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My mother and I stood at the kitchen sink, gorging ourselves on bread and cheese. Let him eat what we get on coupons! The coupons make us share, whether we like it or not. We have to stay in Holon. I saw it in her eyes. Set the table. While my mother wrapped up the bread we had been eating and hid it behind a dripping block of ice in the ice-box, I opened a drawer in the kitchen cabinet, counted out five straw placemats, and pulled them out by their fringes.
Then I set the table on the terrace where we ate our meals when the weather was fine. Winkler, our boarder, sat at the corner of the terrace where he spent most of the day, except when he strolled out to meet the mailman. He always waited for mail which, sadly, never came. Now he waved at me, his white eyebrows lifting when he smiled. I have to ask my mother. Being first and foremost Viennese, Mr. Winkler always hummed Strauss waltzes as if he could take those glorious old times with him wherever he went.
I would have listened but my mother called me from the kitchen. Trying to understand why her mother had left her with us had turned me into a spy and an eavesdropper. As I went out to the garden, I heard footsteps scurrying in the direction of the shed that my father had built at the end of our lot. It housed his garden tools as well as an old cabinet for the pots, pans, and china my mother had brought from Germany.
I found her crouching behind the shed, her hands covering her eyes. Your mother is mean. She hates me! We stared at each other until, finally, she bent her head and followed me into the house. I could also see a bit of white skin under his short sleeves: it was pale in comparison to the tanned skin on his hands and forearms.
