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my own up there; the other rooms were full of old furniture and junk, no one slept in them. I had a chamber pot under my bed again, because it was a long, cold walk to the outside toilet. The night’s deposits were tipped out in the morning, and Grandma would rinse the chamber pots with hot water.
    This backward move didn’t particularly bother me. But Mom suffered terribly.
    I can hear her steps—such tiny, delicate, careful steps, as if she’s creeping about. But she always walks like that. She’s brought my case down. The weight of it pulls her over to one side; she drops it beside me. My grandparents ask me to pass on their greetings to Frieda; say hello from Traudel and Lorenz, they reiterate, as if I didn’t know their names. Mom gives me a nod that she’s ready to leave. I feel more cheerful.
    Mom brings the Trabant out of the garage. Dad left it behind; he couldn’t drive it all those thousands of kilometers to the SovietUnion; it would have been too much for an old car. The tank is almost empty, but there’ll be enough to get us to the farm—it’s downhill practically all the way. I sit in the passenger seat beside Mom, wedge the suitcase between my knees, and quickly crank the window down. I don’t know why, but I feel a slight chill.
    A few hundred meters before the Brendels’ farm Mom turns off the engine and lets the car coast. She’s trying to save gas, seeing as it’s all downhill from here. I watch as she removes the key from the ignition. That’s odd.
    To the left of the road there’s an embankment; to the right, meadows and woodland extend down into the valley. All of a sudden I hear a click. The steering wheel locks. At this point the road bends around to the right, but the car keeps going straight. I grab Mom’s arm and she looks at me, her eyes wide with fright, as the Trabant climbs the embankment, slowly, very slowly, veers right, tips onto its side, and finally, as if in slow motion, rolls onto the roof. We’re not strapped in so we fall, noiselessly, first sideways, then onto our heads, and end up lying there stiff with shock. For a few seconds there’s silence. I can’t even hear her breathing.
    I’m the first to try to open the door, but after several futile attempts I climb out through the window. My mother follows me. She still hasn’t said a word.
    And then we’re sitting there trembling by the side of the road, next to an upturned, sky-blue Trabant. In Mom’s hand is the key, which for some unfathomable reason she’d taken out of the ignition. Yes, she actually did. She says nothing. I say nothing. I feel ashamed for her. I don’t know how long we’ve been sitting there—it can’t be more than a few minutes—but it feels like an eternity. Suddenly I hear dogs behind us. Their barking brings me out of my stupor and back into the present. It’s Henner coming from the woods. He has a sack over his shoulder and I find myself wondering what’s in it. He must be hiding something. Seeing us sitting there he approaches, looks atthe car, and shakes his head. “We’ll get that back the right way up,” he says. My mind is now empty. I watch Henner put down the sack and I don’t let it out of my sight. He’s talking to my mother, and now she’s shaking her head. But then she stands up, both of them lift the car in one single movement—all the power coming from Henner, no doubt—and set it back on its four wheels. My mother takes out the suitcase, puts it down by my feet—just like that, without even looking at me—then gets into the car and drives off.
    Later I’d sometimes say that everything that happened must have been because of the shock. Some things, for sure, but not everything.
    I pick up the case and start walking. Henner slings the sack back over his shoulder. With large strides he catches up with me, takes the suitcase, and says, “Come with me!” His house is not far. We turn right onto the path and walk to the farm in silence. The dogs jump up at me,