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noise that cut through our moments of silence quickened my pulse, alerting my senses to glance around, to crane my neck and watch for—for whatever may be there. But though I stayed alert, vigilant, I said nothing; Hendrik seemed so happy, so calm, that I was sure, despite my fears, it was all only in my imagination.
    We spent the day up the mountain, mostly lying in the courtyard. Hendrik had a vast capacity for getting lost in his own thoughts. I did my best to get lost in him. Finally, when the sun threatened to slip over the monastery wall, I told Hendrik that we had to leave, that we did not wish to attempt the descending trail in darkness. Reluctantly he stood up, brushed off his pants, and followed me out of the courtyard, away from the ruins, and back down the mountain.
    It was nearly sunset when we approached home, quieter and more contemplative than when we had left. Hendrik’s father was waiting for us as we opened the door. I could tell by his carriage that he was in a fury; so could Hendrik, whose entire body sagged, already suggesting defeat.
    “Would you excuse us, Ferenc?” Hendrik’s father said. His voice tripped with wrath.
    “Uncle Sand—” I began. I did not quite know what I was going to say, but Hendrik’s father gave me no opportunity to finish.
    “Leave us!” he thundered. Confused and alarmed, I retreated toward the kitchen, where I found my parents and Grandmamma waiting for me.
    The sound of a raised voice reached us the instant the door closed. Uncle Sandor. I imagined poor Hendrik standing there, cringing, cowering before his father’s rage. His words were too quick and the sound too muffled for me to make out what he was saying. But it was clear he was furious.
    My own father was in a similar state. “What have you been doing?” His voice was an angry hiss. Clearly he did not want to be heard, a concern unshared by Uncle Sandor. Poppa grabbed my shoulders roughly. He did not often get this way, but when he did, I knew it wise to be alarmed.
    “Nothing!” I replied, my volume the same low tone as my father’s. “We went up the mountain, that is all!”
    “And that took all day?” my father sneered. There was a fury in him I had never seen before.
    “I am sorry if we did something wrong,” I said, hastily trying to comprehend where this anger originated. “But I do not understand what it was.”
    My father looked me sharply in the eye. “Do you swear to me, Ferenc, that nothing—untoward happened today? That he did—nothing to you?” For a full minute I could not comprehend what “untoward” thing my father feared happening to me, or who was supposed to have done it. For a moment I even imagined my father was talking about the snagov vrolok , but then I quickly realized that he was referring to Hendrik. “No, Poppa!” I said, shaking my head. “Nothing at all happened.”
    There was a loud crack from the living room, followed by a small sob, and then another and another, though after the first retort we heard no more cries. My mother looked afraid; she held my father’s arm. My father looked wild, confused.
    “The mine, Greta, the mine,” he whispered to my mother, who rubbed his back consolingly. We heard a scuffle, and a door slam. I turned to my Grandmamma.
    “I do not understand,” I said again.
    “No, child,” Grandmamma said, putting her hand on mine. “I suspect that you do not.”
     
     
    D INNER was a silent affair. Even the generally enforced civility any angry family feigns—a strained “Please pass the salt,” or a forced compliment on the quality of the meal—were absent. The only true presence was Uncle Sandor’s rancor as he grabbed angrily at the coarse honey-and-ale bread and shoveled down Mamma’s goulash stew. I was surprised such simple fare as goulash elicited no comment from Kateryna, but I supposed even she knew enough to keep silent when her father raged this way.
    Hendrik was absent. Whether he left on his own accord or had