Auschwitz
Piri Piroska Bodnar
Sometimes in my dream I return home on Shabbat. It is nightfall, and the colorless wooden table is covered with a white tablecloth and set with cheap, chipped clay dishes. A bunch of wild flowers in a tin cup adorns the table. A fragile, tiny woman, our beloved mother, is dressed in her Holiday Best, her salt and pepper hair covered with a scarf as she lights the candles and welcomes the Shabbat. The six candles flicker in the copper candelabrum and their orange and purple flames are the only light in the house. Our mother's eyes shine with tears of joy as she embraces us. Grandfather is clad in his prayer shawl, his eyes radiating wisdom, his face solemn and serene. He places his hands on our heads and prays, and with adoring eyes we look at him and kiss the hands that blessed us. Outside, the stars are lit by the angels and glitter like precious diamonds. Following our simple meal, we sit and sing traditional songs, giving thanks to the Lord for his generosity. Our home is filled with peace, love and harmony. The candles are melting away and we sit in darkness, except for the silver moonlight that peeks through the window. Grandfather recites stories from the Old Testament and we are bewitched by the magic and supernatural powers of the great prophets and by the wisdom of our Grandfather. I wish that my dream would never end or if it does, that I would be home again with my loved ones. Suddenly, the loud barking voices of the SS guards bring me back to the horrible reality and I cry in silence.
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