Author's Notes: Special thanks to Char for her astute feedback and observations.

One hour to go. One hour to go.

The tires of the bus thudded over the rough concrete, bumping out the same message over and over.

One hour to go.

Daniel Jackson looked at his watch - the first new watch he'd had in eight years - to confirm the tires' warning.

One hour to go.

He swallowed at the thought and his stomach rolled uneasily.

In the seat in front of him, a man folded his newspaper back to the first page and began reading again. In that instant when he had been holding it upright Daniel noted the date - today's date - on the masthead of the newspaper. Although he had already known what day it was, the sight of it in black and white brought a surge of satisfaction that muted some of his nervousness.

July 8th.

Happy birthday to me, Daniel thought.

Sixteen. There had been times when he thought this day would never come.

Daniel didn't know why he was so nervous. What lay before him would undoubtedly be better than the last eight years of his life.

Eight years of adults controlling every aspect of his life. That had been all right during the first eight years of his life when his parents had been alive. They had listened to him, hugged him, loved him . . . they had been his world and they had made him their world.

But the last eight years . . .

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut, chastising himself. He had been in some decent foster homes along the way, after all. And a few not-so-decent, a tiny voice in the recesses of his brain reminded him. As if he needed reminding.

Some people who'd taken him into their homes really hadn't seemed to want him around, which had confused him at first. Why be a foster parent if they didn't want the kid? An overheard conversation between an early pair of foster parents had answered the question for Daniel. The people who acted as foster parents were paid for taking in kids like him.

Thus Daniel had discovered early on that he was a commodity. People were willing to take him in for awhile in order to receive payment for the act, but foster parents - especially those who were in it for the money - didn't like being inconvenienced. They particularly didn't like taking in kids with problems of their own.

So Daniel learned another lesson early on - to keep his head down, never to ask for anything, never to do anything to call attention to himself . . . the more invisible he could make himself the less often he would find himself in trouble. An essential part of becoming invisible, he had discovered, was learning to bury all of his grief and bewilderment and loneliness because those emotions just made people uncomfortable and less willing to have him around.

There had been the occasional adult along the way who had tried to get him to talk, to 'open up' because it would be 'good' for him. But Daniel had learned his lessons well. He kept himself to himself. It was best that way, after all. The more 'fine' he was, the less of a burden adults would find him, and the fewer problems they would cause him.

Daniel reached inside the jacket he had laid across his lap to pull out the small picture that he always liked to keep with him. Despite his care, it had gained several creases and begun to fade over the years. He breathed a sigh of thankfulness for Mrs. Viet's sharp eyes. Once she had spotted the picture, she had found a protective plastic sleeve to cover it. Now Daniel could hold it as often as he liked without worrying about damaging it.

He ran his fingers gently over the small figures in the picture, feeling his lips curving upward at the thought of Mrs. Viet. When he had first met her four months ago, his initial reaction had been surprise at how tall she was, almost six feet tall, he learned later. Her height, along with a narrow, angular build, sharp blade of a nose, and dark, snapping eyes, made her a memorable and intimidating figure. The only apparent soft thing about the woman had been her hair. If he hadn't been so nervous at the time, Daniel would have been tempted to giggle at the mass of white hair waving about her head that immediately made him think of a dandelion in full bloom.

What he hadn't realized then was that Mrs. Viet, like Daniel himself, was a survivor. She was able to understand him as no one ever had, not since his parents. Because she, too, knew what it was like to lose everyone she loved in one horrific, unchangeable, splintering of time.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Thinking about the elderly woman warmed him and soothed his nerves. Daniel never would have imagined it when they first met but, as he came to know her, he discovered that the irresistible force named Mrs. Viet was almost enough to make him believe in miracles. Or if not in miracles - his lips curved in a faint smile - maybe in a Jewish fairy godmother.

