The blind side of the heart

Helene had not expected Wilhelm to visit her again, least of all during the summer when Peter was starting real school. She had cleaned the apartment, repainted the wall by the kitchen window where rain had come in; she had stuck down the bedroom wallpaper and put nails into the wobbly chair until it stood steady at the kitchen table, and finally she had washed the curtains, cleaned the windows and bought a bunch of cosmos flowers. Everything must be spick and span when Wilhelm arrived. She didn’t want him shaking his head and thinking that she couldn’t manage with the child on her own. With Peter’s help, she carried the sofa borrowed from their old next-door neighbours into their kitchen. She told Peter he would probably have to sleep on the sofa that week. But then Wilhelm said he would sleep on the sofa himself, so Peter could stay in her bed. Wilhelm said he was on leave. He had come in a civilian suit, so Helene didn’t really know whether he was in the army or not. He made a secret of it. He was not the sort to wriggle out of fighting; his proud bearing suggested to Helene that he had an important job in strategy or some such thing. And his short letters every few months, containing money, always came from Frankfurt or Berlin. Recently she had been putting the money in a thick woollen stocking, which she hid at the very bottom of her work basket. Once, when Peter had hurt his knee, was crying and wanted a bandage, and Helene told him that his graze would dry better exposed to the air, Wilhelm interrupted her, tapping the boy on the back of the neck. Don’t cry, Peter. And remember this, men are there to kill and women are there to heal their wounds. Peter had tilted his head back and looked up to his father. Perhaps there was a smile? But no, his father’s gaze was serious.
Wilhelm was looking well, strong and cheerful, bursting with health. His snores at night were loud and contented; Helene couldn’t get a wink of sleep. His collars were clean, his shirts ironed, he carried the photograph of a smiling woman in his wallet. When Helene had taken his trousers to wash them, the wallet fell into her hands. It was none of her business; she asked him no questions, and didn’t want to be asked any herself. On the fourth morning of his visit Wilhelm said that on Sunday, before he went back, he was going to take the boy on a little expedition to Velten. His brother might come from Gelbensande too. Helene had never met Wilhelm’s brother and to this day she didn’t know if he was the person who had got hold of her documents for her. Peter put his arms round his mother’s waist; he didn’t want to go without her. But his father told him not to be a sissy; a boy must go on a journey without his mother some time or other. Velten? Wilhelm thought he saw distrust in Helene’s eyes.
Don’t worry, he said, half laughing, half setting her right. I’ll bring the boy back to you. Even on leave you sometimes have to meet colleagues. Wilhelm had left his car in Frankfurt, so father and son went by train. It was a great day for Peter; this would be his first train ride. Wilhelm probably wanted to cut short the time he spent with his wife by going on this little expedition with Peter in the second half of his week’s leave. Or perhaps the trip was to do with his work.
At the moment Helene was working in the maternity ward, where it was hard to look after all the women properly. Sanitary towels were constantly being changed, bedpans brought, compresses had to be changed every hour, cold compresses to ward off childbed fever and curd compresses at any hint of mastitis. There were genital tears to be tended, navels to be powdered. Helene brought the women their babies from the nursery and put them to their breasts. Pink healthy babies sucked sweet milk from their mothers’ full breasts while their fathers were fighting on the front far away, in east and west, on land, at sea and in the air, waiting for Leningrad to be starved out. Helene preferred not to think, there were directions, procedures to be carried out, calls for her, she had to act, she had to hurry, she put the babies to their mothers’ breasts, she changed their nappies, weighed and inoculated them, and wrote one last letter to the old address she had for Leontine. She would not send any more; she had not received a single reply to any of her letters. The long-distance telephone exchange informed her that there was no number for that address any more and no lady doctor of that name was known. Helene went home only to sleep.
On Sunday, after coming back from Velten, Peter said they had been to see a foundry and stayed the night at a boarding house. His uncle hadn’t been able to come; he probably couldn’t get leave. They ate herring salad with onions, apples and beetroot, it was only capers that Helene hadn’t been able to get. Peter licked his plate clean; his mouth was pink from the beetroot. Wilhelm had to go back to Frankfurt.
I have more of this than I can spend, said Wilhelm, giving Peter a ten-mark note at the door when he said goodbye and telling him to buy chocolates with it. Helene was glad that Wilhelm had gone away again.
