“Maybe we’ll go to America too,” Magda says. She must be thinking
of Aunt Matilda, in the Bronx. All around us on the top of the train
car there is talk of America, of Palestine. Why keep living in the ashes
of our loss? Why keep scratching for survival in a place where we’re
not wanted? Soon we will learn of the restrictive immigration limits in
America and Palestine. ere is no haven free of limitation, of
prejudice. Wherever we go, life might always be like this. Trying to
ignore the fear that any minute we’ll be bombed, shot, tossed in a
ditch. Or at best forced to ride on top of the train. Holding hands
against the wind.
* * *In Prague we are to change trains again. We say goodbye to Laci.
Magda gives him our old address, Kossuth Lajos Utca #6. He promises
to keep in touch. ere’s time before the next departure, time to
stretch our legs, sit in the sun and the quiet to eat our bread. I want to
ĕnd a park. I want to see green growth, Ęowers. I close my eyes every
few steps and take in the smells of a city, the streets and sidewalks and
civilian bustle. Bakeries, car exhaust, perfume. It’s hard to believe that
all of this existed while we were in our hell. I gaze in shop windows. It
doesn’t matter that I am penniless. It will matter, of course. In Košice
food won’t be given out for free. But at this moment I feel completely
full just seeing that there are dresses and stockings to buy, jewelry,
pipes, stationery. Life and commerce go on. A woman ĕngers the
weight of a summer dress. A man admires a necklace. ings aren’t
important, but beauty is. Here is a city full of people who have not lost
the capacity to imagine, make, and admire beautiful things. I will be a
resident again—a resident of somewhere. I will run errands and buy
gis. I will stand in line at the post office. I will eat bread that I have
baked. I will wear ĕne couture in honor of my father. I will go to the
opera in honor of my mother, of how she would sit at the edge of her