

And with those words she crammed my arms into the sleeves of my coat and dragged me to the Krosno bazaar to search for the woman who had sold us our Pesach bird. Mr. Lubienecki followed us from behind, smoking cigarettes and pausing every so often to clear the phlegm from his throat. During our long walk, my Tante didn't speak, she just huffed, her heavy shoes plodding the dirt. When we arrived at the market, we traced our steps to the narrow alleyway where we had first seen our Latke, but the woman with the old stool and the gray braids was no longer there. We ran around the entire market, asking all the vendors if they remembered this woman or knew where she could be found, but no one had any answers. They simply shook their heads and scratched their chins.

"This can't be!" my Tante yelled, "God up in heaven saw me bargain for over an hour with that woman. Hinde, you saw it. Tell Mr. Lubeniecki!"

I described our bargaining incident, but he remained unmoved.

"She's only a child," he said to my Tante, his eyes narrowing with disregard. "For her the truth is an invention. Serkeh, this won't do you any good. That peddler, if she ever existed, has disappeared into thin air. I'm sorry, but I'll have to take the duck away from you."

"Are you accusing me of lying?" my Aunt shouted, her eyes bald with rage. "Believe me, Mr. Police Chief, my Hindeleh is too stupid to lie. She's so truthful, she returns coins she finds lying in the street!"

Turning away, Mr. Lubeniecki started to peel an apple with a pocketknife. "Listen to me, Serkeh. This vendor you claim you bought this duck from, no longer exists. But because I like you, I'll do you a favor. Tomorrow, I'll bring Mrs. Eisger to your house to see if she recognizes the duck. That's all I can do. The rest we'll have to see."

That's when my Tante started to scream, knowing that the bargaining had come to a halt before she had even walked away and returned to the foray the requisite number of times. "You'll see, Mr. Lubienecki, my duck won't know from her!"

And sure enough, the next day Mrs. Eisger and Mr. Lubienicki came down the hill and over the bridge in her polished black Daimler. As she walked from her chariot to our yard, Mrs. Eisger almost fell off her fancy high-heeled pumps when she saw my Tante feeding noodles to Latke the katchkeh.

"That's my duck. THAT'S MY HENRY!" she cried.

My Tante just stood there, throwing her wooden bowl to the ground.

"YOUR katchkeh, Mrs. Eisger? It's MY duck. I paid 20 zloties for it. And his name isn't Henry, it's Latkeh."

"His name will be cooked if you ladies don't settle this soon," Mr. Lubeniecki said to himself, not thinking that I was listening.

"It's mine, I swear!" Mrs. Eisger cried, her eyes wide with revolution. "Look, Mr. Lubeniecki! Do you see that patch of dark feathers above the wing? That's my katchkeh! That's my Henry!"

"That's not a patch of dark feathers," my Tante protested. "That's dirt, a brick of mud. You're so blind, Pola, that if I stuck a pig in your face, you would think it was your katchkeh!"

Upon hearing those words, Mrs. Eisger lunged forward, her fingernails extended like talons, ready to rip out every stubble of my Tante's hair hidden beneath her wig.

"Blind, heh? Serkeh, you're deafer and dumber than Moishe the Milkman's mule! You want to prove it's my katchkeh? Put him in the middle of the plotz and he'll walk to my house. That katchkeh is no fool. He knows where he has it good."

"A katchkeh that walks home? Hah! Pola, that's one I would love to see!"

And my Tante picked up the duck, whose flabby feathers draped over her arm like a down pillow, and placed him in the middle of the street. For a second we all watched: Tante Serkeh, Mrs. Pola Eisger, Mr. Lubienecki, me and my Uncle Leo who came running from the outhouse the second he heard the commotion.

At first, the katchkeh just sat there, thrusting its long neck into its feathered folds. But when my Tante started rubbing her hands together like she was igniting a flame, he began to move. At first, he waddled very slowly. Constricted by his wide girth, his webbed feet stuck to the wet dirt as he keeled from side to side, riding the muddy yard as if it were the mighty sea. When he recovered his balance, he moved gently, slowly picking up his feet as if the ground was piping hot. Then he pecked at a berry bush at the side of the road. Satisfied, he started to run towards the bridge, scuttling up the hill, his wings flapping, his feathers flying, squawking and crying with the excitement of just having laid an egg. As he ran, Mrs. Eisger cheered him on and Tante Serkeh shouted angrily in Polish, pounding her fists against her forehead as she ordered him to turn around and go back in the right direction. I was too stunned to say a word. I just ran after the flying katchkeh. Soon onlookers were following our parade, curious as to where this katchkeh was going in such a hurry. And sure enough, he pranced through the gate of Mrs. Eisger's garden and plopped himself down near a lily pad pond, squealing quite contentedly.

Well, my Tante began to hop up and down, moaning and bellowing, pointing a finger at Mrs. Eisger then at Mr. Lubeniecki, even at Uncle Leo and then at me. She accused us of brainwashing her precious duck, singling me out for not feeding him enough, charging me with eating all the delicious egg noodles myself. Stomping her feet, she walked away and back again, just like she would be at the bargaining table. Then she ran after the stalwart bird, slapping him hard, telling him he was ungrateful and stupid. After this went on for a respectable amount of time, Uncle Leo pulled her aside and told her the duck was only an animal that knew where it had it good. Then he apologized to Mrs. Eisger. They shook hands, my Tante standing off to the side, refusing to have anything to do with this reconciliation. Afterwards, Mr. Lubeniecki escorted us to the police station where he fined my Tante 5 zloties for dealing in stolen animals.

