Pani Kolecka was in the kitchen when I rushed in. She was leaning against the counter like a small, brittle tree in a dressing gown, caught by a fit of coughing. I helped her back to bed, her weight on me.

“How are you feeling?” I asked.

She looked at me with her small, watery eyes. “Maybe a little better, dear.”

I helped her lie down. There was a large water stain where the blood had been on her sheet. I pretended not to see it.

In my room I took out my radio and turned it on. To cover her coughing. To cover my thoughts. I wanted to drown out the voices in my head that said that even having these flyers was a folly and could get me locked up. I didn’t even hear the music. I sat on the edge of my bed with my head in my hands and my eyes closed.

I remembered the procession, moving slowly against the merciless wind under a sky the color of concrete, starting from the church, where Granny and I thanked everyone who’d come to pay their last respects. Consoling faces pressed against our frozen cheeks. Relief that Father hadn’t shown up. Anger that Father hadn’t shown up. The procession of regret and helplessness moved from the church along the streets of my childhood, the pavements of our games, past our flat and the park full of drunkards. A coffin carried to the cemetery, lowered into a hole. Earth hitting wood. Handful after handful, marking the end of our previous lives. Only Granny and I remained, life having skipped a generation. The flat seemed empty. Gone were the nights by the radio. The news no longer mattered. We no longer cared about outside. We turned inward. Granny started to attend church every day, getting up at five for the first mass. She resigned herself entirely to God, handing herself over to heaven like a premature donation. And me, I withdrew into my books. The radio in Mother’s room remained covered forever. Not even music came out of it again. Not for many years.