Wiesenthal supposed co be living i was cold chat chis

WIESENTHAL
supposed co be living. I was cold chat chis part of the city had
been devastated by the bombs and the inhabitants had been
evacuated. As there was no public transport, I sec out on foot
to pursue my quest. Finally I stood outside an almost com-
pletely destroyed house, in which only the lower floors seemed
partly inhabitable.
I climbed the decrepit, dusty stairs and knocked on the
shattered wooden door. There was no immediate response and
I prepared myself for the disappointment of an unfulfilled
mission. Suddenly the door opened gratingly, and a small, frail
old lady appeared on the threshold.
"Are you Frau Maria S--?" I asked.
"Yes," she answered.
"May I speak to you and your husband?"
"I am a widow."
She bade me come in and I looked around the room, the
walls of which were cracked and the plaster on the ceiling was
loose. Over the sideboard hung, not quite straight, a photo-
graph of a good-looking, bright-eyed boy. Around one corner
of the picture there was a black band. I had no doubt this was
the photograph of the man who had sought my forgiveness.
He was an only son. I went over to the photo and looked at the
eyes that I had never seen.
"That is my son, Karl," said the woman in a broken voice.
"He was killed in the war."
"I know," I murmured.
I had not yet told her why I had come, indeed I had not yet
made up my mind what I wanted to say. On the way to
Stuttgart many thoughts had run through my head. Originally
I had wanted to talk to the mother to check the truth of the
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THE SUNFLOWER
story he had told me. But was I not secretly hoping that I might
hear something that contradicted it? It would certainly make
things easier for me. The feeling of sympathy which I could not
reject would then perhaps disappear. I reproached myself for
not having planned to open the conversation. Now that I con-
fronted the mother I did not know how to begin.
I stood in front of Karl's portrait in silence: I could not
take my eyes off him. His mother noticed it. "He was my only
son, a dear good boy. So many young men of his age are dead.
W hat can one do? There is so much pain and suffering today,
and I am left all alone:'
Many other mothers had also been left all alone, I thought.
She
invited me to sit down. I looked at her grief-stricken face
and said: "I am bringing you greetings from your son:'
"Is chis really true? Did you know him? It is almost four
years since he died. I got the news from the hospital. They sent
his things back to me:'
She stood up and opened an old chest from which she took
the very same bundle the hospital nurse had tried to give me.
"I have kept his things here, his watch, his notebook, and a
few ocher trifles ... Tell me, when did you see him?"
I hesitated. I did not want to destroy the woman's memory
of her "good" son.