Out of the Ashes. Vicky Newham

       Maya, 6.45 p.m.

       Maya, 7.30 p.m.

       Maya, 8.30 p.m.

       Dan, 9.30 p.m.

       Maya, 10 p.m.

       Maya, 10.45 p.m.

       11.30 p.m.

       Maya, 11.30 p.m.

       Maya, midnight

       SUNDAY

       Rosa, 7 a.m.

       Brick Lane, 1984 – Maya

       Maya, 8.30 a.m.

       9 a.m.

       Maya, 9.30 a.m.

       Maya, 11 a.m.

       Dan, 12.30 p.m.

       Maya, 12.30 p.m.

       Dan, 2.30 p.m.

       Maya, 5 p.m.

       Maya, 9 p.m.

       Feldman’s Newsagent’s, Brick Lane, 1989 – Maya

       MONDAY

       8 a.m.

       Maya, 8.30 a.m.

       Maya, 9 a.m.

       Dan, 10.30 a.m.

       Maya, 10.30 a.m.

       Dan, 11.15 a.m.

       Maya, 11.15 a.m.

       Maya, midday

       Maya, 1 p.m.

       Dan, 1.55 p.m.

       2 p.m.

       Maya, 3 p.m.

       Maya, 4 p.m.

       Maya, 6 p.m.

       Maya, 7 p.m.

       Maya, 8 p.m.

       Maya, 8.45 p.m.

       Maya, 10 p.m.

       Maya, 10.30 p.m.

       TUESDAY

       Dan, 1 a.m.

       Maya, 7.30 a.m.

       Maya, 9 a.m.

       Maya, 10.30 a.m.

       Maya, 11.30 a.m.

       Maya, 12.30 p.m.

       Maya, 2.30 p.m.

       Maya, 4 p.m.

       Maya, 5 p.m.

       WEDNESDAY

       Maya, 8 a.m.

       Maya, 9 a.m.

       Maya, 10 a.m.

       Acknowledgements

       About the Publisher

FRIDAY

Rosa, 2 p.m.

      Rosa Feldman stood at the door of her Brick Lane newsagent’s, staring out at the street she’d known since she was four. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It was the shop opposite, run by the young Lithuanian couple. Since first thing this morning, the lights had been off and the shutters down. Initially, she was relieved that for once, the ugly neon sign, with its air of Margate or Blackpool, wasn’t flashing outside her bedroom window, but as the morning progressed, she felt increasingly uneasy.

      It wasn’t like them at all.

      She couldn’t recall ever seeing the shop closed in the daytime.

      A tap on the glass snapped Rosa back into the afternoon. It was Mr Walker from the off-licence a few doors down. He shouted a cheery greeting and waved as he passed the window. Regular as clockwork, off to get chips for tea. Rosa raised her hand to return the gesture, but the pain in her wrists and knuckles bit again. Damned arthritis.

      Mr Walker’s knock was usually her reminder to think about their meal. Today was Friday after all. But without Józef, the Sabbath meal wasn’t the same and she didn’t bother with the rituals any more. In the last year, she’d lost weight and clothes hung off her spare frame. What was the point of lighting candles when there was only one of you? She’d steam a plate of yesterday’s chicken and potatoes. That would do her. Fortunately, she didn’t have to go far to get home, just upstairs to the flat, even if it was still freezing at this time of year.

      Over the dusty window display, two men were putting a new shop sign up where Rosenberg’s jewellers used to be. Work had been going on for weeks, and it looked like the place was nearly ready to open. Alchemia, it said. A swanky new Polish bar by the looks of it, slap bang next-door to Mr Hamid’s curry house. He wasn’t going to be happy. So much had changed in Brick Lane since she and her family had arrived, and life moved so fast on the other side of the window, it made Rosa dizzy. The pace was relentless and the change uncompromising. Inside the shop, though, she felt safe. Change there was slow and predictable. Above her head, by the door, the fan heater droned noisily and made little impact on the chilly air, but she didn’t mind. It had always done that. And she barely noticed the crumbling plaster of the ground floor walls, or the mildew which clung to ceiling corners like a nasty rash.

      Her thoughts slid back to the shop over the road. The place was usually open all hours of the day and night, selling its fancy five-quid soups to whoever could afford them. She had no objection to people earning a living, but her parents would be turning in their graves. They’d survived the Ghetto on two hundred calories a day. When they left Warsaw, and arrived in London, it was the handouts from the Jewish soup kitchen in Brune Street that kept them alive. It was extraordinary to think that what had been humble subsistence for many families was now a fad-food. She’d been over for a spy at the menu, of course, when they were shut. Apart from some matzo ball soup, she couldn’t find much she fancied and didn’t know what most of it was, let alone how to pronounce it. Keen-war, or something, a youth with a bicycle and a dog had told Rosa.

      She sighed. She missed her old neighbours. Those were Sabbath meals to look forward to. They were exactly how her mother described Warsaw before the war. Mrs Blum from the bagel shop would make the challah. Rich, eggy and sweet. It had been ages since Rosa had felt one of those in her hands, soft and warm, in its pretty braid shape. The Altmans would bring the wine. The Posners, candles. And the Rosenbergs, the jewellers, always came with freshly made kugel.

      But now her parents were dead, and all her Jewish neighbours were either dead too or had moved away.

      Except Rosa.

      And there was that feeling again, a gnawing emptiness, a sense that life had moved on without her. It was so unsettling. Every fibre of her being was exhausted by the continual need to think about whether to follow her compatriots out of the East End and into the London suburbs.

      The sound of voices jolted her back into the present.

      Yelling.

      Music.

      Outside in the street, a thumping bass beat started up. Tremors vibrated through the shop, and a booming noise invaded the silence of her thoughts. Yobbos, probably, spitting everywhere and pumping out music from one of those dreadful sound-systems. They’d pass in a minute.

      But they didn’t.

      The