Zipporah,Jewish girl,First writing
The disease bridged the gap between the mother and her daughter. Yet, only one thing might be able to seal the problem: the father.
“Call him Muhammed…”, bravely said the mother. The name surprised Zipporah . she stood and walked unconsciously around. The name is a threshold of undesired outcomes.
She froze and focused on her mother expecting more.
The mother continued, “I met him in Frankfurt. He was an African soldier. Strongly belt. During the German assault on France, the French government deployed thousands of African young men so as to free Paris. At that time we were scattered in German ghettos waiting to be displaced into camps”. A nurse entered the room; she noticed that the tube has been removed. She made no complaints, and kindly said, “I’ll be back in 30 minutes to check out…and please, it’s time of her pills”.
Nicely, Zipporah helped her mother to take the pills. She adjusted the bed and sat there making her ears in TELL ME MORE posture.
The mother harshly coughed and carried on: “France freed Paris and moved on to Berlin. The second day on the German territories was a real massacre of the allies’ troops. Those who were not killed were taken as POWs. Your father was one of them. We heard about attempts of escape, but we had never met one of the POWs. Each escape was a hope for us. In the middle of the woods, hundreds of Jews were hiding from the Germans. We had thoroughly received calls for joining them, but only few dared to do so. My mother was pregnant, and we knew that she and the newborn baby would be immediately executed. So, we didn’t have a choice but to flee in the upcoming escape. We made it, we were three. I was 16…