In a perverse way, cousin Minna came to my rescue. Ever since I arrived on her doorstep she had been unsparing in her criticisms of my mother. The news of my mother’s death brought not even a respectful silence but a greater barrage. I can see now, through the prism of experience, that guilt drove her as much as anything: she had hated my mother, been jealous of her for so many years, she couldn’t admit now that she’d been unfeeling, even cruel. She was probably grief-stricken as well, because her own mother had also perished, all that family that used to spend summers talking and swimming at Kleinsee; well, never mind that. It’s old news now.

I would come home from walking the streets, walking until I was too exhausted to feel anything, to Minna: you think you’re suffering? That you’re the only person who was ever orphaned, left alone in a strange country? And weren’t you supposed to give Victor his tea? He says he waited for over an hour for you and finally had to make it himself because you’re too much a lady-“die gnädige Frau”-Minna only ever spoke German at home-she had never really mastered English, which made her furious with shame-and she curtsied to me-to get your hands dirty doing work, housework or a real job. You’re just like Lingerl. I wonder how a princess like her lived as long as she did in such a setting, with no one to pamper her. Did she tilt her head and bat her eyes so that the guards or other inmates gave up their bread to her? Madame Butterfly is dead. It’s time you learned what real work is.

A fury rose up in me greater than any I remember since. I smacked her in the mouth and screamed, if people took care of my mother it’s because she repaid them with love. And if they don’t care for you it’s because you’re utterly loathsome.