Writer's Notebook

"Hi! It's only me. Karl is back in work today, so there's no rush."

No answer. Going into the kitchen I called out again. Not only no answer. There was no dinner on the stove. Another shout, anxiety rising in my voice. Where was Katja?

I found her propped up against the wall in the passage next to the letterbox. She didn't move. Indeed, she showed no reaction whatsoever, not even when I bent down and whispered my name into her ear. I sat down opposite her. The glare in her eyes was indecipherable, yet it told a story. It was almost as if I was sitting there watching a soundless film about which I knew nothing being played out before me.

It was only now, I saw the envelope she was clutching in her hands. I tried to pull it from her to no avail. I bent forward to see if I could make out what was written on the envelope.

"It's Bolek." The sound of her voice caught me off guard. The lustre in her eyes was fading; the film was drawing to its close.

She had only once mentioned Bolek. It was the evening I'd moved in. We'd been looking at old photos together and she'd pointed him out to me. He was Polish and they must have been very close. The threat of war had driven their families apart. Now peace had returned. So had Bolek.