Frau Hertz is running from the farmhouse, waving something above her head, something white and black and fluttering. A newspaper. “Anton!” He looks up, and there is Anita, in her laywoman’s dress, hustling down the lane, red-faced and puffing. There is an auto parked behind her, round-hooded, soft gray. She jingles a set of keys in her hands, as if to say, Look what I’ve got; are you jealous? Then she squeals with happiness like the girl she used to be, catching him in a tight embrace. She spins him around and around. “Look at you, in your nightshirt. You slept in too late, Little Brother. You
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