The Christmas tree still stood in the sitting room, stretching out its richly decked branches. Because the Baumüller children and other little folk from the surrounding area were given Christmas presents, the tree still received its childhood ornaments each year, including chocolate figures and rock-hard marzipan sausages that, a decade ago, had so charmed the hearts of Gitta and Balduin that they survived their greedy stomachs.

Gitta and Markus found themselves alone for once in the cozy room, made bright by the winter sun and smelling of sweets and driedout pine needles. It may have been white and cold outside, but sunlight warmed the room, as if the December frost, awakening from its frozen state, had been given the gift of speech and called out: “It's springtime!”

Gitta sat studying several photographs. Her elbows propped on the table, she looked like a schoolgirl doing her homework — women’s faces, portraits of men, one old man with a long-flowing, white beard, bearing a distinct resemblance to one of the prophets — though she couldn't say which, since after her schooldays she’d never thought of any of them. But now, in a sense, they were to be her relatives.

Markus was waiting silently to hear what she would say, but she was silent. Only her earlobes, one of which he could see, turned red. Then she gave an odd shrug to her shoulders, made a move like a shying horse, and broke into tears.

Markus stood there, utterly taken aback, but didn't move.

“You don't like them!” was all he said.

That struck her to the heart; she pulled out of her childish outburst:

“No — it's not that — why wouldn't I like them? — I like them very much — it's just that they’re even there — I mean, all at once facing the whole lot, and you merely one of them — nothing incomparable, just someone with all these people behind you.”

Her struggle to make herself understood had calmed her down right away. She was so caught up she forgot to dry her tears — she almost laughed:

“It's stupid of me — but I wish you would remain as if you’d just dropped in from nowhere — not one of several versions — no, just uniquely you — for me alone.