The wood floor was cold under my feet and I was too hungry to sleep.  I crept downstairs to the icebox and peered at the four small plates with one slice of butter on each one.  The Nazis had taken most of our food.  I knew it was wrong to steal, but I couldn’t help but stick my finger in my sister’s piece of butter.  I put my finger in my mouth and the creamy sweet butter melted over my tongue and down my throat.  I closed my eyes and reveled in the taste, trying not to feel guilty for being the oldest of us three sisters, and for having experienced the good carefree years before 1939 when I became eleven years old and the war started and changed all our lives forever.

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