the visit to my mother’s grave reminded me that, in anticipation of her eventual release from the Heerstrasse Sanatorium, my father had decided to abandon our upscale Fasanenstrasse flat. Her psychiatrists had advised him that morbid remembrances might connect her to the Fasanenstrasse. So at the end of 1934, about six months before her death, we moved into a new apartment, a few blocks away, up the Kaiser Allee. I had wondered at the time of our move what my mother would be like when she did come home, afraid that she might not be her old self, keep on behaving strangely, and try to kill herself again. As it turned out, the move was all for nothing. My mother never did come home.