A natural death. Language tortures us. Relative to the other deaths, meaning she died in your helpless, hungry arms. And was not shot, not smothered, not thrown to life or death, from a racing gas- bound train. A dead bundle, swaddled by your ribbon-thin hands.
Memory is a kind of proof.
Convincing them of a false address in a non- jewish part of town was dangerous. When they investigated and countered that you had given a street address higher than the numbers actually went, you insisted they had heard incorrectly, persuading them you had said 8 and not 18. Persuading them that your neighbours denied knowing you because you had committed some disgracing, unmentionable deed. You spun stories deftly, never sure if they would save your life. Memory is a kind of unravelling.