It was 1945, the last summer of the war, the last summer Mother and I lived with Nana.  I was seven and had lived in my grandmother's wonderful house for as long as I could remember: since before I was four, since my father went away.  There were no men in Nana's house that summer.  Once her house had been full of men--my grandfather, my father, and his three brothers.  In 1945 there was just Nana, my mother, and me.  Grandfather had died before I was born, and all the uncles had gone to fight the war.  Aunts and cousins visited sometimes, but mostly I was alone, a fearless child in a house with two frightened women. . . .