I say, "It's like a dream."

"A dream, yes. I had only one daughter. She left early, very young. She came back with a little girl and with you. You're not her son, nor my grandson, but you're the boy I've been waiting for."

I say, "But I have to go back to my mother when she's better, and I also have to find my brother, Lucas."

"Yes, of course. I hope you find them. But if you don't, you can stay with us forever. You can study and then choose the occupation that pleases you. What would you like to do when you grow up?"

"I'd like to marry Sarah."

Uncle Andreas laughs. "You can't marry Sarah. You're brother and sister. Marriage between you is impossible. It's against the law."

I say, "So I'll just live with her. No one can forbid me from keeping on living with her."

"You'll meet many other young girls you'll want to marry."

I say, "I don't think so."

Soon it becomes dangerous to walk in the streets, and at night it's forbidden to go out. What to do during the air-raid warning and bombings? During the day I give lessons to Sarah. I teach her to read and write and I make her do math exercises. There are a lot of books in the house. In the attic there are even children's books and Antonia's schoolbooks.

Uncle Andreas teaches me to play chess. When the women go to bed we begin a game and play late into the night.

At first Uncle Andreas always wins. When he begins to lose, he also loses his taste for the game.

He says to me, "You're too good for me, my boy. I don't want to play anymore. I don't want anything; all my desires have left me. I don't even have interesting dreams anymore, only boring ones."

I try to teach Sarah to play chess, but she doesn't like it. She gets tired and annoyed; she prefers simpler parlor games, and above all that I read her stories, it doesn't matter which ones, even a story I've read twenty times already.

When the war moves off into the other country, Antonia says, "We can go home to the capital."

Her mother says, "You'll starve to death. Leave Sarah here for a while. At least until you find work and a decent place to live."

Uncle Andreas says, "Leave the boy here too. There are good schools in our town. When we find his brother, we'll take him in too."

I say, "I have to return to the capital to find out what happened to my mother."

Sarah says, "If Klaus goes back to the capital, I'm going too."

Antonia says, "I'm going alone. As soon as I've found an apartment I'll come get you."

She kisses Sarah and then me. She says in my ear: "I know that you'll look after her. I trust you."

Antonia leaves and we stay with Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas. We're clean and well fed, but we can't go out of the house because of the foreign soldiers and the general disorder. Aunt Mathilda is afraid something will happen to us.

We each have our own room now. Sarah sleeps in the room that had been her mother's; I sleep in the guest room.

At night I draw a chair up to the window and watch the square. It's almost empty. Only a few drunks and soldiers wander through it. Sometimes a limping child, younger than me, it seems, crosses it. He plays a tune on his harmonica; he goes into one bar, leaves, and goes into another. Around midnight, when all the bars close, the child heads westward through the town, still playing his harmonica.

One-night I point out the child with the harmonica to Uncle Andreas.

"Why isn't he forbidden from going out late at night?"

"I've been watching him for the past year. He lives with his grandmother on the other end of town. She's a very poor woman. The child is probably an orphan. He plays in bars to earn a bit of money. People are used to seeing him around. No one will harm him. He's under the protection of the whole town, and under the protection of God."

I say, "He must be happy."

Uncle says, "Definitely."

Three months later Antonia comes for us. Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Andreas don't want us to go.

Aunt Mathilda says, "Let the little girl stay. She's happy here and has everything she needs."

Uncle Andreas says, "At least leave the boy. Now that things are settling down we could start making inquiries about his brother."

Antonia says, "You can start making inquiries without him, Father. I'm taking them both. Their place is with me."

In the capital we now have a big four-bedroom apartment. In addition to these rooms there is a living room and a bathroom.

On the evening of our arrival I tell Sarah a story and stroke her hair until she falls asleep. I hear Antonia and her friend talking in the living room.

I put on my gym shoes, go down the stairs, and run through the familiar streets. The streets, side streets, and alleys are lit now; there is no more war, no more blackout, no more curfew.

I stop in front of my house; the light is on in the kitchen. At first I think that strangers have moved in. The light in the living room also goes on. It's summer and the windows are open. I go nearer. Someone is speaking, a man's voice. Stealthily I look in through the window. My mother, sitting in an armchair, is listening to the radio.

For a week I come to observe my mother, sometimes several times a day. She goes about her business, wandering from room to room, spending most of her time in the kitchen. She also tends the garden, planting and watering the flowers. At night she spends a long time reading in the parents' bedroom, whose window looks out onto the courtyard. Every other day a nurse arrives on a bicycle; she stays for around twenty minutes, chatting with Mother, taking her blood pressure, sometimes giving her an injection.

Once a day, in the morning, a young woman comes with a full basket and leaves with it empty. I continue to do the shopping for Antonia even though she can do it herself and even has a friend to help her.

Mother has grown thinner. She no longer looks like an unkempt old woman the way she did at the hospital. Her face has reassumed its former softness while her hair has its color and brightness again. It is done up in a thick russet bun.

One morning Sarah asks me, "Where do you go, Klaus? Where do you go so often? Even at night. I came into your room last night because I'd had a nightmare. You weren't there and I was scared."

"Why don't you go to Antonia's room when you're scared?"

"I can't. Because of her friend. He sleeps here almost every night. Where do you go so often, Klaus?"

"I just go for walks. Around town."

Sarah says, "You go to the empty house, you go cry in front of your empty house, don't you? Why don't you take me with you?"

I say to her, 'The house isn't empty anymore, Sarah. My mother has come back. She's living in our house again, and I have to go back too."

Sarah begins to cry. "You're going to live with your mother? You're not going to live with us anymore? What will I do without you, Klaus?"

I kiss her on the eyes. "And me? What will I do without you, Sarah?"

We're both crying; we're lying tangled together on the living room sofa. We hold each other more and more tightly, laced to each other with our arms, with our legs. Tears are flowing down our faces, in our hair, on our necks, in our ears. We're shaking with sobs, with trembling, with cold.

I feel wetness in my pants between my legs.

"What are you doing? What's going on?"

Antonia separates us, pushes us far apart, and sits down between us. She shakes my shoulder.

"What have you done?"

I cry out, "I didn't do anything bad to Sarah."

Antonia takes Sarah in her arms.

"Good God. I should have expected something like this."

Sarah says, "I think I peed in my pants."

She throws her arms around her mother's neck.