He was caught somewhere between his mother’s last kiss and the first kiss he would give his child, between the war that was and would be.
Jonathan Safran Foer
During the Cold War, my mother would travel from Gdańsk, Poland, to East Berlin twice a year to shop for items that were unavailable back at home; school supplies, clothes, and food were on her usual list. But when I was seven, she bought for my sister and me one of the rarest items we knew at that age—camisoles. They were white, printed in a pattern of tiny pale red rosebuds, each accompanied by two tiny green leaves. The top of the camisole was adorned with a delicate cotton lace and the spaghetti straps were made of satin that felt cool to the touch of my fingertips. The camisoles came with matching panties. The sets were exquisite.
