An Accordionist

My papa is a painter. Not an artist, but a house painter. He is the kind of man who will paint a house for half of a cigarette. My papa painted over the words written on a Jew's door. That is why my papa is not in the Party. He smokes. He loves to roll the cigarettes. The first time I met him, I knew that I would have no trouble calling him Papa. Papa plays the accordion. That is how he earns some money. He learned to play in the war. That is the only thing he will tell me about the war.

My papa loves me. He makes me laugh, and makes Mama happy. It’s a good thing when Mama is happy. I can tell because she calls me Saumensch more when she is happy.

But most of all, my papa has taught me to read. He is not, by any description, well educated. He is not an expert on reading. But he taught me. I came as a shy, timid child clutching a book I had found at my brother’s grave. The Grave Digger’s Handbook. Not standard reading material, but it was a connection to my past life. Papa taught me to read and write. I wrote with paint on the basement walls because paper was scarce. I read in the basement in the middle of the night with my papa when I woke up from a bad dream. Papa was always there to assure me that my past was in the past, and that I was safe with him. Then we would read more of The Grave Digger’s Handbook. As each book came into my life, my papa was the one who read with me and through that, live with me.

July 12, 1941

.