Mathematics was Daniel Jackson's most disliked subject. Ordinarily, he would have been pleased at being called out of class early. But experience had taught him that such an occurrence often preceded unpleasant change.

He had been with his latest set of foster parents, the Ingrams, for the last five months while he worked to finish up his final year of high school. It had been one of his better placements and, though he rarely allowed himself to hope beyond the current moment, he had come to think that he might be able to stay with them until he graduated.

Both of them were teachers. Mrs. Ingram taught English and history in high school and Mr. Ingram taught science and mathematics at the local junior college. There were several bookshelves in the house, all filled to capacity, and he was allowed to read whatever caught his fancy. This alone had been a huge improvement over Daniel's previous placement and he had taken full advantage of it.

The Ingrams themselves, though pleasant enough, were rather reserved. They had given him plenty of space, never asked intrusive questions, and had no problems with him spending most of his time in his room. Once or twice Mr. Ingram had offered to take Daniel for what the man called an 'outing' to some sports event or another. Daniel always politely declined and - much to his relief - Mr. Ingram stopped inviting him.

Overall, he had enjoyed the solitude and privacy of this placement. And on those occasions when his loneliness threatened to become overwhelming, he was especially grateful for the privacy of his room which meant that there was no one around to notice his misery. Overall, it was not a bad place to spend his last months before he graduated from high school and, he desperately hoped, moved on to college.

Daniel had thought, or at least hoped, that the Ingrams might have come to enjoy sharing their home with him. But when he was called out of his math class that Friday afternoon and told to report to the principal's office, he felt an all-too-familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. Almost invariably this signaled a sudden change to a new foster home. For reasons Daniel had never understood, this had happened a lot during his eight wasteland years. Despite all of his efforts to be invisible, no one ever seemed to want him around for long. Now it seemed to be happening again.

And when he reached the principal's office he was silently dismayed to discover that he was correct in his suspicion.

The principal had left them alone in his office after the elderly, odd-looking but somehow intimidating woman had given the man a long look. No sooner had the man closed the door when she turned to him. Daniel was relieved to see that her stern expression had eased with the disappearance of the principal.

"I am Mrs. Viet, Daniel. Ms. Conners has moved to another department so I will be your new case worker."

Daniel eyed her warily. That analytic part of his mind that never rested took note of the woman's faint German accent but that was unimportant in light of this newest upheaval. Although he had never cared for Ms. Conners, at least she had been familiar. This woman was an unknown quantity. And had it really been necessary to pull him out of class? Couldn't she have waited until after school to make her announcement?

He was surprised when she smiled at him, even more surprised at how the expression softened her sharp features.

"Yes, I can hear that mind of yours racing. Why didn't the old bat wait until the end of the day before throwing another curve into my life?"

His mouth dropped open, surprise breaking through his reserve. "No, I . . . uh, I didn't think that . . . um, I wouldn't . . ."

He came to a stammering halt. Great, Jackson, he thought miserably, you're making another great first impression.

But she surprised him. Her smile dimmed and she sat down in the chair beside the desk. "It's all right, Daniel," she said gently. "Me, I joke about everything. I wouldn't have asked that you come here during school hours except I need to tell you something - "

"I'm moving again." Daniel winced. He hadn't intended to interrupt her but he had gone through this kind of conversation more times than he wanted to remember. He couldn't bear another long monologue about how it wasn't his fault, it was just one of those things, no one was at fault, and on and on until he wanted to scream.

He dared to give her a quick look and, to his surprise, she didn't appear to be irritated by his interruption.

"I'm afraid so," she said with what sounded like real regret. "You see, Mr. Ingram had a heart attack this morning."

Daniel blinked in surprise. So this time it *wasn't* his fault. He wondered if it would be okay to ask how the man was. But he didn't know this woman so he hesitated. And his hesitation permitted him his second glimpse of her ability to read minds, or so it seemed at the time.

