A whole row of small villas stood next to each other. One could look at them well; because they had no other opposite. The street was built only on one side. It was sloping and dirty, each carriage left a deep furrow; on the uncultivated side were potato fields, fruit trees, fields upon fields, all the way to the forest. This was the end of the city. They were inexpensive houses standing closely together with tiny front gardens and gates looking out into the fields. From some, the beautiful stucco flourish above the windows was falling off already and sank as ugly, yellow-white heaps into the sparse lawns of the front gardens. Hardly a finger was lifted to put them away. The yellow and grey colour of the house fronts had suffered. Stains appeared. Exposed to wind and rain, these urban houses could not withstand the country weather.

It was difficult to settle in here. The rooms were small, the floors were made of bad wood. The doors wouldn't close. The stairs creaked, which particularly annoyed Meinhardis; because Käte woke up from it whenever he came home late. Although, actually, she was always tired. This move had probably been too much for her. Packing and unpacking. Porcelain in a lot, a lot of paper, wooden shavings and boxes. Furniture had bumps. The glass of picture frames was cracked. Curtains had to be altered. All the furniture seemed too big for this house.

A cold wind whistled through the closed windows. Frrau Käte used thick blankets, which she hung in front of the windows as protection. She shivered. The twilight hour grew longer and longer. Käte was tired. When she returned from the cemetery, she sank exhausted into an armchair and closed her eyes. Then everyone walked on tiptoe, so as not to disturb her, and she said softly, "But children, I'm not asleep; I'm just having my eyes closed." Meinhardis had visited his old wine bar, where he found pals from the past. There, in a dark corner, was a round table with a nickel flag in the middle with the words, "Reserved for regulars." This is where the "old men" sat. This is where they sat in the mornings when the young ones came from work, dusty and thirsty. This is where the "old gentlemen" sat. This is where they sat in the late mornings when the young ones came back from duty, dusty and thirsty. They sat there in the evening—when it was dusk—until supper, when everybody went home to the waiting family. And some would sneak back there when their wives and children had gone to bed. Meinhardis was one of them. God, what should one do? It was boring at home. They did not participate in societies; Frau Käte did not want to see people. Only sometimes he took a thick walking stick and went to the nearby mountains.

Manuela had to get up early to get to school in time. When she was woken in the morning, it was as if the back of her head was forged to bed, her eyelids were of lead and her limbs were as heavy as wood. She fought for every minute with the maid who had the duty to drum her out. Chewing a bread roll, still in the cold half-darkness of dawn, her tongue aching from milk consumed too hot, drunk with sleep, she set out on her way. She hated the new school. Because of the transfer in the middle of school year, she was placed in a class that had a completely different course of study than the old one. She couldn't follow; because she missed the beginning. The schoolgirls behaved coldly towards her. She was "new one." Frau Käte did everything to help her child. She occupied herself daily with her schoolwork. But Lela was tired and listless. Once she lost her train of thought, she lost her spirit. For the first time there was daughter's disgruntlement with mother. Lela secretly blamed her mother for all the discomfort. Her bedroom was cold, the way to school was long. She was without girl friends. It almost annoyed her to see that Mum cried often. She also knew why Mum was crying. Because dad always came home so late at night. And if Mum said something about it very quietly, he would get angry and scold. He scolded everyone. He missed the batman. The regiment had always provided him with a soldier to serve. And now these stupid young women. They knew nothing, they couldn't do anything. They couldn't even fasten a collar button. Let alone clean your boots. Frau Käte was pale, but no one noticed it or spoke of it. Once, when Lela saw her hand writing with the fountain pen very close to her eyes, she had a feeling as if her bones would soon have to pierce the skin. She was afraid. Mother sighed. Not like others sigh. No, deep and with pauses. As if she didn't even have the strength to push all the superfluous air away at once.

She said to Lela, "If I die now, you must be very good to Dad."

Lela paid no attention to these words. Mother wouldn't die, she said it out of tiredness and because nowadays she was thinking more about Ali again. First, of course, grandma would die. Mother was old, but it would be a long time before she died. Recently, Mother never laughed any more. However, there was nothing to laugh about. Not far from the house, a long avenue of chestnut trees led to the forest. Linking arms with Mother, Lela walked beside her. As soon as there was a bench, Mother sat down. An infinite compassion came over the child when she looked into Mother's pale, eternally serious face. The chestnuts threw broad yellow leaves down on them. Mother did not speak. Only such mysterious things sometimes. Like, "When the leaves come back, we'll not go together here any more." Lela shuddered; although she did not absorb the actual meaning of the words. Mother had been saying too much of this for a long time. But when Dad heard something like that, he just got angry. He had brought a doctor one day. Since then, Mother started taking small ball-shaped tablets with a small sip of water after eating. Anaemia. Overwork. Said the doctor. Mother needed to take it easy. But she was taking it easy. She didn't do anything any more now. She didn't get up until around noon, and—when she came home from school— Lela often found her still in her dressing gown, which she didn't want to change for an uncomfortable dress. Even the trips to the cemetery became less frequent. "It's getting difficult for me," she used to say.

Lela walks slowly and silently beside her today too. In her hand she holds a few last red poppies and a few wild snapdragons, yellow and pale.

"I like Autumn," says Mum. "It's good when nature goes to rest."

Mother's hands are cold. They turn bluish.

"Let's go home," Manuela suggests timidly.

