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morning, known to me only as sleepy silhouettes and not as the noisy, wide-awake people they doubtless became as the day wore on.
    It wasn't within my power to prolong the darkness and make those strangers' voices sleep on while a parental hand continued to tow me through the residue of the night that would inevitably, menacingly, transmute itself into the world of imperious voices, of clamour and commotion. On I went, so firmly yanked along by that grown-up hand that I almost had to run to keep up with the adult beside me. It was as if I had to traverse that region as quickly as possible, as if passive surrender to light and noise — to the diurnal transformation of all those ghostly morning figures into figures with voices — were the only course open to me. Only the flying foxes in my album were exempt from this. They never flew in sunlight, only in the darkness that lent still further intensity to those black bodies, as if their wings had swallowed the last of the light. They alone could have preserved me from the day, enshrouding me in their soft wings and immersing me in lightlessness. Such was my morning world, so far divorced from the world of daylight that I could never have finished off my half-eaten slice of apple flan during the day. That could only be done in the evening, long after the return of darkness.
    The row of pigeons comes to life at last. Another bird, which probably spent the night on this side of the street, lands on their ledge. Startled, they proceed to strut to and fro. One nearly tumbles off. It spreads its wings as it falls, flutters in my direction, and disappears from view overhead. Will it have occurred to my housekeeper to bring the children some pastries? I'm sure I gave her plenty of coupons. Children get special allocations, full cream milk for Hedda, genuine honey, butter too. Rationing has now been in force for over a year, but I still haven't grasped the various categories and entitlements. Where have my tobacco coupons gone again? Did she take them with her by mistake?
    I pour boiling water on the coffee. Will we fit round the table, all six of us? Can Hedda feed herself yet, or will the housekeeper need a place too? One thing's for sure: she's so little she'll have to have a cushion on her chair or she won't be able to see across the table. The first of the pigeons glides down to the pavement. There goes another. They peck around in the gutter and waddle out into the roadway, undisturbed. Still no traffic at this hour.
    I sit down at the table with my coffee and light another cigarette. Coco emerges from the bedroom. The invariable morning routine: first he briefly rests his head on my lap and asks to be fondled, as if to reassure himself that we still belong together after the intervening night. Then he trots round the kitchen and sniffs every corner: yes, it's still the same room as it was last night. Finally he watches the pigeons outside. They're now perched everywhere, on window-sills, roofs, gutters. Everywhere except the ledge across the street, which is now deserted. Coco whimpers in frustration as the first flock circles above the rooftops before flying off. I can hear the children talking quietly in the room next door. Eight-thirty already. I must get dressed, Coco wants his morning walk. It'll never get really light today, I can tell.
     
    *
    Hilde and Holde must have woken me up, they're whispering together in bed. Why are we all sleeping in the same room? Hedda's tossing and turning beside me, Hilde and Holde are giggling. I remember now: we're in a strange house — we're staying with that friend of Mama and Papa, Herr Karnau, and all because we've got a new sister. We didn't have to go away the other times, the nursemaid looked after us while Mama was in the hospital. Now there are six of us. Mama did have another baby, but that one doesn't count, nobody ever saw it. The little ones don't even know that Mama had another brother in her tummy. Once, when I was little,