It is her own fault. If she would have taken charge of her family, of her cleanliness, then none of this would be happening

Shani Leiman with Zivia Reischer
A quick foray into her mother’s kitchen and Hannah returns to the bedroom, where she and Emmy are staying. “Emmy,” she whispers.

Emmy is lying on the bed, still resting from the journey.

“Emmy, supper is kasha and mushrooms.”

Emmy’s nose wrinkles and her lips pull into a picture of disgust. “You promised, Mama. You said there would be no kasha.”

“I said you would not have to eat the kasha.”

“Semantics.”

“It’s not just kasha. It is kasha with mushrooms. As Shneur would say, it has a different din. You can always pick out the mushrooms, and eat just those.”

The mushrooms were probably gathered months ago, dried and stored carefully, brought out on special occasions, such as when you first see your granddaughter after years.

“But then I’ll be hungry.”

Hannah looks at her daughter. Such a thing, for Emmy, is unthinkable. Hunger. She doesn’t realize that hunger is not the worst thing in the world, by far. Even when you are hungry, you can pummel your fist into your stomach so that it doesn’t hurt so much, run to climb the trees in the forest, or rolls down the hill next to the wheat field. You can hollow out a forgotten stack of hay and make a secret room.

“Emmy, there is eierkichel in my bag. And I brought smoked salmon.”

“That was a gift.”

She had bought two thick slabs; one for Shneur and one for Tatte and Mama. She will have to divide one into two, and keep the second slab here in the bedroom for Emmy. They will hang it out of the window to keep it cold. As long as no one smells the distinctive odor and asks what it is.

But then, everyone will smell it. There are no secrets in the shtetl, apart from when there are.