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There wasn't much for her to cook in her saucepans, but she carried on with her old habits, just as someone with an social amputated hand still mentally sweeps a crumb off the table with social 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 social the family, but a slave bending her back beneath her tormentor's blows. Every one of my sister's cries was like a cudgel coming down. I used to leave the house when Volker arrived. I didn't want to suffer the affront of knowing that the enemy was pouring his seed into my sister's body. But strange as it may seem, Volker often slipped in very discreetly, and I sometimes realized he was there only when the chandelier began to shake.
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