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In only a robe, His mother’s and her voice, then that ringing still. Ben heads downstairs, stopping on the way in the rooms of His sisters, vacant, and then that of His parents, too, to silence their alarms — rooms all empty now of nothing save them, that that gave these possessions their utility, their use and so, their meaning: personal effects already unpacked, replaced, dusted more inclusively than Wanda ever was able, was ever bothered: their teddybears, who remembered their plush petnames; pillows hugged into the shape of hearts, desktops of plastic dinosaurs, above a shelved abundance of junior encyclopedias, dictionaries; on the walls, their school certificates and diplomas with the signatures of adults responsible, principal, superintendent; posters and playbills from the shows up on Broadway, they loved them; like that spectacle with the cats, and that sad extravaganza, Phantom Fiddler on the Roof of the Opera. A silence totaled with His parent’s and their unit, Hanna’s — Israel never used an alarm, could never sleep; he used a clock to tire not to rouse. Ben makes His way down the hall to the stairs, which darken, why so closed, so much space and claustrophobic — with its windows draped in tarpaulins, no views afforded of outside, He’s kept slept from any vista.

And so with a trepidant hand, Ben lifts a shroud and through its pane below beholds…no, let’s not think about that just yet — hymn, let’s eat first, get a little food in us and, nu, then we might be in a position to think things through, a city…clearly. All the photographs along the stairwell have been draped as well, along with the mirrors, as if in mourning — then that other sound again, which rang itself between the shrilly weltering calls, still rings: on the way down the stairs, that din, the hum, of noises, alarms lesser in volume if more immediate in threat: the sounds of drilling, of hammering, sawsawing…at the foot of the stairs, this team of workers redrilling, rehammering, reawing, some; others resanding, restaining, repainting; in the kitchen as Ben greets them without word, only the mute of a nod unre-turned, them in their overalls, with their muscles and dim, seriously straining faces — rerepainting, as Hanna’d just done it, had had it done what, six months ago, maybe seven; some of them working as high as prosecutable up on the forbidden rungs of stepladders, others taking their breaks with schnapps, cigarettes, and foreign food. That’s that smell, the smoke. He walks along the kitchen edge, past the furthest island counter, the bathroom and its soft cry, a ply of whimper…there’s a rap, stifled — He tries the door, it’s locked.

Who’s there?