She dreamed of being a ballerina. The Nazis shot her through the knees. Three times. She loved her father with incestuous passion. Even after he left the family for a mistress. On the eve of the war.

She raised two daughters. Often badly. No suitor ever made the cut. Not even when she was sixty.

On her deathbed, she asked for milk and rice. Three times a day. Her voice, faltering and tiny, like a two-year-old’s, trailed off mid-sentence. On the last day, a white pigeon flew through the open window and perched itself on top of the ancient wardrobe. It could not be scared off, not even with wild waves of the broom. It flew off at dawn, shortly after she did.