TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake
“You know,” says Nr. 10, having changed the way she addresses me in the last week from the formal to informal. “You know, someone is lying in their bedroom, or was lying there.” She says this as she watches me eating matzo, watching with the eyes of a fox. She should know. She almost lives with them. In their kitchen. She lives there, but sleeps at home because nobody invites her to sleep over.
“Is it good?” asks Nr. 10. “I don’t know, the Jews brought it,” I say.
“Yesterday, I could feel in my heart that the Jews were baking something. Whose blood is it? Did they say?” “They didn’t bake it,” I say. “They got it from Israel.” “Lazy bums,” says Nr. 10, going home to cook. 12. Her cooking days began just recently. She’s been cooking since Friday, like a real Russian. The entire stairwell smells.
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