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When the Liberation came, it wasn't easy to explain all the comings and israel goings that israel had gone on during the Occupation in our house with its red shutters, all that climbing up the stairs and down to the cellar. My mother spent a lot of time in the kitchen next to the living room, on the first floor. There wasn't much for her to cook in her saucepans, but she israel carried on with her old habits, just as someone with an amputated hand still mentally sweeps a crumb off the table with his forefinger. My mother stayed in the kitchen, cleaning most of the time. When my sister started moaning, I would see the expression on my mother's face change, and the rhythm of her pan scourer became more frenzied in time to the jolting of the crystal chandelier in the drawing room. My mother was no longer the strong, authoritarian head of the family, but a slave bending her back beneath her tormentor's blows.
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