"It was a very serious heart attack, I'm sorry to say. But the last I heard is that he's holding his own." She studied him for a long moment, her eyes seeing he knew not what. Without warning she stood again and folded her hands together.

"Now, young Daniel, because it is late on Friday and there is no time to make plans, you will come home with me - "

"What?" he blurted, then flushed, hunching his shoulders nervously.

But to his surprise Mrs. Viet continued to speak to him as if speaking to any regular person. "I have a spare room you're welcome to for the weekend. Come Monday, then we will see."

As Daniel was to discover, when Mrs. Viet made up her mind that, as she liked to say, was that.

First, she drove him to the Ingrams to pack his things. Daniel was glad that she didn't offer to accompany him inside. Despite the knowledge that this move was through no fault of his own, he couldn't help feeling the same sense of rejection that he had felt every time he had to leave a foster home. He packed everything that was his in his battered suitcase and took one last look around the room that had been his . . . not 'home' - he rejected that thought immediately. None of his placements had ever filled the hole in his heart where 'home' belonged. But it had been a kind of refuge, albeit a lonely one, for the last five months.

Daniel stomped hard on his thoughts and closed the door firmly. Pausing only long enough to lay the key the Ingrams had given him on the kitchen table, he left the house without a backward look.

Back in Mrs. Viet's elderly but well-maintained Oldsmobile, Daniel was relieved that she felt no need to talk. He had never been good at small talk. But she seemed quite content to hum along with the song coming out of the radio, from one of those 'golden oldies' stations, he thought. At one point she threw him a surprisingly mischievous grin.

"My oldest daughter used to have the biggest crush on Buddy Holly. Now, of course, she denies it but I remember."

Daniel swallowed, not sure if he was supposed to respond to this bit of information. But before he could make up his mind she had gone back to humming along with the radio, her forefinger tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel.

He looked away and made a conscious effort to keep his eyebrows from rising. His new case worker certainly didn't fit any of the familiar categories that his previous case workers had fallen into. He couldn't help wondering how old she was. Her snow-white hair seemed to indicate great age yet her obvious zest for life and casual disregard for formality belonged to someone much younger. At least he thought it did.

In truth, Daniel had no idea what to make of Mrs. Viet.

"Almost there."

Her words broke through Daniel's confusion and he looked up to see that they had entered a neighborhood that seemed to have avoided the last few decades of tumultuous change. The houses were all smaller than the Ingrams' and looked to have been built in the 1940's or '50's. But despite their age they appeared well maintained with correspondingly small, tidy yards.

Mrs. Viet turned another corner and the big car veered slightly when she gestured. "There it is. Nothing fancy but it's home."

Daniel heard the satisfaction in her voice and curiosity made him sit a little straighter. She turned into a long driveway that led down to a two-story garage at the end. But he was more interested in the small house that sat serenely behind the well-kept front yard.

There was nothing special about it - a vintage one-story 1940's model, but it was as neat and tidy as the other houses on the street. The paint, blue with white trim, had faded a bit over the years which somehow added to its rather . . . peaceful appearance. On the small front porch were two old rockers filled with plush pillows, between which stood a wooden table that held a large, flourishing geranium with hot-pink blossoms.

For no reason the sight made Daniel want to smile. He didn't know what it was about this unpretentious little house but he felt himself relaxing as he hadn't done in a very long time.

Mrs. Viet came to a jerking halt at the end of the driveway and gave him a happy smile. "First we'll get you settled. Then we'll eat!"

"Okay . . ." Daniel's voice trailed off as she hopped out of the car with an agility that belied her white hair. Suddenly realizing that she intended to get his suitcase out of the trunk, he exited hastily and hurried around to the back of the car.

"I've got it," he said as he grabbed the suitcase a split-second before she reached it. She looked at him with surprised eyes and he felt himself flushing.

"I'm - uh, sorry. It's just heavy and, um, I didn't want you . . ." Daniel's voice trailed off as he realized he couldn't say anything without sounding rude. To his surprise she laughed and gave him a quick pat on the cheek.

