recognized. Vera did this, too, Elizabeth thought. Was it inherited? Or a reflex of their time and culture? She imagined those small and civil responses were hard to erase, even after the camps. How you held a fork. The nod to greet strangers. Or, she thought, as Joseph folded his scarf into the sleeve, maybe those were exactly the sorts of gestures that had to be learned again. She brought sugar tongs this time, which he used expertly. He even helped himself to a piece of shortbread. Elizabeth settled down across from him.
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His papers were processed quickly. He told the agent handling his case he wanted to go to Rome. Apparently it was easier to get American visas in Italy. The man raised a bored eyebrow and said, "Fine. You're a free man." That made him unexpectedly uncertain. Italy. It had seemed like such a good idea. He admired the few Italians he knew. It would be a good place to leave Europe behind. Now he wasn't so sure. Still, he found himself on a train to Rome, with women in headscarves and men as thin as nails. No familiar faces in Rome, but then again there wouldn't have been many in Lodz, either. Once he arrived in Italy, though, his confusion had continued.
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He missed speaking Polish. He lived in an apartment with Jews from a handful of other shattered countries. Their common language was German but they would not use it. Instead, they spoke barbarous Italian. Some were trying to learn English. They lived for the occasional newspapers that made their way from Poland, Yugoslavia, Russia, even though the papers were packed with lies and had less news in forty pages than five minutes of the BBC. Maybe, too, he was hoping to see a name of a relative or friend, but in that case, if it showed up, it could only mean misfortune. However, it became something of a mission to find these newspapers. It gave you something to do when work dried up.
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Their Sicilian neighbors complained about the smell of cabbage in the stairwell, but at least it covered the stink of rancid oil. He
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