And then, moving from elementary to Realschule, running off at the first bell, running to get the piece of paper showing the exact quantity of eggs transmitted to the uncle’s business, Vereinigte Eierimporte, where Papa was a traveling salesman with a commission on the sales: half in currency (and in that half lay their salvation), half in wastepaper. The number of cartons sold diminished, the zeroes of the exchange rate exploded, the calculations had to be made before New York woke up, eggs and commission estimated, each egg was worth a hundred and more billion, up to three hundred and twenty billion Reichsmark, which after the reform became thirty-two Pfennig, nothing. And her brothers hurried off on bicycles with suitcases full of bills to get in line at the baker and the butcher, she at the dry goods store because it was the most important shopping. At the age of thirteen she established priorities and strategies, running to Karl and Oskar to know what they could buy and how much they had to pay, if they were still in line. If her father couldn't call in time, if the line was long, if the American stock exchange had reopened before their turn came, all the plans had to be remade. Not even the cash was enough. To possess nothing but the provisions bought up on the good days or traded for with the eggs to be discarded, and she was always the one who had to deal with it. Not being able to count on anyone. Hearing the math teacher say that she didn’t deserve a better grade “because you already have calculation in your blood, but you lack the geometric spirit of the ancient Greeks.” Hearing her mother, frightened by the volatility of the numbers that forced Papa to move around between illegal Switzerland and anti-Semitic Poland, repeat that, thank God, people there couldn’t do without eggs: for breakfast, for cakes, and for the Spaetzle that were a meal in themselves.