"Such the gentleman." If there had been any sarcasm in her voice he would have been embarrassed. But to his relieved surprise he heard nothing but warmth. "Thank you. Here we go."

He followed her up the narrow stairs attached to the outside of the garage. She paused on the tiny landing at the top of the stairs and opened the door with a flourish.

"And here you are."

Daniel sidled past her and stepped into the room. Both his jaw and suitcase dropped simultaneously as he took his first look around.

It was a small, rectangular box of a room. In the center of the room, an old wooden bed frame held a twin-size mattress wrapped in faded sheets. Opposite the bed was a small, four-drawer bureau over which had been hung an oval mirror. At the far end of the little room was a narrow door that led into a tiny bathroom.

The room was as neat and tidy as the outside yard but Daniel barely noticed. He was too enthralled by the sight of book-filled shelves crammed into every available inch of wall space.

He moved automatically to the nearest shelf and realized immediately that these books were not for show. There were no nice, neat, leather-bound volumes with titles printed in mock-gold. These books bore the marks of much use - the covers were worn and the ink of some titles was nearly rubbed off, thanks to years of handling. There were many paperbacks as well and their uniformly shabby and dilapidated appearances were proof of equally heavy usage. All clear evidence that the books were worth reading.

Daniel didn't realize that he was smiling until he was startled by a harsh bark from Mrs. Viet.

"Ah-hah, another bookaholic."

"Excuse me?"

She waved her hand in the air, the gesture taking in the book-crowded shelves. "We had to start putting them in here after we filled up the house. I hope you'll find something of interest."

"I already have," he admitted shyly, his eyes glistening as they roved over the treasure before him.

"The room isn't fancy," the elderly woman noted unnecessarily. "But you should be comfortable. After the bed is made, anyway." She gave another harsh bark and Daniel belatedly realized that it was the sound of her laughter.

Mrs. Viet turned toward the door. "I need to get fresh linen and towels for you but for now I'll leave you to settle in. We'll eat in half an hour."

"Okay," he said absently, then jumped when she cleared her throat loudly. He looked at her in bewilderment and she frowned, an expression that went oddly with her lingering smile.

"A half hour," she repeated. "My food is too good to be ignored."

Daniel blushed. He had been so taken by his sudden riches that he had been rude. "I'll be there," he promised. "And I'm sorry, um - "

Mrs. Viet nodded approvingly. "Apology accepted." With that, she wheeled around and Daniel heard her thudding down the outside stairs with unnerving speed.

Forgetting about unpacking, Daniel turned for a closer exploration of the book-lined walls. History, literature, biographies, politics . . . Plato and Aristophanes nestled on either side of Rabelais while Shakespeare and Machiavelli were stuffed together at the end of a shelf beside Descartes, Locke and Hume. Under the biographies he noted a similar democracy . . . Winston Churchill was cheek-to-jowl with James Thurber and Albert Einstein. His delight soared into the stratosphere when he discovered the books were not only in English. German appeared to be the most popular foreign language but French and Italian and Russian were also well represented.

And he had thought the Ingrams had a lot of books!

He sighed happily at the memory of Mrs. Viet's invitation to read whatever he pleased. All these riches were his for the entire weekend!

If only he could stay longer -

Immediately Daniel cut off that thought. Come Monday, he would be farmed out to another foster family. It was nothing new and he firmly tamped down his disappointment at the thought. He had this weekend to wallow in the printed page. It was far more than he could have imagined an hour ago.

Reluctantly, Daniel tore himself away from the books to unpack. Mrs. Viet had been quite firm about not being late for dinner. He glanced at his watch and was dismayed to see that it had stopped again. Slapping it usually got it started but he had to hit it harder than usual before he saw the second hand begin to sweep around once more.

