After five minutes of perfect quiet, the same sequence repeats itself three more times,
after which he's presumably lulled himself back to sleep for a while.
Sometimes the guns go off during the night, between one and four.
I'm never aware of it before it happens, but all of a sudden I find myself standing beside my bed, out of sheer habit.
Occasionally I'm dreaming so deeply (of irregular French verbs or a quarrel upstairs)
that I realize only when my dream is over that the shooting has stopped and that I've remained quietly in my room.
But usually I wake up. Then I grab a pillow and a handkerchief, throw on my robe and slippers and dash next door to Father,
just the way Margot described in this birthday poem: When shots ring out in the dark of night,
The door creaks open and into sight. Come a hanky, a pillow, a figure in white...
Once I've reached the big bed, the worst is over, except when the shooting is extra loud.
Six forty-five. Brrring... the alarm clock, which raises its shrill voice at any hour of the day or night, whether you want it to or not.
Creak... wham... Mrs. van D. turns it off. Screak... Mr. van D. gets up, puts on the water and races to the bathroom.
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