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good day.

    I couldn't say what I thought, of course. I had to say the
diametrical opposite, but at that I was an expert. I always said
what people wanted to hear. Mother was satisfied with my answer.
"Don't you also think you should follow our Saviour's example?"
she asked. I nodded eagerly, and she went on: "Then go and beg
Him for strength and grace."
    I was still thirsty, but I knew she wouldn't even give me the glass
of tap water until I'd prayed, so I went into the living room.
    It was just as shabby and old-fashioned in appearance as the
kitchen. A threadbare sofa, a coffee table on spindly, crooked legs
and two armchairs. But no one entering the room had eyes for the
worn-out furniture.
    The first thing that met your gaze was the altar in the corner
beside the window It was really just a cupboard minus the top half,
which Father had had to saw off. In front of it stood a hard wooden
bench on which you were only allowed to kneel. The makeshift
altar was draped in a white cloth embroidered with candles, and
on it stood a vase of flowers, usually roses.
    Roses were very expensive, but Mother bought them gladly even
when the housekeeping money ran short. Making a sacrifice to our
Saviour couldn't fail to fill one's heart with joy, she said. My heart
was never filled with joy. It was filled with the supposition that I'd
been given away. My real mother, Grit Adigar, must have realized a
long time ago that I was a bad person. She didn't want Kerstin and
Melanie to suffer in consequence and end up as sick as Magdalena;
that was why she had taken me to live with this woman who knew
exactly how to make a bad person good.
    But if I showed everyone that I was a good girl, if I prayed
diligently enough and didn't sin - or not so anyone noticed - I felt
sure I would soon be restored to my real family for evermore.

    I can't imagine that everyone genuinely believed my invalid
sister's survival to be dependent on my good conduct. In any case,
it would mean that I could never go home again - that I would
have to remain with this peculiar woman and our Saviour for all
eternity.
    The Saviour stood on the altar between the vase of flowers
and four candlesticks containing tall, white candles. But he didn't
actually "stand" there: he was nailed to a twelve-inch wooden cross
with tiny nails. His back was also glued to it. I took him down and
examined him one day when Mother wasn't around.
    I'd only wanted to see if he could open his eyes. Mother claimed
he could gaze deep into people's hearts and see all their sinful
desires. But his eyes didn't open even when I shook him, waggled
the crown of thorns on his head, which was bowed in agony, and
tapped his tummy with my knuckles. It sounded as if I'd tapped
the tabletop.
    I didn't believe he could catch me out. I had no respect for him,
only for Mother, who compelled me to kneel before him three or
more times a day and beg for grace and strength and mercy. He
was supposed to purify my heart, but I didn't want a pure heart.
I had a sound one - that was good enough for me. He was also
supposed to give me the strength to go without things. I didn't want
that either.
    I always had to go without - without sweets, lemonade and other
treats. Like the cake Grit Adigar regularly offered us. She baked
them herself - one every Saturday, thickly sprinkled with icing
sugar - and on Monday she would turn up bearing a plate with
three or four slices on it. They were a bit dry already, but that
didn't matter. Mother always declined them. The very sight of the
plate made my mouth water.
    If I stared at it for too long, Mother said: "You've got that greedy
look again." And she would send me off to the living room, where
I kneeled before the cross on the cupboard in the corner, the one
on which the Saviour had shed his blood for the remission of our
sins.

    She felt momentarily puzzled as she kneeled beside the dead man,
seeing his blood and the horror on the