Our only remaining relatives from Belgrade, who came to London to spend a few months with their son, came to visit us in Reading. They arrived early this afternoon and we talked for a long time. I retired early this evening. Lying in bed, I can hear my mother talking in the kitchen, which is directly below my room. I can pick up only a few words every now and then: “… she was Polish … by his bedside … however, I could never …” What is she talking about? My mother goes on an on: “… in my own mind … pure coincidence … but, I refused …” Then she starts crying. She is talking about my father, of course.