Lela was standing at the window. Her forehead was pressed to the glass. With the wet handkerchief, she kept wiping out the stain her breath made on the window. The ceremony of the consecration was over. Few had been there. The two sisters of Frau Käte, hardly a couple of acquaintances from the city. They were such strangers here again after such a long absence. The servants. An unfamiliar priest had spoken. Now the coffin was carried down the narrow staircase. Outside on the wet road, the black carriage stood to pick it up. Four serious, matter-of-fact men took care of it. Flowers and wreaths were packed on it. There weren't many. Berti and Dad walked behind the car. Then a couple more people. Slowly, the vehicle started up. It wobbled a little, the road was bad. Slowly, very slowly, the car drove, as if afraid to disturb Mum's sleep. Finally, an old hackney carriage with the priest drove behind. It was uphill here. There was no music. One just drove like that. Slowly and very quietly.
Suddenly, something broke in two in Lela. Until now, Mum had still been in the house. This was farewell. Final farewell. Now she was gone. Now the house was empty. The stupid, stupid house. Empty.
Leaves and trampled flowers lay on the stairs. The front door was still opened, both wings were wide opened. A damp draught came in. All the windows had been wide open to air it out. It wasn't a house at all any more.
Manuela had only one wish, away, out—to be alone. There were busy people here. They cleaned up, they washed the floor, they made beds. They cooked and they heated. The aunts had to be busy. In drawers, in cupboards. It had to be done quickly. They wanted to leave again.
"The child can't use the underwear; it's all too big for her," said Aunt Luise Ehrenhardt.
"You could take this Persian muff, Irene; it goes with your stole."
"Yes, thank you. When Lela grows up, I'll give it back to her."
Lela heard everything. The beloved muff into which mother used to put her thin, cold hands to warm them. Lela had always put her little hands in it and rested her head on the soft fur.
"All this is going into the laundry," she heard was said as continuation. Then she ran over there. She stood before the two women, pale and distraught. She didn't dare to object; she was just watching what they were doing with the clothes, and when the moment came she seized her mother's worn clothes and hid it in her bed. Every now and then she crept over, buried her face deep in the soft batiste and inhaled the scent for so long, until Mum was physically visible and she, she thought she was hugging her, feeling her warmth, feeling her hands, hearing her words, "My darling . . ."
She was happy with aunt Irene's caresses. Aunt Irene was kind. She was similar to Mum. From a distance, her voice was sometimes indistinguishable from Mother's voice. Aunt Irene's hands were like Mum's hands. But Aunt Irene went to her children immediately. She didn't have time. Aunt Luise also drove away with a suitcase full of things that had belonged to Mum. Aunt Irene had left most of it to her.
Everyone was kind to Lela, but she didn't feel it at all. It was just annoying. She wanted to be alone. Because then she could have Mum with her. She wanted to go out into the chestnut alley, to the bench where she had always sat with her Mother; she believed that Mother had to wait for her there, but they wouldn't let her go. It was almost like a guard. She fled to her school books; pencil marks—that Mum had made in the reading book—were everywhere. Lela knew exactly what Mum had said back then when they had talked about this or that reading passage. Lela covered her ears, then Mum was there. Close beside her and talking to her. But already someone turned on the light and came to Lela and put a hand on her head and said, "Poor child!"
Only at night she was left alone. She fell fast asleep. Mum had always said that she should sleep well. She firmly believed that she was closer to Mum when she was asleep.
Once, deep in the night, she had the feeling that a dark figure was standing at her bedside and reaching for her hand. She cried out wildly; immediately there were people in the room, and it was bright. Only when they left again Lela knew that it had been Mum, and she, stupid Lela, had been afraid, had been afraid, had chased her away—her Mother— by shouting and lighting. Horribly sad for herself, she forcibly kept calm and waited with staring eyes. But nothing more came. Not today, and not any other night.