At about three o'clock in the morning, I heard a knock at the window near us. Father heard it too and sat up, remaining motionless. There was another knock and then, appearing at the window—and disappearing almost at once—was the face of a young girl. Father tip-toed to the window and leaned out. Two young girls from the village had stolen a watermelon and cut it up to give to the Polish slave laborers. They handed the slices up to Father and silently, silently, these were passed from person to person. The girls fled before Father could say thank you properly.
Those of us who were lucky enough to have had a slice of that watermelon that night—like me—must count it the most delectable food ever eaten anyplace by anyone.
The Endless Steppe - ch 4
Roll half of the red clay and squish to about 1 inch thick. It will look like a mini cheese wheel.