Now he wasn't sure how much time had passed while he had been ogling the books. It was safer, he thought, to be early than risk being late. Besides, hadn't Mrs. Viet said something about there being even more books in her house?

Daniel clattered down the outside stairs with more speed than grace but hesitated when he reached the bottom. Back door or front door? The back door was closer but it seemed more polite to go to the front door . . .

He sighed. The worst thing about new places was not knowing the rules. Finally, he decided to walk up the driveway to the front of the house.

Half-way up the front porch he paused in curiosity. On the right-side doorpost a narrow piece of metal four or five inches long had been fixed at a slight angle. A closer look made him realize that it was actually a small case that appeared to hold something inside. Daniel pushed his glasses up so that he could see more clearly. There was a small, stylized letter on the front of the case that looked somewhat like a capital 'W'.

Wait a minute. Daniel shook his head at himself for his slowness. He didn't know much Hebrew but he did knew the Hebrew alphabet. It was the letter shin.

Clearly, this had some meaning he didn't understand. Maybe Mrs. Viet would tell him, if he asked.

He knocked on the door, thinking of the books that must be inside. After a minute he raised his hand again, only to take a step back when the front door was flung open.

"What are you doing hanging around my porch?" she scolded. "Come in, come in!"

She swept Daniel inside before he had a chance to respond. He was vaguely aware of the sound of the door closing behind him but all of his attention was suddenly focused elsewhere. As he had just seen, the little room over the garage was filled to the brim with books . . . yet it paled in comparison to the house.

Books, books and more books. Floor to ceiling. Covering every bit of exposed wall space, even filling shelves that had been set above the windows. And still more books piled on a beautiful old china cabinet, and on some mismatched chairs shoved back by the book-covered walls. And yet more books piled in neat stacks in the corners of the room. So many books . . .

Daniel didn't know how long he stared at his surroundings before it occurred to him that he was being rude in ignoring his hostess. He finally dragged his attention back to her, only to see her watching him with eyes dancing with mischief.

"How do you like my library home?"

"It's the most beautiful place I've ever seen," he said reverently.

Another harsh bark of laughter exploded from her and she patted his shoulder approvingly. "When I meet a book I love I have to have it. And I can never give it up. But I can't stop buying more books, either. My husband was even worse and all of our children have taken after us. So you have this." Her expansive wave took in the entire room.

"Believe it or not, there is actual order to this chaos. I can always lay my hand on whatever book I wish."

"I believe you," Daniel said sincerely.

Despite the vast collection of books, there was no sense of disorder in the room. It was obvious that Mrs. Viet was keeping them according to some kind of system. He could hardly wait to discover what kind.

The sense of peace Daniel had felt at his first sight of the little house returned to him now, even stronger. This was a place of serenity, and his unconscious sigh of pleasure was a tribute to the room.

He didn't realize that she was moving away until he heard her voice coming from the kitchen.

"You have two minutes to look, then it's time to eat."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded.

Daniel knew he didn't dare start looking through the books now but he thought a quick, partial overview on his way to the kitchen would be safe. He skimmed as he walked, seeing again the mixture of languages with the addition of Spanish and, yes, he was pretty sure that was Portuguese.

As he quickly perused the shelves closest to his path, Daniel could understand why Mrs. Viet couldn't give up any of the books. These weren't the popular potboilers of any given time, they were classics. Unlike the majority of the books in his temporary room, these appeared to be - at least in this section - mostly novels and poetry. The authors were practically a who's who of the great 19th- and 20th- century writers - Steinbeck, Frost and Eliot in English; Balzac, Camus and Hugo, in French; Cervantes, Ibaez and Garcia Lorca, in Spanish; Kafka and Rilke in German -

"Daniel?"

He jumped, guiltily aware that he had, despite his best intentions, lingered over the shelves of books. He turned quickly toward the kitchen, aware for the first time of the delicious aromas drifting out to him.

