Ist der Krieg vorbei???

"Excuse me," the voice stops me. "EXCUSE ME!!" I'm a step and a half past her, two heads taller. People don't do that here, don't stop you on the street unless you've done something wrong.

I stop, turn, smile. I'd seen her on the corner as I approached, mumbling to herself; I had passed her, passed over her, passed by her, not a thought to spare. She's tiny, not even five foot, wizened, shriveled, white hair covered by a cloth tied under chin. Her companion, a cane, accompanies her wobbling steps as I am about to sweep on past her.

"Excuse me," she repeats. I smile expectantly. "Is the war over?"

The little hamster wheel of my brain comes screeching to a halt, my feeble version of reality wheeling around me like a two-year-old on a two-wheeled tricycle.

"Yes, definately," I reply, too astounded to think first. She hasn't got all her teacups in the cupboard, as they say here; a few fries short of a happy meal, as they say there.

"That's good," she mumbles, her eyes somewhat unfocused. "That's good. Maybe my husband will come back. He said something about..." I can't discern much of what follws, mumbles of promises and hope thinly connected to coherence, even more thinly to even her version of reality. "Thank you," she finishes, looking at me, seeming to see me for the first time, a faint smile on her face. I nod, depart.

Wow.

What do I do with that?

Here I am, standing on a corner of a street in Germany amid new houses, my astonishment and the vantage point of my twenty years--years spent without words like war, need, or ration, not even to the extent of my classmates here, second-generation war kids, kids who lived with walls. Maybe she's a few bricks short of a full load, maybe she'll ask the next person she sees the same question--to be constantly unsure, unaware, afraid?

Yes, the war is over. I hope she's happier for the length of time she remembers...