“Her looks probably saved her life. All her girlfriends went to the Jewish side—to Birkenau—and all of them were murdered. Also, because she spoke German, she had the definite advantage over the Hungarian girls. He put her to work in the kitchen. It was a horrible existence, but she didn’t starve. That’s how she met my father…she sneaked food to the other side. My father was the ‘food runner’ for the men’s side.”

“She would have been shot if she was found out.”

“Yes, she has some stories. She was very scared. She always told me the hardest part was taking the first step. After that, it was almost habit.”

“She’s a hero.”

“I think she was just in love. Papa was very handsome—even at one hundred and ten pounds.” Rina smiled. “She considered herself one of the lucky ones. She had bread and soup and an occasional bone to gnaw on. She had clean water and though they cut her hair off, her scalp was lice free except in the heat of the summer. She has often said that she felt like a queen compared to the Jewish inmates. I don’t know how they survived.”

“You do what you must.”

Rina shrugged.

Oscar’s eyes darkened. “You can see why it is hard to talk about it.”

“Yes, of course. It’s strange. My mother can talk about the Holocaust. It’s just her mother—”

“But some people can’t talk about it. And you must respect that.”

“Absolutely.”

“So…I say thank you for the soup…and good-bye.”

Rina couldn’t hide her disappointment. But she wasn’t about to stir up a hornet’s nest without the man’s permission. “Maybe I’ll come next week, Oscar, and visit you again.”

“You’ll get the same answer.”

Rina smiled. “You enjoyed the soup so much. Next time, we’ll sneak it up to your room.”

“You think you get me alone, I’ll talk?”

“No. I’m thinking maybe we’ll avoid the hostile looks.” She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Bye.”

But Oscar didn’t let go. Tears formed in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Rina said. “Oscar, I’m not upset. Please.”

The eyes remained wet, but the drops refused to fall. “Why you do this?”

Rina just shrugged.

Oscar snarled. “Give me the name.”

“Yitzchak Golding.”

He thought a long time, then shook his head. “No.”

“Well, then, that’s that. I’ll still come and visit you—”

“You have to remember…they killed people every day. At most, you work a week and then you are shot or gassed. Turnover…always new Jews coming in to kill. Even the regulars…no one lasted more than a few months. Almost a million Jews in one graveyard. Bodies on bodies. All of them…lost…forgotten.”