Stars of the Night

Czechoslovakia

1938

When we were seven or eight or nine or ten, our home was the old city of Prague.

In the summer when the sun lit up the sky, our mothers brought us to the city parks.

We counted the boats on the river and had picnics of dark bread with cheese and slices of our mothers’ sweet honey cake.

In the winter, we skated on the rivers until the first stars appeared.

Then we walked hand in hand with our fathers to the coffeehouses.

Our fathers sipped from steaming cups. We slurped hot cocoa and buried our noses in whipped cream.

In the winter, we skated on the rivers until the first stars appeared.

Then we walked hand in hand with our fathers to the coffeehouses.

Our fathers sipped from steaming cups. We slurped hot cocoa and buried our noses in whipped cream.

All through the year, we played with our friends, went to school with them, laughed and told our secrets to them. We were Jewish.

They were often not.

It didn’t matter to us.

When we were seven or eight or nine or ten, Prague was everyone’s peaceful home, until it wasn’t.

In November, something happened, but we didn’t understand what it was.

Tent camps grew outside our city, filled with people our parents called refugees.

The children appeared in the streets, cold, hungry, without shoes.

They looked lost. Afraid. What had happened to them?

We began to understand.