I held a borrowed umbrella in one hand and a piece of paper with directions on it in the other. The rain was only a soft drizzle. I had come a long way by train to a remote town in northern Germany to visit my former nanny, who was ninety years old. The place felt like the end of the world. Its medieval center was picturesque, full of freshly painted half-timber houses. The town castle was strawberry-colored. Bakery windows were crammed with pastries and pretzels, and over the market in the square hung a scent of frying sausages.
Elfriede Blume had already been old when my brother and I were small, living in southern Germany. She was like a grandmother to us, yet we always called her Frau Blume, addressing her in the polite form. She had recently moved up here to live with her Polish nephew Jurek. Frau Blume...