When she was lying in bed with Peter that evening, he was still awake. He turned to his mother.
Father says we’re going to win the war.
Helene said nothing. Presumably Wilhelm had been telling the boy about the bombs. Wilhelm was firmly convinced that only military service made a boy into a man. Helene stroked her son’s forehead. What a beautiful child he was.
Father says I’m to grow big and strong.
Helene smiled. Wasn’t he big and strong already? She knew he was often afraid, but who could be brave if he didn’t know what fear was? While Wilhelm and Peter were away she had bought Peter a clasp knife. She was going to give it to him in November for his sixth birthday. She knew he wanted a clasp knife more than anything. He wanted to use it to make himself a fishing rod and to cut his bread.
Father says you’re so silent because you’re a cold woman.
Helene looked her Peter in the eye. People said his eyes were like hers, clear as glass and blue; it was difficult to shake her head lying down. She caressed his shoulders now and Peter buried his head in her breast.
But I don’t believe it, Peter said to her breast. I love you, Mother. Helene stroked her son’s back. It was hard to move her arm. Perhaps she had lifted too many patients today. She felt weak. What could she be to her Peter? And how could he be her Peter if she couldn’t do anything for him, if she couldn’t speak or tell stories or say anything to him? Another woman, Helene suspected, would weep at this idea. Perhaps what Wilhelm said was right, perhaps her heart was a stone. Cold, icy, hard as iron. She didn’t cry because she had nothing to cry about; her feet hurt, her back hurt, she had been running around all day, she knew she had only five hours of sleep before she got up, did the ironing, mopped the kitchen, made breakfast for Peter, woke him and sent him to school, before she herself went to work in the hospital. The arm with which she had caressed Peter ached, the arm now lying over him, her sleeping child. She could do without an inflammation of the sinews. Nurses did not fall ill. Wilhelm had told her on Sunday, when he left: Alice, you are tough as iron. You don’t need me. It was impossible for her to know just what he meant. Was he proud, were his feelings injured, was he pleased because her self-sufficiency to some extent justified his turning away from her? Perhaps he felt hurt because she didn’t need him. Men wanted to be needed, no doubt about that. An iron fist would not miss its target, would not fail to strike it, iron on iron, and certainly would not be robbed of its justification for existing. Was it different with a woman? Didn’t she strain every nerve to get to the hospital on time every day? Was iron a criterion, a quality, a peculiarity? Iron discipline. She so often worked overtime. No nurse left when she saw the bedpans stacking up on the trolley, when a patient had vomited on her nightdress, or another lay dying. An iron sense of pity. She had made sure that Peter was used to not falling ill too. Iron reason. When he was little, he had caught chickenpox and measles; she’d had to ask Frau Kozinska to look after him so that she herself could get to work on time. Frau Kozinska hadn’t even managed to wash her Peter during the day, she had forgotten to make a cold compress for him and he hadn’t had enough water to drink that evening. Presumably she’d been too busy singing.
Peter woke Helene in the morning when it was already light. He pressed close to his mother, put his arms round her, whispered: I love you so much, Mother. Suddenly he was lying on top of her, burying his face in her throat. His silky hair tickled her. He ought not to lie on top of her, didn’t he know that? And as she pushed him away, he said: Your skin is so soft, Mother, you smell so nice, I want to stay with you for ever and ever. And he tried not to let her push him away, he held on tight, his hand touched her breast and she felt something small and hard against her thigh. It could only be an erection; his erection. Helene pushed him away and got up.
Mother?
Hurry up, Peter, you must get washed and go to school, she said with her back to him. She said no more, she didn’t want to turn to him and see his face.
Many people were now sending their children out into the country because of the war, but if she did that they’d send her to Obrawalde, or to Ravensbrück or a field hospital. Helene didn’t want to be sent anywhere, so she couldn’t send Peter away into the country.
The sun was sinking to its low autumnal angle over the earth. The wind was blowing, it whined, it whistled. One day Helene was hanging out washing in the yard when she heard the children playing and calling. They were chasing each other, getting cross. Helene clearly heard Peter’s voice rising above the voices of the other children.
Ikey, Ikey Solomon
Has been shitting marzipan.
Marzipan is bad for you,
Ikey is a dirty Jew.
