The nurse says, "Lucas will come too, soon."

Mother looks at me. Big tears start to roll down from her pale blue eyes. She says, "Lies. Always lies."

Her nose runs. The nurse wipes it. Mother lets her head fall to her chest. She says nothing more and doesn't look at me again.

The nurse says, "We're tired, we're going back to bed. Do you want to kiss your mother, Klaus?"

I shake my head and stand up.

The nurse says, "You can find your way back to the reception room on your own, can't you?"

I say nothing and leave the room. I walk by Antonia and Sarah without a word, leave the building, and wait outside the door. Antonia holds me by the shoulder and Sarah takes my hand, but I shrug them off and put my hands in my pockets. We walk to the bus station without saying a word.

When Antonia leaves for work that evening I say, "The woman I saw is not my mother. I'm not going to go see her again. It's you who should go see her to realize what you've done."

She asks, "Will you never be able to forgive me, Klaus?"

I don't answer. She adds, "If you knew how much I love you."

I say, "You shouldn't. You aren't my mother. It's my mother who should love me, but she loves only Lucas. And it's your fault."

The front line approaches. The town is bombed night and day. We spend a lot of time in the basement. We've brought down mattresses and bed covers. At first our neighbors come too, but one day they disappear. Antonia says they've been deported.

Antonia is out of work. The nightclub where she sang doesn't exist anymore. The school is closed. It's very hard to find food, even with ration cards. Luckily Antonia has a friend who sometimes comes and brings us bread, condensed milk, biscuits, and chocolate. At night the friend stays with us since he can't go home because of the curfew. On those nights Antonia sleeps with me in the kitchen. I hold her and speak to her about Lucas, who we will find again soon, and we fall asleep looking at the stars.

One morning Antonia wakes us early. She tells us to dress warmly, to put on several shirts and sweaters, our coats, and several pairs of socks since we're going on a long trip. She fills two suitcases with the rest of our clothes.

Antonia's friend comes for us in a car. We put the suitcases in the trunk. Antonia sits up front, Sarah and I in the back.

The car stops at the entrance to a cemetery almost across from our old house. The friend stays in the car; Antonia walks quickly, pulling Sarah and me by the hand.

We stop in front of a grave with a wooden cross upon which my father's name is written-a double name made up of mine and my brother's: Klaus-Lucas T.

Among several faded bouquets on the grave, one, of white carnations, is almost fresh.

I say to Antonia, "My mother used to plant carnations all over the garden. They were my father's favorite flower."

Antonia says, "I know. Say good-bye to your father, children."

Sarah says sweetly, "Good-bye, Father."

I say, "He wasn't Sarah's father. He was only our father, Lucas and me."

Antonia says, "I've already explained it to you. Didn't you understand? Too bad. Come, we have no time to waste."

We return to the car, which drives us to South Station. Antonia says thank you and good-bye to her friend.

We line up in front of the ticket booth. It's only then that I dare to ask Antonia, "Where are we going?"

She says, 'To my parents'. But first we're going to stop in the town of S. to take your brother Lucas with us."

I hold her hand and kiss her. 'Thank you, Antonia."

She withdraws her hand. "Don't thank me. I only know the name of the town; I can't remember what the rehabilitation center was called."

When Antonia pays for the tickets I realize that with the grocery money I couldn't have afforded my trip to the town of S.

The trip is uncomfortable. There are too many people; everyone is fleeing from the front. We have only one seat for the three of us; the one who sits takes Sarah on his knees while the other remains standing. We exchange places several times during the trip, which should have taken five hours but lasts more than twelve because of air raids. The train stops in the open countryside; the travelers get out and lie down in the fields. Whenever it happens I stretch my coat out on the ground, lay Sarah down on it, and crouch over her to protect her from bullets, bombs, and shrapnel.

We arrive at the town of S. late at night. We take a hotel room. Sarah and I immediately get into the big bed; Antonia goes back down to the bar to ask for information and does not return until morning.

Now she has the address of the center where Lucas should be. We go the following day.

It's a building in the middle of a park. Half of it has collapsed. It is empty We see the bare walls blackened by smoke.

The center was bombed three weeks ago.

Antonia makes inquiries. She questions the local authorities and tries to find survivors from the center. She finds the director's address. We go see her.

She says, "I remember little Lucas very well. He was the worst resident in the house. Always making trouble, always getting on people's nerves. A truly unbearable child, and incorrigible. No one ever came to see him, no one was interested in him. If I remember rightly, there was some sort of family tragedy. There is no more I can tell you."

Antonia insists: "Did you see him again after the bombing?"

The director says, "I myself was wounded in the bombing, but no one cares about me. A lot of people come to talk to me, asking questions about their children. But no one cares about me. And I spent two weeks in the hospital after the bombing. The shock, you understand. I was responsible for all those children."

Antonia asks again: "Think back. What can you tell us about Lucas? Did you see him again after the bombing? What happened to the surviving children?"

The director says, "I didn't see him again. I tell you, I was hurt too. The children who were still alive were sent back home. The dead were buried in the town cemetery. Those who weren't dead and whose addresses were unknown were sent away. To villages, to farms, to small towns. Those people are meant to return the children after the war."

Antonia consults the list of the town's dead.

She says to me, "Lucas isn't dead. We'll find him."

We get back on the train. We come to a little station; we walk to the center of town. Antonia carries the sleeping Sarah in her arms. I carry the suitcases.

We stop at Central Square. Antonia rings a doorbell and an old woman answers the door. I already know the old woman. It's Antonia's mother. She says, "God be praised! You're safe and sound. I was terribly scared. I prayed for you constantly."

She takes my face in her hands.

"And you came with them?"

I say, "I had no choice. I have to look after Sarah."

"Of course you have to look after Sarah."

She squeezes me, kisses me, then takes Sarah in her arms.

"How pretty you are, how big you are!"

Sarah says, 'I'm sleepy. I want to sleep with Klaus."

We're put to bed in the same room, the room Antonia slept in when she was a child.

Sarah calls Antonia's parents Grandmother and Grandfather; I call them Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas. Uncle Andreas is a priest, and he wasn't called up because he is ill. His head shakes all the time as though he's constantly saying "no."

Uncle Andreas takes me for walks through the streets in the little town, sometimes until dusk. He says, 'I'd always wished for a son. A boy would have understood my love for this town. He would have understood the beauty of these streets, these houses, that sky. Yes, the beauty of this sky that is to be found nowhere else. Look. There are no names for the colors of that sky."