family will turn against us soon.
So what will happen to us then?
Chapter Ten
After the visit from Aunt Brigita we wait in fear for Uncle Georgs to come up and tell us that we must leave his house.
Mama says that we could go back to our apartment in the old town and hide up in the attics of the building, but we know that this would not be ideal. There are too many other non-Jews in the apartment block and they would hear us moving around overhead.
Omama reckons that her Rabbi might be able to help us, but this would mean leaving the suburbs and somehow going into town to look for him, so that’s too risky.
“Maybe we should just move to the ghetto,” I say, trying to help.
Mama’s face becomes pinched and stubborn.
“No,” she says. “I will not move there. Not to that district. We are better off up here but only if Uncle Georgs agrees to let us stay.”
We are silent for a moment. Last night very late we heard Georgs and Brigita have another whispered argument in their bedroom below our feet.
And last night for the first time, Georgs did not bring us any supper on a tray.
It makes me feel sick with guilt that their marriage is in trouble because of us, even though I don’t much like my aunt.
There is nothing we can do this morning except wait.
It is our Jewish New Year today.
It falls at the end of September and its real name is Rosh Hashanah.
If we had been at home and not holed up in an attic with no table or cooking facilities we would have started the celebrations at sunset after the ram’s horn had been blown at synagogue to symbolize the sobbing and wailing of Abraham offering his son to God. The celebration would have gone on for two days.
However it’s a bit difficult to do anything much without any food up here and I don’t fancy our chances blowing any sort of horn with the Aunt Brigita Police on duty downstairs.
So we wish each other a Happy New Year with kisses and hugs and try hard not to see the irony in our wishes.
Omama pinches my cheek in that special way that she has and my eyes water with pain but I kiss her anyway.
Then we sit on the edges of our beds and wait.
At ten o’clock, Uncle Georgs burst through the loft hatch.
He is smiling and a little out of breath.
He gestures at me to take the tray and I cry out when I see it.
There is a round shiny challah and a jar of honey.
“I made it in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep,” he says, going a little pink. “I remembered that it was today.”
Mama comes over and plants a big kiss on the top of Georgs’s head.
“Oh, you are a good man,” she says. “A thousand thanks. This will make our day special.”
Uncle Georgs clears his throat and starts to descend the ladder, but then he comes up again as if he’s just remembered something.
“I have had words with my wife,” he says. “Don’t worry. You can stay here as long as it takes. Happy New Year!”
He goes down and we hear the shelves being slid into place.
Mama sits on her bed and bursts into tears.
We eat the shiny challah, dipping the sweet pieces into the sticky honey and cramming it into our mouths. We are not supposed to have it until the evening but up here the rules are bent so much every day that even Omama doesn’t really mind.
“We dip this bread into honey so that the forthcoming year will be sweet,” she says, honey running down her chin. “And we eat the round challah also so that the year will be rounded, like a circle.”
Mama gives a very un-Mama-like snort.
“How will it be?” is all she says, but the bread doesn’t taste so good after that. I know that she’s right, but sometimes I just want to pretend everything is going to be okay.
I make a big fuss of pulling off more challah and dipping it into the divine honey.
We do not eat as much here as we would like to, so to have a whole loaf and a jar of honey makes me feel rich for the entire morning. And there is fresh coffee, too. Uncle Georgs has gone all out to
So what will happen to us then?
Chapter Ten
After the visit from Aunt Brigita we wait in fear for Uncle Georgs to come up and tell us that we must leave his house.
Mama says that we could go back to our apartment in the old town and hide up in the attics of the building, but we know that this would not be ideal. There are too many other non-Jews in the apartment block and they would hear us moving around overhead.
Omama reckons that her Rabbi might be able to help us, but this would mean leaving the suburbs and somehow going into town to look for him, so that’s too risky.
“Maybe we should just move to the ghetto,” I say, trying to help.
Mama’s face becomes pinched and stubborn.
“No,” she says. “I will not move there. Not to that district. We are better off up here but only if Uncle Georgs agrees to let us stay.”
We are silent for a moment. Last night very late we heard Georgs and Brigita have another whispered argument in their bedroom below our feet.
And last night for the first time, Georgs did not bring us any supper on a tray.
It makes me feel sick with guilt that their marriage is in trouble because of us, even though I don’t much like my aunt.
There is nothing we can do this morning except wait.
It is our Jewish New Year today.
It falls at the end of September and its real name is Rosh Hashanah.
If we had been at home and not holed up in an attic with no table or cooking facilities we would have started the celebrations at sunset after the ram’s horn had been blown at synagogue to symbolize the sobbing and wailing of Abraham offering his son to God. The celebration would have gone on for two days.
However it’s a bit difficult to do anything much without any food up here and I don’t fancy our chances blowing any sort of horn with the Aunt Brigita Police on duty downstairs.
So we wish each other a Happy New Year with kisses and hugs and try hard not to see the irony in our wishes.
Omama pinches my cheek in that special way that she has and my eyes water with pain but I kiss her anyway.
Then we sit on the edges of our beds and wait.
At ten o’clock, Uncle Georgs burst through the loft hatch.
He is smiling and a little out of breath.
He gestures at me to take the tray and I cry out when I see it.
There is a round shiny challah and a jar of honey.
“I made it in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep,” he says, going a little pink. “I remembered that it was today.”
Mama comes over and plants a big kiss on the top of Georgs’s head.
“Oh, you are a good man,” she says. “A thousand thanks. This will make our day special.”
Uncle Georgs clears his throat and starts to descend the ladder, but then he comes up again as if he’s just remembered something.
“I have had words with my wife,” he says. “Don’t worry. You can stay here as long as it takes. Happy New Year!”
He goes down and we hear the shelves being slid into place.
Mama sits on her bed and bursts into tears.
We eat the shiny challah, dipping the sweet pieces into the sticky honey and cramming it into our mouths. We are not supposed to have it until the evening but up here the rules are bent so much every day that even Omama doesn’t really mind.
“We dip this bread into honey so that the forthcoming year will be sweet,” she says, honey running down her chin. “And we eat the round challah also so that the year will be rounded, like a circle.”
Mama gives a very un-Mama-like snort.
“How will it be?” is all she says, but the bread doesn’t taste so good after that. I know that she’s right, but sometimes I just want to pretend everything is going to be okay.
I make a big fuss of pulling off more challah and dipping it into the divine honey.
We do not eat as much here as we would like to, so to have a whole loaf and a jar of honey makes me feel rich for the entire morning. And there is fresh coffee, too. Uncle Georgs has gone all out to
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