Daniel paused in the kitchen doorway, his usual shyness - momentarily forgotten at the sight of all of the books - returning. He was just in time to see Mrs. Viet turning away from the oven, holding a pie in her hands. As she moved, the pot holder she was using slipped and the pie fell upside down on the floor.

"A broch!" she spat.

He started as a surge of excitement filled him, obliterating his nervousness. "What did you say?"

She eyed him blankly for a moment then slapped herself on the forehead. "Oy! I try to avoid bad language but sometimes it slips out. Es tut mir bahng." As she spoke, she reached down to pick the ruined pie off the floor and toss it into the sink.

Ordinarily, Daniel would have offered to help. But he was too excited by the discovery of a language brand-new to him, so excited even his habitual shyness went by the wayside.

"What language are you speaking?" he demanded, his eyes sparkling.

Mrs. Viet studied him briefly before smiling. "That's right," she nodded. "I'd forgotten. You are a very gifted young linguist, aren't you?"

Ordinarily, such praise would have reduced him to blushes, stuttering, and a quick retreat. But right now he was too intrigued by this new language to care. Ignoring her last statement, he said, "I don't recognize the language."

"You don't?" she smiled. "Not at all?"

"Well," he said doubtfully, "maybe if I heard more of it. Could you say something else?"

Her smile broadened. "A braireh hob ich?"

Daniel's eyes narrowed in thought. "It sounds like it has some roots in German but . . . there's something else, another language involved, isn't there?" Suddenly he straightened, remembering the Hebrew letter on the small object on the porch pillar. He was pretty certain that the language she was speaking wasn't Hebrew but there was another very similar language . . .

"Are you speaking Yiddish?"

"Aha!" she exclaimed. "Such a bal toyreh! That means, young Daniel, you are a learned man, a scholar. For true!"

The compliment flew right over his head. "Please tell me what you said," he said eagerly.

"What did I say?" Mrs. Viet tapped thoughtfully on her upper lip. "Ah, yes. I said Es tut mir bahng which means 'I'm sorry ' for what I said when I dropped the pie. Then when you asked me to say something else, I asked you A braireh hob ich? Which means, 'Do I have a choice'?'"

Daniel stored those phrases away in his capacious memory. "What about the first thing you said? A broch. What does that mean?"

Mrs. Viet tch-tched him. "You shouldn't repeat that. Profanity should not be spoken by the young." She bopped herself on the head. "Nor by the not-so-young. It's just an excuse for laziness."

"Laziness?" Daniel repeated, momentarily distracted.

"Oh, yes. Rather than taking the time to think about how one should actually respond to a given statement or situation, it's easier just to throw in a bit of profanity." She wrinkled her nose. "Mental laziness."

He nodded. Time to return to the point at hand. "I understand. But what did you say?"

"Daniel! Isn't it enough to know it's profanity?"

"I don't know the phrase," he said reasonably. "How can I remember not to use it when I don't know what it means?"

The elderly woman burst into laughter. When she could speak again she said, "I'm not sure if I would call your reasoning logical but you are definitely persistent." One finger rose in the air and waggled at him. "Do you promise not to repeat it?"

Daniel nodded quickly, sensing victory. "I promise."

"Very well." She cleared her throat, glanced furtively around the kitchen, then said in a semi-whisper, "'Ah, hell.'"

His eyebrows shot up. "A broch means - "

"Yes," Mrs. Viet interrupted. "Now, you will please sit down so that we can eat."

Daniel started at her peremptory tone and quickly slid into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. Once seated, his linguistic concerns paled slightly as he came face to face - or face to nose - with the delicious aromas he had been smelling since he entered the house. Belatedly, he remembered his manners.

"Um, can I help with anything?"

"Yes," Mrs. Viet answered as she set a plate filled with a neatly-sliced and luscious-smelling pot roast on the table. "You can tell me what you would like to drink."

"I, uh, water will be fine, thank you. I can get it." He started to rise but she waved him back down.

