Last night... Saw you again. Old travertine stone house. Two tall fir trees... guarding the dark. Through the iron gate. Up the stairs. Ringing the bell. One minute... Slow footsteps inside. The door opens. Your kind, round face. Curly white hair. "Ja, wer kommt denn da..." ["Well, look who's here!"] Always your words. I step inside, the world slows down, The scent of old wood fills the room. A trace of cigar smoke drifts around, Though grandpa passed, a noble soul. Ten years ago he had to go, Yet in this house, his spirits glow. [Flashback] A boy in the schoolyard, his name it was Otto, He looked at your smile and his heart overflowed. "We both have geography, take my atlas today, You don't have to carry the weight on your way." But deep in the pages, where maps used to hide, Sweet letters of love were waiting inside. The teacher found them, a scandal back then, Your parents were called by the angriest man. He showed them the letter, but they didn't rage, They smiled and they whispered: "She’s reaching that age." A liberal home, and the way you were bred, Left a beautiful spirit inside of your head. But youth fades away, and your paths had to part, You left for Geneva with French in your heart. To teach noble children, while he took a wife, Two daughters were born to his separate life. Then years later came the sad news from your mother: His wife passed away, he was without other. You wrote him a card, but his answer was plain: "We loved us in school, let us try it again. My girls need a mother, you’re single and free, I think it is time that you marry me." So Gertrud and Otto were happy at last, Yet one final wish was denied in the past: No more children for him. Then came forty-four, The sirens were screaming, the thunder of war. Alone with the kids in the cellar so deep, A deafening crash woke the city from sleep. You ran up the stairs through the smoke and the dread, A firebomb burning right there in your bed. With bare, naked hands, you just grabbed it and threw The bomb through the window, as bravery grew. You saved the whole house from the fire and flame, And out of his gratitude, everything changed: He gave you a child, the daughter you bore— My mother was born from the ashes of war. Isn't it strange... My own existence, rooted in war. A conflict that stole millions of lives, Gave life to me. So we drift through the stories, the times that have flown, I tell you of my life, the kids I have grown. My job and my worries, while you speak of then, Two souls sharing secrets, just children again. Dining room. Cake and tea. Old shellac records spinning. Hungarian Rhapsody. Crackling in the air. Oma... A bond that will never break. So good to be back. An alarm bell rings. The dark room returns. Confused, I rub my eyes. Was I really just there with you? Born in nineteen-oh-eight, you’d be nearly one hundred and twenty now. No... you died over twenty years ago. It was the night before my final state exam, A crucial day for which I had to plan. I hesitated, for the stakes were far too high, But parents said: "Go say your last goodbye, She's only waiting for your steps to appear." I came and whispered softly: "Oma, I am here." The stroke had stolen all the words you used to know, But eyes wide open showed you were prepared to go. One final look, a peaceful silent grace, Before you left this world and found a quiet place. Of all the souls that left and passed away, Your absence is the hardest to this day. I can't accept that you are really gone, Though decades passed and life kept moving on. So I return to where the shadows gleam, To visit you inside your house of dreams. The walls were sold, the keys are in new hands, Yet in my mind, the old stone building stands. And every single time I ring the bell... It feels so real, a sweet and haunting spell.