The sheet was in her way, the wind blew it into her face, it was a cool wind and she couldn’t see the children, only a girl from the building next door standing hesitantly in the entrance. Helene got the final clothes peg over the sheet and turned. Where was the wretched boy? She was often glad when he was out and about on his own, so that she could work in peace; he had friends, he was becoming independent, one day he wouldn’t need her any more, but now she wanted to know where he was. How on earth had he learned that rhyme? Marzipan is bad for you. Because of the bitter almond flavour? Like cyanide? There had been no Jews in Stettin for almost three years, none at all, they’d all been taken away.
Have you seen my Peter? Helene asked the girl in the doorway. She shook her head: no, she didn’t know where he was.
Helene waited for him, with his supper ready. Food was rationed, the grocer’s wife had let her have an egg, quarter of a litre of milk and a lettuce; she had bought a mackerel from the old fishwife’s daughter down on the quay; she had stuffed it with her last little bit of butter and a dried sage leaf, and baked it in the stove. Peter liked baked fish. When he came in, both his knees were grazed and a scab on his elbow was coming off. His hands were black and he had a streak of coal dust on his nose. His eyes were shining; he’d obviously been having fun.
Go and wash your hands, please, said Helene. It hardly even occurred to Peter not to do as his mother said. He washed his hands, scrubbed his nails with the nailbrush and sat down at the table.
And wash that coal dust off your face, please, said Helene.
I’m Black Peter, said Peter, laughing at the mention of the card game. He liked playing games and if the others laughed at him he laughed with them.
I heard you saying a rude rhyme just now, said Helene. She put the top half of the mackerel on Peter’s plate and cut the piece of bread in half.
Me?
Do you know what Jews are?
Peter shrugged uncertainly. He didn’t want to annoy his mother; nothing was further from his mind. People?
So why say a rude rhyme about them?
Peter shrugged again.
I don’t like it. Helene spoke soberly and sternly. I never want to hear it again, is that clear?
Peter looked out from under his fringe and had to smile. He looked mischievous, smiling like that. He couldn’t believe she was so upset just over a silly rhyme.
What sort of people are Jews? Peter was still smiling. He really wanted to know, but he would have to accept the fact that Helene wasn’t going to answer him. She felt inadequate, painfully inadequate. Was she being cowardly? How could she explain what kind of people Jews were to her son, who she was herself, why she couldn’t talk about it? No one knew where a child of Peter’s age might take what he knew; he could come out with it tomorrow at school, telling the teacher or the other children. Helene didn’t want that. She didn’t want to think of him in danger. He understood her, Helene was sure of that, Peter was a clever child. Jews were just people, surely that was enough by way of explanation? Helene did not respond to his smile; they ate their fish in silence.
Mother, he said when he had cleaned his plate, thank you for the mackerel, that was a fabulous mackerel. Peter could tell most fish apart, he liked the differences, their different names and flavours. Helene didn’t like the word fabulous. Everyone was using it, yet it was a very vague word, totally misleading. When she gave him the clasp knife in November it would be too late for fishing near the city, most of the river banks would be frozen, the fish would be swimming too far down, he probably wouldn’t be able to catch anything edible. Helene sketched a smile. Where did these sudden polite thanks come from? Had she ever told him he ought to thank her for a meal? The cat down in the yard would get the fish bones. No one knew whose cat it was; it was a beautiful animal that looked like a Siamese, white with brown paws and bright, clear eyes. Peter was going to wash the dishes, and Helene thanked him in advance. He liked doing it, he helped his mother whenever he could. Helene took her ironed overall and said goodnight. She was on night duty.
Dense mist lay over the water, the ships’ sirens were sounding in unison. Up in the city, the golden sun shone, casting long shadows as day dawned.
Let’s go picking mushrooms, said Helene on her day off. After repeated requests, she had been given a Sunday off because of the child. She packed her basket. Conditions couldn’t be better; it had rained yesterday and last night the moon had been full. Half the city might be out and about in the woods on a Sunday, but Helene knew her way around and would find the really remote clearings. A tea towel, two knives, some newspaper, because she didn’t want the mushrooms rubbing against each other and bruising when they were lying in her basket.