"Sit, sit. You're a growing boy. You should be drinking milk."

"That's not necessary - " his voice trailed off as he realized he was speaking to her back. She stopped in front of the refrigerator and threw him an impish look.

"I drink milk also, but it is a special kind."

Special? Daniel watched her in confusion as she reached into the refrigerator and then turned around, holding a -

Glass bottle of chocolate milk.

"Would you care for some of my special milk, young Daniel?"

He realized he was smiling again. "Yes, thank you, if you're sure you have enough."

"Stop that," she scolded.

Daniel immediately stopped smiling. What had he done now?

Mrs. Viet sighed and came swiftly back to the table. She gave his shoulder a pat as she passed him. "I'm sorry," she said as she filled the glass by his plate with chocolate milk, then her own glass. "I only meant that I wish you would stop always putting everyone else's needs before your own."

"I . . . I don't," he managed uncertainly.

"I've read your file, young Daniel," she said quietly, sitting down across the table from him. "And I've been listening to you this afternoon. I'm afraid you do. And I would really like to get my hands on the people who taught you to do that. I hope you like sauerbraten."

The abrupt change in subject left him staring at her open-mouthed. "I . . . uh . . ." He wanted no talk of anything that might be in his file so, though still bewildered, he was grateful to follow her lead.

"I don't think I've ever eaten it before but it smells delicious."

It was Mrs. Viet's turn to stare at him, her brows drawn together with what looked like indignation. She heaped his plate full with the pot roast - sauerbraten - and vegetables. "Never? No wonder you're so skinny! You're not used to food that sticks to your ribs."

Daniel could feel a blush warming his face. "I'm not really, um . . ."

She shook her fork at him. "Oh, please. I'll wager that when you stand outside you don't even cast a shadow. Now, eat!"

Daniel ate. And ate. He was glad that Mrs. Viet didn't feel like talking while they ate because he couldn't remember the last time he had been so hungry. Or maybe it was the food. It really was delicious. And filling. His stomach warned him to cease and desist long before his appetite was satisfied and he put his fork down reluctantly.

"Can I help, um . . ." Daniel hesitated, wishing again that he knew the rules here. Even if he was only going to be in this house for the weekend, knowing the rules would make that stay much easier.

Mrs. Viet had begun stacking empty dishes on top of one another and she paused long enough to give him a quick grin.

"Yes, you can help clear the table."

Clearing the table, Daniel discovered, included finding containers to store the uneaten food in the refrigerator and rinsing off the dishes so that they could be loaded into the dishwasher. But this last part, Mrs. Viet told him, was a one-man, er, one-person job.

"Go," she said, making shooing motions. "When I finish, we'll have some kind of a dessert, even if it won't be pie."

Daniel was happy to obey. He made a beeline for the book-filled living room where he gazed rapturously from one shelf to another, not sure where to begin. But as his eyes wandered around the room they fell on yet another book, oversized and very thick, on the coffee table. Intrigued, Daniel sat in the old wingback chair and reached for the book.

But as he lifted it he realized his mistake. It wasn't a book. It was a photograph album. Daniel froze momentarily until he realized that it wouldn't be on the coffee table if Mrs. Viet didn't want anyone looking at it. Hesitant yet curious, Daniel hefted the large album and allowed it to fall open where it wished. Fortunately, he was holding it on his lap. Otherwise, he would have dropped it on the floor.

The entire page was taken up by an 8-1/2 x 11 piece of paper, a . . . kind of a document. The title was scrawled across the top in bold black letters - ADOPTION CERTIFICATE. It had been created with multiple colors of crayons, yet, despite the obvious childish hand, was neat and detailed. The document stated that Chaim Greenberg was now the legal child of Jacob and Rebecca Viet. The date on the "certificate" was April 14, 1948.

Daniel tried to clear his throat but it was too dry. Automatically he turned the page to find another "adoption certificate," then another and another. Each one containing a different name and date.

