At 16 Poppleton Circle in London, Becca, and Priscilla in her wheelchair, sat at the kitchen table. They rolled old tinfoil into balls, to turn in as scrap metal to support the war effort.
“You should hear my brother play the violin. It makes you want to dance or cry, depending on what he plays.” Becca laughed. “Peter’s music is going to save the Jews.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. That’s what my papa used to say, and Papa never told a lie.”
“Maybe his violin shoots out bombs.” Priscilla threw tinfoil balls at Becca.
“Maybe the violin bombs make music when they fall,” Becca said. They laughed, hysterically.
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