Mother goes to bed. No, nothing is wrong with her. She wants to sleep. Sleep for a long time. Her room is darkened, and she is left alone. Mother does not get up. Lela's heart is pounding. She is slowly overcome by immoderate fear. What if . . . But one is not allowed to say something like that. Then it says, "You sin when you say something like that." One cannot even think that. And she, who has often been so bad to Mum recently.

When Lela wakes up in the morning, she listens at the door, and if she doesn't hear breathing, she opens the door quietly and doesn't leave until she knows for sure that Mother is breathing. She runs the last part of the way home from school, as if rushed out of fear that something terrible might be said to her when she comes home. Breathless, she races up the two flights of stairs and collapses on the side of Mother's bed. Mother smiles, thank God! And Lela breathes a sigh of relief.

Lela sits down at side of Mother's bed.

"Mum, are you in pain?"

"No, my child. I'm fine. I'll be with Ali soon."

"No, Mum, stay here!" And everything in Lela convulses into a terrible sob deep in her chest.

"Don't, child, don't. It's a good thing. That's beautiful, child. What God does is good. We must obey Him. His will be done."

Quietly, Meinhardis enters.

"Lela, go downstairs to eat."

And Lela goes.

Meinhardis stops at the side of his wife's bed.

"I have to go," she says quietly.

"Oh nonsense, Mummy. Who's even talking like that? All you have to do is get a good rest and eat properly. Then everything will be well again."

"When did you come home yesterday?"

"Mummy, late," he says ruefully.

"I didn't hear you. I must have been asleep."

"I took off my boots, so I wouldn't make any noise."

"Do you always have to drink in the evening?"

"But what else am I supposed to do?"

"Don't you want to look for job, to do some work?"

"Yes, Mummy, if you want, I can advertise." He seriously intended to do so, but he never got around to it. For which reason? After all, there was no point in it. All advertised. So do the others from the regulars' table. After all, there was no point at all. He actually only said that so as not to upset Käte with contradictions. One had to be patient until she got better.

Lela has not slept well. She has an empty head when she wakes up. And yet it is late. She has to hurry. It is cold in the room. She has to turn on the light in order to see. She combs her hair in front of the small mirror and looks into her big, sleepy eyes. She feels sick. She's always sick in the morning. Before she goes downstairs, she pauses at Mother's door as always. It is silent inside. Quietly, she opens the door a tiny crack. It is completely silent. She tries hard to hear. She waits for a quiet movement. Her heart stops. She doesn't dare to move. In the semi-darkness, she sees mother's hair like a dark spot. Hands are folded on her bosom. The door cracked. Now Mother will wake up, of course. Why isn't the door oiled? She has wanted to do that for a long time. No sound comes from the bed. Lela cannot move. Her hand on the brass handle becomes icy. She can't put one foot in front of the other, she can't make a sound of immoderate, frenzied, senseless fear. She feels: I only have to say "Mum" now, and then she will wake up. And she can't say. Don't wake up. She feels, I only have to say "Mum" now, then she will wake up. And she can't say it. Not wake her up. This is a sleep from which one can't wake anybody. One must not make any noise here. It is sacred here. As in the high cathedral, her hand presses to her mouth. Don't say anything. No more answer comes from there. Never again. As she thinks "never again", she cries out. Loudly, madly, cuttingly, insanely from inability to bear it. The "never again" was too much.

Berti runs up the stairs, the girl, Meinhardis are coming. Lela holds the door. Nobody should go in there. Berti runs up the stairs, the girl, Meinhardis are coming. Lela holds the door firmly. Nobody should go in there. This is her Mother, and nobody is allowed to touch her and nobody is allowed to light up there. She's behaving as if out of her mind. They have to dragged her away by force. The little body can't stand it, the cook feels. A strange girl—only a short time in the house—from the country. She takes the child on her lap, against her heavy, broad peasant bosom. She rocks her like an infant. She cries and cries and rocks herself in pain. Lela resists, but the farmer's arms are stronger and Lela gives in. The screams fade to long, plaintive wails. Like animals' howling, in drawn out tones, it comes from the narrow chest, from the tear-wet, distorted lips, "Mum, Mum, Mum." And the hands clutch the firm flesh of the strange woman. "I can't, I can't!" And a hard, rough hand lays heavily over her whole face. Suddenly she is quiet and listens. Berti is raging upstairs. With one leap she is free and up the stairs at her brother's. He holds both hands to his temples and runs around a table. "Pain, pain, pain," he keeps saying. "The children have to go, the children have to get out of the house," says Meinhardis. He hardly shows any movement. He has too much to do. A doctor has to be fetched, your wife's sisters, grandma have to be telegraphed for. It must, it must, it must—a great deal to be done. Somebody dresses Lela and takes her away. Somebody, a distant relative. Lela is exhausted and weak-willed. She's in a strange room. They're fitting a black dress on her. She wants to go home. "You can go home. Today in the evening." There were already lights around Mother's bed and flowers. Mother was beautiful. As if made of wax. Lela was standing by her bed.

"Say adieu to Mum!" Meinhardis said. It seemed to Lela that he had a different voice. He had his hands on her shoulders. How could she say goodbye to Mum, Mum didn't hear it anymore. The candles flickered and their warmth was enlivening the dead face. Lela stepped quietly to the bedside, carefully stretched out her hand and drew a cross on the white forehead of her dead mother.

"Good night, sleep well, Mum, God bless you!"