Translated by Sarah Timmer Harvey

The first time I made a wish, I wished for a tin frog that made a loud clicking sound when you squeezed it, which I’d seen lying around at a friend’s house. The next time I played there, I took the frog home with me. This is how my first wish came true.

My second wish was that my grandmother would never die. As a child, I would lean against her and press my nose into her arm, which smelt like cinnamon rusks. My grandmother grew increasingly forgetful, but she didn’t die. In time, she would only talk about the concentration camp and her eldest son’s fingernails, which the Japanese guards had saved in a little envelope for her. Maybe it wasn’t a little envelope, but I do remember her mentioning a little envelope. She spoke about it the same way you would when telling a child an adventure story, but I grew bored of it after a while. She no longer smelt like cinnamon rusks and sat mostly in her wheelchair, doubled over with her forehead on the table. We’d put a folded dishcloth under her head. And that’s when I wished she would die.

I had to wish it a few more times before she finally stopped breathing, and my father had to close her eyes more than once because she kept opening them.

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