Carefully Dreamed Shakshuka in Sachsenhausen

Many miles up north, Fedya and I lay pressed against each other in overcrowded barracks in Sachsenhausen, on the dirtiest bunks, the thinnest rags. Hungry, exhausted, tired, cold.

Hey, let's not let the bad things take over, I told my son, and started telling him about a gigantic loaf of bread. By pretending to cook a recipe before going to sleep, it would scare away the hunger. So we tried baking a warm loaf. The edges of the loaf in particular were delicious for our imagination. And we kept going. Why not some dessert? After all, that was one of the only things we could do.

So, that very evening, Fedya fell asleep in the middle of a fruit soup. Full of fresh apples, raspberries, blueberries, and peaches, the ones that should have been boiled for another seven to eight minutes. Just seven to eight more minutes.

But dad, please, can you tell me the recipe for Grandma's holishkes, he asked after waking up. I went through it detail by detail, exactly how to boil and remove the leaves from the head of cabbage, fill it with the minced meat mixture, and boil the whole thing in the sauce once more. Please, tell me how long it should boil. Two hours, I said. Two hours. And of course I had to whisper it so quietly that it boiled just enough in the pot. Not too hard. Not too gentle.

The next night I asked him for help. Now it’s your turn, I said. Can you make some babka bundt cake or hamantaschen filled with jam. Oh yes, he said. And immediately started dissolving the yeast and sifting the flour and stirring in the eggs, sugar, melted butter, salt and sour cream. And of course I asked him if he had put his finger in the sour cream without permission—and he had. There was something defiant and at the same time resigned in Fedya’s thin face. But isn't that a recipe that takes more than two days to make? he asked. I know, I replied. We lay pressed tightly against each other. My son’s hands cold as icicles. Well, you see, tomorrow I want you to roll out the dough nicely, I explained. And then we’ll turn on the oven and bake them beautifully brown.

Shut up! someone shouted from the barracks. There was a creak from the wooden bunks as several people turned around. Your damn cakes don't taste any better than the crumbs from the brickyard, replied another. Zey, schtil! someone shouted back with a tired man's voice. You're ruining my shakshuka.

Now the whole block went silent. Because everyone knows exactly how difficult it is to crack eggs carefully in your dreams in Sachsenhausen and make sure the yolks don't break, and then let it simmer until the whites are hard but the yolks are still runny.

Can you make shakshuka too? Fedya whispered. His eyes so small and his chin so thin, he was barely visible in the darkness. Of course I will, I replied and pulled him closer to me. As close as possible.