217 Babel Street | Apartment 6
Esther Silberstein shut the book and flicked a crumb of fruit scone from its cover. As she had thought, it all went back to Berlin. There could, then, be a connection with Uncle Mordechai. She poured a fresh cup of tea. The history book didn’t answer all her questions but it was a start.
The clock struck three. At half past she’d put the rest of the scones in a tin and take them round to Harry. He wasn’t coping well since Margaret’s death and it was hard to know whether the visit from his daughter was making things better or worse. As a widow herself, Esther understood. After that, she would set about planning her birthday party. She hadn’t wanted to make a fuss for her 80th but her friends at the synagogue and the music society insisted on a party. Now she was rather looking forward to it. What were the names of those two nice young Turkish men she wanted to invite? She’d ask Viv Gillis. Not only had they mended her cooker but they then baked her a cake to test the oven. Human nature didn’t get worse with new generations. If anything, it improved.
Esther had never given it much thought but the reclusive Klein woman in the penthouse must be the daughter of Sabina. That’s if she was still alive. Esther hadn’t seen her now for years. She gave the book a quick wipe and turned off the wireless so she could think.