They took the train to Messenthin and soon left its thatched, half-timbered houses behind. Helene knew her way through the forest. The spruce trees stood close together, then beech and oak trees were foremost. The air was cool, with the scents of early autumn, of mushrooms and earth. Smooth beech leaves, many of them already turning bronze, shrivelled oak saplings. Helene went first, walking fast. She was familiar with these woods and the clearings in them. She felt hungry, which was not ideal when you wanted to find mushrooms. Her eyes searched the thickets, the undergrowth, it was too dark here, too dry there, they’d have to go further into the forest, to places where bees still settled on the tree trunks and basked on the wood, moving sluggishly now as the coming cold weather numbed them.
Mother, wait, you’re going so fast. Peter must be twenty or thirty paces behind her. Helene turned to look at him. He was young, he had nimble legs; don’t dawdle, she told him. She went on, climbing over fallen branches, twigs cracked underfoot. She didn’t like the agarics that grow on trees, let them stay on their mouldering stumps; she kept going, she was looking for ceps and chestnut mushrooms. Light broke through the trees, further on she saw green, the tender dry green of a small clearing, perhaps it was there, yes, it must be there that she’d find one or two, or a whole fairy ring of mushrooms to be plundered. Helene strode on, hardly hearing Peter as he stumbled along after her, calling. Ah, there was one. It had an old, brown cap, not what she might have expected to find on a morning like this. Hadn’t it rained last night and hadn’t there been a full moon? Late dew still hung on many grasses. There was only one explanation, someone had been here before her, poaching mushrooms in her wood, on the outskirts of her clearing. Helene stopped, out of breath, and looked around her. Had that branch over there only recently broken?
Wait for me, called Peter, who hadn’t yet reached the clearing, as she turned to go further on into the thickets. She didn’t wait, she just went more slowly. She heard a dog barking in the distance, then a whistle and another. Surely no foresters went hunting on Sunday? Rabbit with chanterelles. Helene thought of the tender rabbit she had once braised for Wilhelm, a long time ago. She wished she had a gun. Chanterelles, or even better ceps. Helene’s eyes wandered over the ground, almost straining from their sockets. A fly agaric with a big cap, young and plump, straight out of a picture book. Helene went on, with Peter still behind her. They crossed the railway line. A breathtaking stench blew towards them. A stench of carrion, of urine and excrement. Some way off a cattle train stood on the tracks. The sides of the rusty trucks were closed. Helene went along the tracks with Peter after her. From a distance she saw a policeman. Perhaps the locomotive had broken down and the cattle in the trucks were in distress on a long train journey. A dog barked and Helene just said: Come on.
She went back towards the woods. They had to skirt round the cattle train, giving it a wide berth to escape the stink and avoid the dogs.
Why are you running, Mother?
Couldn’t Peter smell the stench? She retched, she had to breathe through her mouth, better not to breathe at all. Helene went on, twigs snapped, whipped into her face, she shielded her eyes with her arms, rotten wood broke beneath her feet, there was something slippery under her feet, she nearly stumbled and fell on it, there was a mushroom, probably just a bitter boletus, she didn’t want to stop, she wasn’t going to spend time hanging around, she must go on towards the smell for now. Once they were to the north-west of the train it would be better, the stink was drifting south-east with the wind off the sea. Helene heard the whistle again. Perhaps some of the cattle had escaped? Perhaps they were hunting cows in the woods this Sunday, or little piglets. Helene felt hungry and thought of potato dumplings with mushrooms. Beechnuts crunched under her feet. She mustn’t bend down, pretty as they were, those bristly husks with their three chambers, the smooth threefold nuts inside, they had a nice nutty flavour if you roasted them; she wanted to show Peter the beechnuts, but she mustn’t stop for that now.
They had done it; obviously they had rounded the train and the stink was gone. The silence of the forest, the humming of insects, a woodpecker.
Mother, I can see a squirrel.
Helene wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
The thick trunk of a tall beech tree lay in her path, its bark still shimmering silver grey. Flat-shelled beetles with red and black spots were swarming between the knotholes, hooked together in pairs, little Pushmi-Pullyous. She could at least have read Dr Dolittle to Peter, if not Hauff’s fairy tale The Cold Heart, which she thought too scary. So it would have to be Dr Dolittle, if she ever got round to reading it to him he’d enjoy it, but there was plenty of time for that, she’d just have to get home from the hospital early for once and go to the library – the book must be there for her to borrow. A big fallen tree trunk was in their way, they’d have to climb over that. Helene put down her basket and braced her hands on the trunk, she didn’t want to crush any of the beetles, the trunk seemed quite steady.
