“From Fairview Park,” Millie said.
“She’s German,” my father said. “Weiler is a German name.”
“Are you German, honey?”
Millie dabbed her mouth with a paper napkin. “Actually, I’m American.”
That’s when János came to the rescue. He was signaling to us from across the room. I excused myself and Millie. My mother said she’d have something special for us when we got back. “Don’t be too long.”
Outside it was already darkening. János took us out back to a shed and once inside turned on a flashlight. He gave an accurate counting on my account: eight sticks of long red sausages, two slabs of saltpork, one curing in garlic, still pink. Dangling from the ceiling was the pig’s bulbous stomach. János took perverse delight in telling me how it was stuffed with ears, cheeks, lips, tail, gum, and wh
