Quotes from Jennifer Roy

We must honor our differences while we find our own courage and our own strength the best we know how.

because yellow is meant to be a happy color, not the color of hate.

Then there is the boy who talks out loud to himself and his only subject is food. This is what he sounds like— Meat, stew, potatoes, peppers, roasted turnips, spices, flour to thicken. Cook over low heat. Potato dumplings, edges browned, not burned. Ladle thick gravy on roast. Cabbage galumpkies, noodle kugel, Carrot cake with dates, finely chopped…

Bright colors don't exist in the ghetto, except for the yellow stars and puddles of red blood that we carefully step around. "More shootings," Papa says quietly. His face is gray.

I wish I could rip the star off (carefully, stitch by stitch, so as not to ruin my lovely coat), because yellow is meant to be a happy color, not the color of hate.

But what about the Jews? If even people of our own country did not try to help us when we were put into the ghetto, why would these foreigners want to save us? It is very lonely being Jewish, I think. And confusing.

more successful. After watching the population

I don't want a Nazi to notice me and think, Jew. Because then I might die, too.

Hava is missing. She went for a short walk on the street and never came back.

It is very lonely being Jewish, I think. And confusing.

He had orders to demolish the whole ghetto, and he and his men were doing so, when he flew over the courtyard. And guess what? The spotlight on his plane shone down and he saw…" Papa pauses. We all lean in to hear more. "He saw our yellow stars!

Papa says. "Our Stars of David glowed in the spotlight! He immediately ordered his soldiers to avoid bombing that area. Then he flew down to rescue us! The Russians are stationed not far away in Lodz so they ran for their horses and rode in to find us!" Amazing!

Hello!" "Hello!" the Russian says, waving his gloved hand. And I realize something else. I understood him. He said hello in Yiddish. He is Jewish, too.

Then I have a new worry. If God dies, who will run the world? I hope it's not the Nazis.

As Papa pulls me along, I see brown shoes, brown pants legs, brown dresses, brown road. I look up at the brown buildings and the cloud of brown dust and smoke that hangs in the sky. Bright colors don't exist in the ghetto, except for the yellow stars and puddles of red blood that we carefully step around.

yellow is meant to be a happy color, not the color of hate.

Bright colors don't exist in the ghetto, except for the yellow stars and puddles of red blood that we carefully step around.

Survivors Like Us Then we see them. Others like us. Survivors. Jewish

Every single evening, for over fifty years, Sylvia has said Kaddish—the prayer for the dead. She prays for her little friends Hava and Itka. Then she prays for all the others—uncles, cousins, neighbors, and strangers—who perished in the war. Their voices were silenced years ago. Now Sylvia has spoken up to remember them, and to share her memories so that we will never forget.

Then there are no more planes, no more sounds of bombs. Our voices die down and the courtyard is quiet. It stays like that for a long time. Everyone is afraid to move in case a new wave of bombing starts up. "It is a miracle!" a woman cries. Then suddenly everyone is getting up from the ground, shaking off snow, embracing each other, cheering. "A miracle!" Mother agrees. There

Hello!" the Russian says, waving his gloved hand. And I realize something else. I understood him. He said hello in Yiddish. He is Jewish, too. A

Syvia," says Papa, "it is the Russians." Liberation

We are free! Poland is free! We can go home! An

the best we know how.