Mother, wait for me!
Helene felt for a suitably smooth surface, leaned both hands on the trunk and swung one leg over it. The trunk was so broad, and although it had been uprooted it still stood so high, that she had to sit on it to get over. But how would she get down on the other side? There was a crack. It could hardly be the tree trunk breaking. The cracking sound came from quite close. The stench was back again. Helene’s throat tightened, she retched, swallowed and tried not to breathe, not another breath. It was a terrible stench, not carrion, more like liquid manure. How could that be? They’d got away from the cattle trucks, the train was behind them, she was sure of it. Someone sneezed. Helene turned round. Someone was cowering below the trunk, in the hollow pit left by the roots that now pointed to the sky. Helene opened her mouth, but she couldn’t scream. Her fear was so deep inside her that not a sound came out of her throat. Whoever it was had ducked, there were branches above his back, his head was out of sight, he was almost forcing it into the earth, probably trying to hide and hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. He was shaking so much that the withered leaves on the branches he had piled over him were shaking too. A crack came again. Obviously the man found it difficult to keep so still that nothing touched him and he touched nothing.
Mother? Peter was less than ten metres away now. His mischievous smile flashed over his face. Were you trying to hide? He spoke in a normal tone, he didn’t have to shout now, he was so close. Helene slipped off the tree, she slid and ran towards him, seized his hand and drew him away.
I can help you, Mother, if you can’t get over that tree, I’ll help you, I can do it, you just watch! Peter wanted to go back to the tree trunk, he wouldn’t go in any other direction, he wanted to balance on it and show his mother how to climb over a fallen tree. But his mother, steadily putting one foot in front of the other, hauled Peter along behind her.
Let go, Mother, you’re hurting me.
Helene didn’t let go, she ran, she stumbled, cobwebs stuck to her face, she ran holding the basket out in front of her as if to fend off the cobwebs, the wood was thinning out a little here, ferns and grasses on the forest floor, there was almost no wind, they had to get away. The cow being hunted was a man, there were probably several of them there on the rails, decomposing, stinking. Prisoners, who else would huddle under the branches of the fallen tree in such flimsy clothing? An escaped prisoner. Perhaps this was one of the transports taking supplies to P?litz. Once the war had begun not enough fuel could be provided, not enough workers found, prisoners were taken away and made to work. Even women, so the nurses whispered to each other, were working in the factories, toiling away until they couldn’t work any more, or eat and drink any more, and one day they wouldn’t have to breathe any more. Had she seen the face of the runaway prisoner, had he raised his head, had she looked into his eyes, frightened eyes, black eyes? Helene saw Martha’s eyes before her. Martha’s frightened eyes. Helene saw Martha in the cattle truck, she saw Martha’s bare feet slipping on the excrement, trying to find somewhere firm to stand, she heard the groaning of the people crammed into the trucks, heard the man’s groaning, saw him trembling under the oak leaves, heard him sneeze. A shot rang out.
A huntsman, hooray, cried Peter.
Dogs barked in the distance and a second shot was fired.
Wait a minute, Mother. Peter wanted to stop and look around, work out which way the shots were coming from. But Helene wouldn’t wait, his hand slipped out of hers, she hurried on, stumbling, falling, leaning on fallen trees for support, clinging to twigs and branches, she went on and never stopped, putting one foot in front of the other. She could run. Rabbit with mushrooms, a really simple dish. The cunning hare sits in the dale,/between the hills and the deep, deep vale. Ah yes, in the vale. Cattle. How could she ever have eaten rabbit?
They went on through the forest for she didn’t know how long, until Peter, behind her, called out that he couldn’t go any further and stopped for a rest. Helene was not to be deterred. She just went on.
Do you know where we are? Peter called behind her.
Helene didn’t, she couldn’t answer him, all this time she had kept her eye on the position of the sun, making sure that when sunlight fell through the leaf canopy it cast their shadows to the right. Did the sun or the trees cast shadows? Helene didn’t know. A simple question, but insoluble. Perhaps it was her hunger driving her, making her heart race, making her sweat. Yes, she was hungry. There wasn’t a single mushroom in her basket, she had just run and run, not even knowing where she was going. She had meant to make sure she was going west, leaving the train behind. Perhaps she had. They had to go on. Helene saw that it was getting lighter over there; they must be coming to a clearing, or a road, or a broad bridle path.