We ate boiled flanken at our Seder, the last we would celebrate as a family before the Nazis invaded Poland. My Tante didn't say a word during the entire meal. She just sat there, mumbling under her breath, refusing to sing or even to eat. You see, when my Tante Serkeh was angry, she was furious; and not even the famous comedian of the Yiddish Theater, Shlomo Bernstein himself, could make her laugh. My Uncle Leo poked her a few times, but she only flinched, fleeing into the kitchen to prepare her famous baked apples.

Weeks later, the Nazis signed a non-aggression pact with Czechoslovakia. Before long, their troops were at our borders. All adult males in good health were ordered to the front to still the attack of the oncoming Panzer troops. Even Uncle Leo with his flat feet and rotten stomach joined the ranks of the men marching. Waiting for his return, my Tante dressed me up in my best Sabbath dress and dragged me by my fist to Mr. Lubienecki's jailhouse.

"What are you doing, Tante! It's still summer and I'm dressed in my winter finery. I'll shvitz to death in this heat!"

"Can you stop talking already? My ears ache from your cries!" she shouted. "How do you know that it's not going to get cold later this afternoon? What are you, an überchuchem?" she remarked, tucking her ruby engagement ring in my dress' single pocket.

"Why are you giving me your best jewelry before going to jail? Mr. Lubienecki will lock me up for being a juvenile delinquent!"

"Shah, maideleh," she whispered, applying light powder to by pale complexion then highlighting my eyelids with peacock-colored eyeshadow. "Who says you know anything? You're just a child! Maybe I'm giving you a present and maybe, just maybe, I'm sending you to the education police for being such a knocker!"

Though she was joking, there was no laughter in her eyes. Tears were streaming down her face like braided rivers. The only time I had ever seen her cry was when my parents fled the arid fields of Krosno for the diamond pastures of Antwerp.

"You're a beautiful girl, Hindeleh. I've decided to sell you for bread."

In the distance, we could hear sirens and gunfire. The German Army was advancing through the Polish countryside. Since the men had left for the front, the bakers' ovens had not been lit and we had soaked up our borscht gravy with cabbage leaves.

"Not even cake?" I said, laughing, knowing that she was joking even though there were still tears in her eyes.

"Let's go, she whispered, kissing the top of my forehead before dragging me in my winter Shabbos dress to the police station.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Lubienecki," my Tante said as we entered the Police Chief's office in the cramped jailhouse. Newspapers and nutshells were scattered on the muddy floor. The air smelled of beer.

"Serkeh!' Mr. Lubienecki shrieked, burping. "What are you doing here? Don't tell me you're back to fight for your duck. He's long gone by now."

"I should ask YOU what you're doing here! How come you're not with my Leo at the front?" she said, scowling, folding her arms across her chest and wagging her finger like a happy dog's tail.

"Someone has to keep the peace at home!" Mr. Lubienecki said, winking. "Besides, my back doesn't bend the way it used to," he said, demonstrating his preternatural stiffness by arching forward and wincing at the same time. "Besides, if I wasn't here, Serkeh, who would be here to sort out your problems?"

"Listen, Mr. Lubienecki, " she said, bowing towards his seated hulking frame. "Can we speak in private?" she continued, plucking her satin purse from her petticoat slips.

Together they went into his private office, not emerging for a long while. When they finally came out, she kissed me on both cheeks and whispered that I should keep her ruby engagement ring in a safe place for I might need it some day. Weeping, she left me with Mr. Lubienecki, who took me to his cousins Lulek and Laija, chicken farmers who lived in the small town of Dukla, 20 kilometers from the Czech border.

From that day until the end of the war, I was a gentile girl named Bozena. I went to church and learned the name of all the saints. I milked the cows, fed the pigs, threw feed crumbs to the dancing chickens and ate milk and meat together. For awhile, I forgot whom I once had been. Bozena was beloved, she had a mother and a father and she was never hungry. A fabric yellow star embroidered with the word JUDEN was never her brooch and she could travel wherever she wanted without fearing imprisonment, ridicule and deportation. Though I kept my Tante Serkeh's ruby ring behind a loose brick in the chicken house, I forgot about it even when the nest seemed to be irradiated by jeweled moonlight.

When the war was over, my parents arrived at the farm to claim me as their own. I didn't want to go with them for I did not recognize their haggard, stooped, emaciated frames as those of my youthful, energetic parents. It was only when they showed me a letter with my Polish name and address written in my Tante's florid script that sadness flooded my body like the Vistula pouring over its banks.

"This is for you," they whispered, handing me the crumpled letter written in my Tante's distinctive hand. Trembling, I tore open the seal.

HINDE, WE DIDN'T GET A KATCHKEH FOR OUR ZLOTIES, WE GOT SOMETHING BETTER.

"Where is she?" I asked, my heart beating so wildly in my chest I thought it was going to rise up my throat. "And Uncle Leo?"

They shrugged, seeming to stoop even lower to the ground. "Up there!" they said, smiling sadly, "watching over you with all the others," they concluded in unison without any tears. "We are the lucky ones, Hindeleh." It was still the time when we were afraid to cry for our sorrow was a dark abyss without beginning or end. Each reunion was met with infinite recantations of slaughter. To cry was to fall back into the void and to lose the frail grip we had on our lives.

My parents opened up their arms to me and I embraced all that remained of my past, saying EL MOLEY RACHAMIM in my Tante and Uncle's memories, grateful for my Aunt's keen bargaining skills. I also thanked Latke for abandoning us, for in his act of betrayal he inadvertently saved not only his life, but my own.