And most of all she never had to lie.

Had Ania held this against her? Was this why, so many years later, when Mary was an ordinary eleven-year-old who wanted a pair of fine shoes for dancing class or complained about the slow bus ride home from school, Ania would rage about her spoiledness? Once, she had locked her daughter into the pitch-dark smokehouse for a whole afternoon among the gory, half-cured hams and sides of bacon hanging from the ceiling. Many times, she had shouted and threatened absurd punishments for minor infractions. It made Ania sick with regret to think back on those days. Her meanness haunted her in the soft, innocent faces of Mary’s children.

But somehow she and Mary had come through. Somehow, they had even become close. It was as if the five thousand kilometers Mary had put between them had given her the space she needed to forgive her mother. They spoke on the phone every Sunday evening. And each fall, for three weeks, Ania flew across the ocean to stay with her daughter. Who loved her, improbably enough.

Mary sent her large-print books and special reading lights, photos of her children, homeopathic remedies for her bad back and arthritis. When she visited Germany, she took Ania to the movies and introduced her to chamber music and drove her to the cemetery where Carsten was buried. She was Ania’s most thoughtful and attentive child. Anselm and Wolfgang were dutiful sons, but neither ever thought about what might make Ania laugh or feel less lonely or more comfortable or better informed. Mary, on the other hand, tried to understand her. She tried to do for her mother what her mother had never done for her.

Mary did not mention the package again until after dinner, when the children had been elaborately and painfully put to bed (there was homework to help with, night-lights to leave on, snacks to bring upstairs, as if they were being prepared for a frightening and arduous journey rather than the luxury of sleep). It was nearly nine thirty when Mary emerged, looking haggard. Ania sat at the dining room table sewing a skirt at the sewing machine she had given her daughter so many years ago and that she used, every time she came to visit, to make some new dress or article of clothing for her granddaughter.

“Another schnapps?” Mary asked her mother hopefully as she poured herself one more half glass of wine from the open bottle on the counter. Ania agreed, even though the schnapps did nothing for her anymore—too many old-age medications had dulled her receptors, even her taste buds. But her poor tired daughter should not have to drink alone.

Mary refilled Ania’s glass and started to sit before jumping up again, her hands thrown into the air. “The package! I almost forgot!”

She disappeared into the front hall and reemerged with it. The sight sent a small, prescient shiver through Ania.

“So.” Mary slid the package toward her mother and collapsed into her chair. “Put away your sewing. Enough work for one day.” She waved her hand as if the project were frivolous nonsense. This condescension was the price Ania had to pay for their years of fighting. It was a small one.