It is Mama who sees it as we trudge back through the snow and ice from our workshop on the other side of town. “No, no,” she says, her voice rising up in panic. Then she lowers her head. Anybody causing a noise in the work columns is likely to be beaten by the Latvian soldiers guarding us. Sometimes just a word out of place can result in a shooting. When we arrive back at number 29 Mama moves up the stairs like a wiry deer trying to escape the rest of a trampling herd. I have not seen her move so fast in a long while. I find her with Omama. They are holding hands. “What does that mean?” Omama is saying. “‘Resettled’. It sounds as if we are all moving to another part of the country.” Max and Janis are back from work and putting together our meagre evening meal but at the sound of Omama’s raised voice they come out of the tiny kitchen and stare at her with concern.