A hand took hers. Peter had caught up with her; his hand was firm and small and dry. How could a little boy have so much strength in his fingers? Helene tried to free herself, but Peter was clinging firmly to her hand.
Forward, one step, two steps, three steps. Helene caught herself counting her footsteps, she just wanted to get away, well away. Peter clung on, reached for her coat; she shook her arm, shook it hard until he had to let go. She went on ahead, he followed. She walked faster than he did. The thinning of the woods proved to be a mirage, they were not thinning out at all, the trees grew closer and closer together, and so did the undergrowth. Clouds had gathered above the treetops. They were driving over the sky up there, chasing inland. How late was it? Late morning, midday, after midday? Her hunger told her it must be late, two or perhaps three o’clock, judging by the position of the sun in the sky. Mother! Mushrooms fried with thyme, simply tossed in butter with salt and pepper, fresh parsley, a few drops of lemon; mushrooms steamed, baked, simmered. Raw, she’d eat the first one raw, here and now. Helene’s mouth was watering, she stumbled on mindlessly. Leaves and twigs, thorns of berry-bearing plants, maybe blackberries, but where were the mushrooms, where were they? Mother! She had left the beech trees behind, she was in an old plantation, all spruce trees now, growing lower and lower, branches hanging down, needles crunching underfoot, the forest floor was going downhill. A little clearing, soft mossy mounds rising from the needles. A fly agaric and another, poisonous, on guard. And there it was before her, a mushroom, its cap curved, dark and gleaming. Snails must have been at it already, one or two little nibbled places showed that someone else had been feasting here. Helene knelt down, her knees pressing into the moss, bent over the mushroom and smelled it. The leaves, the cap of the mushroom, it all smelled of the forest, of autumnal food. Helene laid her head down on the moss and examined the mushroom from below; the gills were still white and firm, an excellent mushroom. Mother! His voice seemed to come from very far away. Helene turned. There they were, standing lined up in the hollow, mushroom after mushroom, last night’s offspring. Helene crawled under the branches on all fours, making her way along on her hands, holding back twigs, wriggling forward, and lay flat on the forest floor. What a wonderful fragrance. Mother! Helene reached for a mushroom, broke it off and put it in her mouth whole. The tender, firm flesh almost melted on her tongue, delicious. Where are you? Peter’s voice was faltering, he was afraid, he couldn’t see her and thought he was alone. Where are you? His voice broke. Helene had left her basket in the clearing. The second mushroom was smaller, firmer, fresher, its pale stalk almost as broad as its brown cap. Mother! Peter was fighting back his tears; she saw his thin boyish legs through the branches as he trudged across the clearing and stopped at the place where she had left her basket, leaned down and straightened up again. He made a trumpet of his hands and put them to his mouth. Mother!
There was no echo. The wind was blowing up in the tops of the trees, lashing the top branches, trying to get down to the ground. Mother! called the boy, turning to all points of the compass as he looked for her.
Was it so difficult to keep still? The simplest exercise of all, no trembling, no snapping of twigs, just silence.
The boy sat down and wept. It was no joke. If she came out of the bushes now, just a few metres away, he would know she had been watching him and had hidden on purpose. What for? Why? Helene felt ashamed of herself and stayed still, and the boy shed tears. She kept her breathing shallow; nothing simpler. No sneezing, nothing to give her away. The ants tickled her, she felt a burning sensation on her hip, the tiny creatures were getting into her clothes and biting. A red spider with delicate legs, no bigger than a pinhead, climbed on her hand. The boy stood up, looked all ways, picked up her basket and set off south-east. He wasn’t stupid, that was the way to the village and then the city. Helene stuffed mushroom after mushroom into her mouth. How nice it was to be alone, chewing in peace.
When she couldn’t hear his footsteps in the undergrowth any more, she crawled out from her hiding place. Needles and bits of bark stuck to her jacket. She brushed down her skirt. There was a rustling, a bird flew up. Helene walked through the spruce trees and young oaks in the wood, going the way Peter had gone. She called, Peter, and on the second syllable of his name he answered in a high voice, relieved, happy, laughing impatiently as he shouted: Here I am, Mother, here I am.