I made him a sandwich and gave him a thermos with something to drink.
He hoped he would see something new, something he’d never seen before. In the morning, at breakfast, he told us he’d go for a long walk. “The day he died he was also out in the forest. And right there, just below the big rock, he saw the three little fox cubs playing outside their burrow.” “That must have made him happy, didn’t it?” “Yes,” said Mother, sounding a bit sad. So Paul climbed up on a big rock so that he could see better, and so that he would be safe, I guess. At first he got scared, he told us, but he was so curious. He had sat down on some old fallen tree-trunk when suddenly he heard a whining sound.
And he told us about his walk in the forest. He sat down on the side of the bed and began telling us about the fox cubs.” “How old was he then?” “Eleven or twelve, I guess.
‘Wake up! Wake up!’ he yelled and entered our bedroom. He was laughing and yelling when he came through the door. Stefan and I had just waked up when Paul got home. “Yes, one morning when he was up very early. He was always hoping he’d meet some wild creature―” “Did he ever meet fox cubs?” I interrupted. He loved watching the animals and the flowers and trees. Tell me like you used to tell me.” “Paul liked to go to the forest. I want to hear it.” “He was hit by the train and died instantly. “I’ve told you a hundred times.” “But still,” I begged. They’d had some ceremony at school already―I believe it was the day before the funeral―but the church was still full.” “Why did he die?” “You know why,” she said slowly. And they were all so sad when he died, so very sad.” “Did all his classmates come to the funeral?” I asked. The teachers at school, the schoolmates, the kids on the street. And she was using the voice she’d use when she told me stories. For you must have played, Paul, you were just a child when you died. I wanted to know who you were, what you had done, with whom you had played. When I grew older―this must have been when I started to school―I began to ask my parents about you. My family meant Mother, Father, and myself. It was a thought much too abstract for me. I couldn’t comprehend that you were my brother and that you were dead. I was standing there looking at the picture of you. When I’m happy, I believe I can see a secret smile on your lips. Sometimes, if I’m sad, it seems you are sad too. But I’m cold and much too small to understand. “It’s your brother Paul.” “He died before you were born,” Father explains. “It’s your brother,” Mother replies, closing the balcony door. They whirl around your picture before they reach the floor and melt. Flakes of snow find their way into the warmth. I am an almost three-year-old boy standing in front of the television set looking up at your picture. Instead, your eyes are focused on something far beyond the camera and the schoolmates. Your hair is rather long, well groomed and dark. You are a thirteen-year-old boy who looks like my mother. My first true image of you was the school photograph that used to stand on top of the television in the living room. Still, you have always been present, more or less. There are five hundred and two days between the last day of your life and the first day of mine.