Since Filip’s death, I had stopped asking the children to trade for things, so I, too, had been reduced to nothing but my ration coupons and the few zloty I earned every week. What was I eating? Bread flavored with sawdust, watered-down powdered milk. A few mornings before, I had walked into the kitchen and imagined Mariam Lescovec there, frying the skin from chicken feet; I was certain I saw her, even said hello, and then I realized I was dreaming.
