In my earliest memories of my mother, I see her braiding the challah for our Friday-night meal, cutting and laying sheets of strudel dough across the dining-room table, feeding the goose she kept in the attic of our home in Kassa, Hungary, for her decadent foie gras. But I also remember her sorrow—for the mother she’d lost when she was only 9, and also, I sensed, for the woman she herself had become. A woman who created everyday feasts and bountiful picnic baskets, yet was starving inside. Even today, I hear her moaning in front of the portrait of her...
Monitoring Antisemitism Intel
