Ten days after the war ended, my sister Laura drove a car off a bridge. The bridge was being repaired: she went right through the danger sign. The car fell a hundred feet smashing through the treetops and nothing much was left of her.

          I was informed of the accident by a policeman: the car was mine. His tone was respectful. He said that the tires might have skidded, the brakes may have failed, but he also wanted to inform me that two witnesses claimed that Laura had turned the car deliberately.

          It wasn't the brakes, I thought. She had her reasons....