Livi strikes a match and the room glows in the yellow flickering light.
‘Are these .?.?.?’ Ivan begins, but can’t continue, because he has started to cry.
The children circle their father, patting his back, wiping away his tears. ‘It’s OK, Daddy,’ they say over and over.
Slowly Ivan sits up, arms around his children ‘Where .?.?.? How did you get them?’ he says.
‘I hid them in the ceiling of our house, Uncle,’ says Magda. ‘Before we left. And then I went back for them.’
‘There are photos,’ Cibi says. ‘Magda hid those, too.’
While the rest of them eat, Ivan doesn’t put a single morsel into his mouth; he is lost in the memories stirred up by the black-and-white photographs. Gradually, the solemn mood shifts into something lighter as the children become enamoured of these images of their father as a young man.
‘Daddy, you were a boy once!’
‘Aunty Chaya is so pretty.’
By candlelight, they all begin to recall episodes from the lives of the brother and sister, their spouses, and Grandfather.
Ivan rubs away the melted wax from the silver surface of the candlesticks. ‘I feel Chaya is with us,’ he says. ‘Looking at these photos in this special light, we have remembered the past without grief. And if we can do that, we can also look ahead without fear.’
*
Cibi recognises the move to their uncle’s block as a new chapter in their lives. While work is still irregular and poorly paid, and the daily and not so subtle anti-Jewish sentiment that seems to be imbedded in Bratislavan society is increasingly grating, the sisters are thankful to be with family once more. Slowly they begin to build a life together in Bratislava.
Nor was Cibi misguided in her musings about romance that day on the rooftop. Mischka, a friend from the old apartment, is very keen to remain in touch and Cibi finds herself looking forward to his visits, despite the fact that Magda and Livi waste no opportunity in making fun of their big sister.
‘Oh, Mischka, I love you!’ Livi teases, in a high squeaky voice.
‘You are so handsome, Mischka. So strong!’ Magda moans. ‘Cibi, marry him quickly or one of us will.’
‘Yuk,’ laughed Livi. ‘That would be like marrying your brother!’
But the teasing stops when, one evening, Cibi breaks the news.
Uncle Ivan, her cousins and sisters are gathered together in her uncle’s apartment, playing a game of charades. Cibi stands up, sits down, stands up and begins to pace.
‘What is wrong with you?’ asks Livi. ‘You’re ruining the game.’
‘I have something to tell you,’ says Cibi, sitting down once more.
‘Well, tell us then,’ says Magda, when Cibi says nothing.
‘OK, OK. Give me a second.’ Cibi is flushed, happy, grinning stupidly. ‘Mischka has asked me to marry him!’
The sisters stare at Cibi in silence, waiting for more. Ivan leaves his chair to sit beside his niece.
‘And?’ he asks.
‘I’ve said yes.’
The room erupts. Both Livi and Magda burst into tears. Ivan is holding Cibi tight, telling her Chaya would be so proud, that Mischka is exactly who she would have chosen for her eldest daughter. When the noise abates, Ivan is still holding Cibi’s hands.
‘I have an announcement too,’ he says, blushing.
‘Uncle!’ yells Livi. ‘You’re getting married too?’
‘I am. Her name is Irinka. She is also a survivor.’
*
A few weeks later, in April 1946, Cibi marries Mischka. She couldn’t have cared less it is on Hitler’s birthday; Cibi was glad, in fact. She wished every Jew could find something to celebrate on this day, to show this man and his army of murderers that hope flourishes in the darkest of places. The couple move into another apartment in their uncle’s block, ready to begin their lives together.
Not long after the wedding, Cibi and her sisters are having coffee and cake in their favourite café, a routine that hasn’t ceased despite her newly married status. The groaning hunger that defined so much of their experience in the camps is now part of their DNA; they will never forget their desperation to put something, anything, in their stomachs. These days they savour every mouthful, but, more than that, they cherish the freedom to move around the city as they choose, no longer under the watchful and penetrating gaze of a kapo or worse, an SS officer.
‘The other day,’ Livi tells her sisters, biting into flaky pastry and moaning with pleasure. ‘I stood in front Madam Cleo’s boutique. You know the one?’ The girls nod. ‘Just because I could. ‘No one was going to tell me to go and clean the toilets or dig holes or sort the mail of dead people; I was just free to stand there and dream myself into those dresses.’