“I lose husband, our boy, everything. I starting all over again here in Australia; we are same, you and I. Jewish, wrong religion, you, wrong colour; we start new life. You learn good, my cooking much rich for here; I make plain, is all budget will afford. Is good, but boring, you and I will make beautiful chocolates and gateau, you will like?” Most evenings Hanna would demonstrate a new dish, telling of its origin, where she had cooked it, and we would eat together. When there was a birthday, under Hanna’s watchful eye, I would venture into an untried cake or new confection. Despite her suffering, Hanna had retained a zest for life and was very good to me.
“One day Alkina,” she foretold, “Australians will demand good food, new arrivals from Europe; they will not want potatoes and lamb, y
