My Bridges of Hope Read Online Free Page A

with the silver fox collar,” but woefully informs us that all our things “were confiscated by those bastards, may Jesus forgive” her language. The “bastards” are the Soviet occupation forces.
    In the severe cold Mommy and I shiver with bitter disappointment in Mrs. Fehér’s doorway.
    â€œLet’s go to the Kemény house,” Mommy suggests. “I remember that Serena gave them some things for safekeeping. Now that I am much thinner, I will be able to fit into my darling sister’s fur-lined coat.”
    Mommy’s older sister Serena was my favorite aunt. Her brutal separation from Mommy and me on arrival in Auschwitz, when she was sent to the gas chamber and we to work details, is one of my most painful memories.
    Mrs. Kemény does not have any of “dearLady Serena’s” things. And she does not know who does. She has no idea whom among her neighbors dear Lady Serena trusted with her “precious pieces.”
    â€œSo, your dear sister did not return? Poor Lady Serena.” Mrs. Kemény’s sympathy is heartfelt. “Whatever happened to that dear, gentle soul? We were so close. So close. Dear Jesus, I miss her so.”
    Mommy thanks Mrs. Kemény for her kind sentiments and urges her to try to remember who might, after all, have Aunt Serena’s winter coat. It’s a bitterly cold winter, and the coat is badly needed. Mrs. Kemény is sympathetic. She is in deep thought, but cannot remember a thing.
    While the two women talk, my gaze wanders restlessly about Mrs. Kemény’s overstuffed parlor. Suddenly, the magnificent mahogany bureau against the wall catches my eye. I know this bureau. There is no mistake about it: It’s Aunt Serena’s!
    I touch Mommy’s shoulder.
    â€œMommy.” There is a sudden silence, and both women stare at me in surprise. My voice bristles with a sense of urgency: I graspMommy’s hand and draw her in front of the familiar piece of furniture.
    â€œMommy, look at this bureau! Do you recognize it?”
    Mommy stares in disbelief at the bureau facing her. She extends her hand slowly, tentatively to touch it. Then, gently, almost reverently, Mommy begins to caress the polished surface, and tears trickle down her cheeks.
    Mrs. Kemény freezes as if struck by a thunderbolt.
    I stare at Mommy’s vacated chair and recognize Aunt Serena’s dining room chair, part of the mahogany dining room set.
    â€œAnd this, Mommy.” As if in a trance, Mommy turns slowly and returns to the chair on which she had sat for almost an hour. She looks long and deep into the Gentile woman’s face. Mommy’s voice is very, very tired as she speaks: “Madam Kemény, how’s this possible? How did you get my sister’s things?”
    Mrs. Kemény is silent.
    â€œTell me, please, Madam Kemény, do you have any other things that belonged to my sister? I’m not going to ask how you got them. All I’m asking is please return to usanything else you might have. We have no furniture. We have no warm clothes. Do you, Madam Kemény, happen to have my sister’s winter coat?”
    Mrs. Kemény is trembling visibly: “Madam Friedmann, will you denounce me to the authorities?”
    â€œI have no interest in denouncing you,” Mother says quietly. “All I want are my sister’s things. Return everything, and it will not be held against you. We will never breathe a word to anyone.”
    That very evening, Mr. Kemény’s horse-drawn cart delivers to our house the bureau, four mahogany dining room chairs, and Aunt Serena’s kitchen table. And a large trunk full of Aunt Serena’s clothes: dresses, skirts, blouses, underwear. And her fur-lined winter coat.
    After unloading, Mr. Kemény hands Mommy a list of names. They are the names of Gentile neighbors who hold Aunt Serena’s other belongings.
    Mommy puts on Aunt Serena’s winter coat, and once