“There’s nothing more we can do for him,” Mama whispered through her pain
It was only later, hours later, as we sat trying to choke down the cholent someone had decided to bring from the baker’s oven, that I could think about what had happened.
We were in the British police station. All of us. Every Jew who had survived. And someone had brought out the pots of cholent that were left to keep warm in the baker’s oven over Shabbos. Not that we could think about cholent. No. The sounds and images of the past few hours reverberated in our ears, and though we all ate, I don’t think anyone was thinking about the food.
I held Yisroel close, and tried to feed Leiba with my other hand.
“Here, Leiba,” I coaxed, trying to get her to open her mouth. She hadn’t eaten anything all day. “Open your mouth. It’s yummy and hot.”
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