All She Remembered Was Her Name By Rochel Yaffe It was late Shabbat afternoon, that magic moment between dusk and darkness. The visitors had gone. The baby was already sleeping. Soon the lights would go on. My father and my brother would be home from Shul. There would be a call for the Havdalah candle, wine and spices, and the workweek would begin. But for the moment it was Shabbat—Shabbat peace, Shabbat stillness. I curled up next to my mother on the living room couch, and begged, "Tell me a story. Tell me about myself when I was little." And my mother began: You were born in a very difficult time, a sad and bitter time for our family, for the Jewish people. Wicked Hitler was on the march across Europe. Like Haman before him, he had sworn to destroy us, to kill every Jewish man, woman and child who lived on the face of the earth.