Sometimes Duda’s mother would get lucky. She would get a piece of
chocolate-covered candy from a customer in the bank she worked at. She
would smile thankfully at the customer thinking about the joy in her
children’s eyes when she would come back home with the candy.
At three-thirty she would stand in the door and say, ‘Children,
slice the candy into three pieces, so that all of you can get some.’
Duda’s eyes would cloud over with that stern look of disapproval
then. ‘I will slice it into five pieces. There are five of us here. The
candy is for mother, father and for ourselves.’
Duda would drag her artificial leg, pick up the sharpest knife in
the kichen and slice the candy very thin into five identical pieces as
her mother was watching her little girl not to hurt herself should she
suddenly have an epileptic seizure. ‘I am blessed with just children,'
she laughed.
