Miklós: A Memoir of My Father: Katalin Roth
This chapter is not humorous, but I will start with a joke. A few years ago, our family was gathered at my home for Thanksgiving, and before dinner I chanced on my sons and their cousins rolling with laughter. “What’s so funny,” I asked, hoping to share the joke, but they would not meet my eye and gave each other guilty looks. After a pause, my niece spoke up: “We are taking bets,” she said, “on dinner, and exactly how many minutes after we sit down before someone”—someone meaning me, or my sister or brother-“mentions the word Holocaust.” Later, I learned that there is a variant on this, called the Holocaust drinking game.