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.
You tried to escape from jail and were sent to Auschwitz, where your indis- pensable, expert sewing saved your life. And to Birkenau, where you continued to sew, perhaps the uniforms of the guards, vestments for the officers, dresses for their wives - you never said. Three years of saving your life every moment. You, a Jew, hiding in a death camp, as a Pole who was caught with a Jew. Emerging to a gassed out, depleted world, to learn of your husband's death, which even now you cannot bear to speak.