How bad could life be

Christa Jones stands in front of her secretary in the living room, which is now an altar. A candle flickers in a lantern, next to it in a golden frame her father's mourning card: Heinz Klose, purple flowers and the picture in which he smiles directly at her. On the shelf are the things he always had with him, his gold chain, his key ring. Jones looks out into spring. On a day like that he would have come by bike, she says. He brought her the newspaper, at lunchtime he drove to Brandt, the rusk factory, when there was a good roast pork in the canteen. He was 88 years old, "always on the move," says Jones, who is 66 years old and still says "Papa": "Papa was actually fit."

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