Should she speak to her mother about it, after all? Should she tell her the truth after breakfast, when they were alone? She wasn’t sure.

The boys were still eating when they heard a ring at the doorbell. Her mother was at the stove, and there was no chance of the boys stirring from their food, so she went to answer it. For a foolish moment, and though she knew very well he was in the city with his son, she hoped it might be Charlie.

She opened the door.

There were two people standing on the top step. The woman was fair, in her fifties, a complete stranger. The man was burly, wearing a black coat and a homburg hat. She stared at them.

“I’m sorry it’s so early,” said the woman. She looked awkward. Her accent was British.

“Well,” said the man, “aren’t you going to ask your Uncle Herman in?”

They were standing in the kitchen. Downstairs, her father was still playing the piano, oblivious to their presence.

“I told you he plays well,” Uncle Herman said to his wife.

“You shouldn’t have come,” said Sarah’s mother. “You should have written. You should have telephoned, at least.”

“I did say to him …” said Uncle Herman’s wife, but nobody paid attention to her.

“And be told to stay away?” said Uncle Herman. “So I’m here.” He looked at Michael. “You I remember.” He looked at Nathan. “You I don’t know. I’m your Uncle Herman.”

Esther Adler glanced at Herman’s wife, then addressed her brother-in-law.

“I don’t want to say what happened.”

“She knows,” he boomed. “She knows.” He turned to his wife. “I told you. They sat shiva for me when I married you, because you’re not Jewish. I’m dead to them. You understand? They treated me like a dead person. They called all their friends to come and mourn for me, and they never spoke of me again. This is what we do, in families like ours. We’re very particular.”

“I never heard of such a thing before,” his wife said to them apologetically. “I didn’t know.”

“You don’t have to worry,” said Uncle Herman. “It’s only me that’s dead. Not you.”

“You have to go, Herman,” said Mrs. Adler. “I’ll tell him you came. Maybe he’ll see you. I don’t know.”

“This is stupid,” said Uncle Herman.

Sarah said nothing. She slipped from the room.

Her father did not even hear her come into the waiting room where he was playing, but when he saw her, he smiled. His face seemed so contented, and as she looked at him, she felt such love. She stood beside him.

“Father,” she said gently, “something’s happened. I have to tell you something.”

He paused in his playing.

“What is it, Sarah?”

“You have to be prepared for a shock.”

He stopped and half turned. His face looked anxious.