My Bridges of Hope Read Online Free Page B

My Bridges of Hope
Book: My Bridges of Hope Read Online Free
Author: Livia Bitton-Jackson
Pages:
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again tears well up in her eyes. I bury my face in the fur collar of my favorite aunt, who suffocated in the gas chamber inAuschwitz, and the two of us howl with unendurable anguish.
    The next day Mommy and I make the rounds of Aunt Serena’s neighbors on Mr. Kemény’s list, and we find among Aunt Serena’s belongings two of Daddy’s suits and several pieces of furniture that belonged to us.
    In one of the bundles we find cotton thread, needles, and a pair of scissors. These things are unobtainable even if we had money. Mommy is overjoyed. She cuts up a fine thick army blanket we received from the Americans after liberation and sews winter coats for Bubi and me.
    Bubi is unable to wear Daddy’s suits. Although he is tall, Daddy’s jackets hang pitifully on his shoulders, and the trousers overhang his feet. Daddy was forty-five years old and had a wide-shouldered, athletic build. Bubi is only seventeen and has very thin, narrow shoulders.
    My brother the fashion plate refuses to wear the delightfully warm coat Mommy made for him. He prefers to shiver in the tattered old sweater one of his classmates in Bratislava gave him.

    Tonight I walk home alone and, as I pass the shuttered storefronts a short distance from my school building, a tall figure emerges from the shadows. Just like Daddy, he has an erect posture and walks with rapid, athletic grace. I increase my speed in order to draw closer. Just about two steps behind him, I can see the man is not like Daddy at all. He is shorter, sturdier. And yet, the similarity is breathtaking. In a sudden flash, I realize why. It’s the man’s coat, a short gray town coat with a high, opossum collar. I know it’s a fur-lined coat. I even remember the name of the fur—nutria. I loved to cuddle up to the soft, silky lining of Daddy’s town coat.
    I quicken my pace in order to pass the man. Faster, faster. I must see his face. I must meet him face-to-face. I start to run, and pass him. When I reach a considerable stretch beyond the man, I swing around and walk toward him. I cannot make out the man’s features in detail, but I see he has a square face under a wide-brimmed gray fedora.
    â€œHello, sir.” I know I am being impetuous. I know I am taking a reckless chance. Theman stops in his tracks. He seems startled. “Forgive me.” Suddenly, I feel as if an invisible hand were strangling me. I can’t breathe. It takes great effort to produce words: “I do not wish to be impertinent, but ... I believe the coat you’re wearing used to belong to my father.”
    God, what’s going to happen next? What is the man going to do? Will he shout at me and order me to leave him alone, to get out of his sight? Will he become belligerent, threaten to call the police? Will he assault me?
    The stranger stares at me, his face shielded by shadows. “Where is your father,
sle č na
young miss?”
    â€œHe is ... he was killed. In a German death camp.”
    We stare at each other, and the silence seems interminable. “Yes. This coat could well have belonged to your father. I bought it about a month ago, not here, in another town. It’s a fine coat.” The man runs his right hand over his left sleeve. “A very fine coat.”
    A tremor passes down from my head and lodges in my calf muscles. My legs shake as the man continues to stare into my face. “Howabout the hat? Do you recognize the hat? I bought it at the same time. In the same store. Do you think it, too, belonged to your father?”
    â€œI don’t recognize the hat. But the coat. . . My father loved this coat.”
    We stand still, facing each other. Time stands still. People hurry past. Cold wind laps at my feet. The church bells begin to chime. It must be eight o’clock.
    â€œSir, I miss my father very much. ...” My voice drowns in tears. “Please. May I have his coat?”
    â€œLet’s see. I live not far from
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