Yocheved, one of the cousins living in the house, tells me about a gentile woman who used to work in a Jewish home and knows how to cook and make everything kosher. She takes me to meet her. Her name is Wiig Nani, and she gives me a warm hug when I ask her to teach me to cook so I can feed all the survivors who come to Yitzchak’s house. “Of course, you beautiful girl,” she says to me. She wraps her steady arm around my shoulder, and I hold back my tears. “Come,” she says, “let’s go to the market.” Yitzchak makes good money from his salt business, so I can buy a chicken, some vegetables, a
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