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shooting Hajna his signature 'We'll talk about this later' stare.
    Slowly, mechanically, we said our final goodbyes to our beloved maid and nanny, kissing them on their cool and plump cheeks as we made our way into the street, toward the temple and our uncertain future.
    Before we had even passed our yard, I felt something wet and slimy through my sheer black tights, nipping at my ankles. I looked down to find Kiraly sniffing at my feet, his chocolate brown eyes begging us to take him wherever we were going.
    "We can't take you, boy," Papa quietly spoke. "We'll see you soon."
    Up until that point, I had tried to be a big girl. I wanted to prove to my parents that even though I had a momentary lapse when I found out that I couldn't give my report, that I could shoulder the burdens of wartime just as good as any adult. I wanted to be a "little soldier", like my uncle called my older cousins in Debrecen. I longed to be like them, with my head held high and without a complaint on my lips. I had only taken that vow the day before, mouthing the words into my bedroom mirror and making a promise to myself, but I was already dissolved into tears looking into Kiraly's eyes. I knelt down to him and put my arms around his fluffy neck and buried my wet face into his fur.
    "I'll miss you, boy," I sniffed, running my hands over his lithe body once again. "We'll see you soon."
    I looked up to Hajna and saw that she was also in a rare moment of sensitivity, tears falling down her face and making little raindrops onto her tan coat. She looked at me, her teeth over her lips and sniffling loudly.
    "I'll wear this coat," she whispered to my father and buried her face in his chest.
    "Good girl."
     
    It seemed to take us an endless amount of time to get to The Ghetto and receive our housing assignment. The walk in the sullen parade hadn't been that far, but it was the business of queuing up and receiving our housing assignment that seemed to take years. Papa held us close as we stood in line, our identity papers in our fists, ready to show at any moment. Hungarian officers especially assigned to the business of dealing with the "Jewish problem", stood around us like menacing trees in a dark forest. For the most part, their faces were stern, cold. They held guns in front of them, strapped across the front of their bodies the way some of the Jewish women had secured their babies to their chests with a tattered, stained cloth. 
    "Why do they have guns?" I asked my mother as we moved forward in our line for what seemed like the one hundred and fifth time. We were inching ever closer to our fate, step by step, the sun now high over our heads, its yellow beams extended like a child asking for a hug. 
    "Because they're soldiers," she answered, fanning herself.  It wasn't a particularly hot day, but my mother often became ill from being in the sun too long. When we went to the Tisza during the summer, or to Balaton for a special treat, she'd often wear big sunglasses, a kerchief and bring a big back umbrella to shield herself. Although it embarrassed us children, she claimed she needed it because the mere feeling of the sun made her feel ill. Sometimes she'd get incredible pains in her elbows and knees,  and there were times a rash appeared across the bridge of her nose appeared that resembled a butterfly. The doctors had no idea what was wrong with her. Even my father had tried to figure it out on his own, but to no avail. For two years, when I was much younger, Papa spent much of his free time devoted to figuring out my mother's condition, taking her to the lab to draw vials of her blood almost daily. He kept meticulous diaries of her symptoms, took her in for X-rays and even tried to look at samples of her skin through a microscope. He came up short, nothing for this mystery. She was just sickly.
    As a soldier passed down our line, I grabbed my mother's gloved hand instinctively, my heart thudding in my ears. He walked slowly, his heels pounding on