There was a lane with a row of small houses there. I knew the first house on the corner was that of Voyke the Nachsteller, who drove a wagon for luggage at the depot.

We owed it to our martyred loved ones—and to all the murdered Jews of Skala—to make it through alive.

Instead of greeting me as the son of a friend, Dymchuk flew into a rage, chasing me away with curses and an admonishment to never come back.

I remember that pot with its braided wire handle because during the following weeks Olenka handed it to me many times—always filled with a double-thick layer of her delicious mamaliga.

“Noch eyn tog,” he said over and over. “One more day. Maybe this madness soon will be over.”

I must have been looking at him in amazement. “What, you didn’t know the Russians are coming? It is true. The Germans are beaten—kaput.”

Tateh opened the hidden hatch and I saw that there were several large storage compartments inside, originally a larder for food staples and storage for kitchen supplies.

Looking through the half-shaded window I could see two men sitting inside with Viktor, one in a familiar shabby captain’s uniform. It was Rambocha, apparently alerted by Viktor and lying in wait.