Four "certificates". He doubted that they had been created for no reason. Some child, or children, had created these "documents". Most likely to confirm a high point in their lives. If they were accurate, then Mrs. Viet and her husband had adopted four children.

"Daniel?"

He started and looked up to find Mrs. Viet standing over him, a plate of pastry in each hand.

"I, uh . . ." Daniel stumbled, feeling his face suddenly flaming. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" She sat down on the sofa across from him and put the plates on the coffee table.

Quickly Daniel closed the photograph album but as he started to put it next to the plates she took it from him.

"Would you like to see?" she invited, smiling.

Though reassured by her response, Daniel still hesitated. What was the right answer? Was she just being polite? In which case if he said 'yes,' she probably wouldn't be happy. But if she really wanted to share . . .

"Come sit here," she patted the cushion beside her. "I'll give you the grand tour."

Relieved that he didn't have to make a decision, Daniel joined her on the sofa, swallowing when she opened the album to the "adoption certificates".

"Each of our children made one of these for us when their adoption became final," Mrs. Viet said, her hand stroking the colorful document. "Our oldest, Chaim, started it, then helped his sisters and brother when it was their turn. But here, we should begin at the beginning."

She turned to the very first page in the album and Daniel saw an obviously old black-and-white picture, faded by time. A young woman was standing beside a chair in which sat a man. Two canes rested against the sides of the chair, one by each of his hands, but it was the man himself who caught Daniel's attention.

Because he was sitting it was impossible to tell the man's height, but Daniel got the impression that he was tall. And very thin. A beard covered much of his face but there was no missing the gauntness of those features. His forehead was deeply lined and his dark eyes were sunken. And yet . . .

Daniel studied those deep-set eyes, feeling strangely drawn by the warmth radiating from them. And something else, he thought. Despite the man's obvious frailty, Daniel sensed a . . . what was it? Even as he wondered, something wiser than himself gave him the answer. There was a strength in the eyes looking out at him from the picture that had nothing to do with physical might. He was suddenly struck by the thought that if this man was for you, the world would be a much less frightening place.

An unexpected yearning rose in Daniel's heart and he had to stop himself from reaching out to touch the picture.

"Our wedding picture," Mrs. Viet said. "We couldn't afford nice clothes or anything else for that matter. But Jacob insisted on having a wedding picture." She rolled her eyes. "Such a pig-headed man. Once he made up his mind, you might as well try to empty the ocean as to change it."

Despite the severity of her words, Daniel noticed she hadn't stopped smiling and he thought it was safe to ask a question.

"Were you married here?"

"In this country? No. In Germany. I was sick after the war and ended up in the hospital. I met Jacob there. He was working as an orderly. What's the phrase? Oh, yes." Her smile widened. "We hit it off. We married and after a year of hard work and the help of some friends, we came to the United States. We worked some more while also working our way through college, then I went into social work and Jacob became a teacher."

Her fingers gently caressed the seated figure in the picture and Daniel glanced away, feeling as if he was intruding on something private. For a moment there was only silence but just as he was beginning to feel uncomfortable she flipped a few pages and Daniel found himself looking at pictures of young children.

"Chaim was our first child," Mrs. Viet continued brightly. "Later came Deborah and finally our twins, David and Rachel."

Daniel's eyes stopped on the last picture her finger touched. A little boy and girl, perhaps three years old, were sitting side by side. Despite the black-and-white print, the pair were obviously blonde and fair. The little girl's arms were firmly around the boy and as he looked more closely at the picture, Daniel blinked in surprise.

Perhaps Mrs. Viet was accustomed to certain reactions to this picture for she spoke calmly, without hesitation.

"Jacob and I first met the twins in 1951. At the time, the congenital disorder that David suffered from was still called mongolism. The term 'Down Syndrome' didn't become known until several years later."

Although the picture quality was not the best, the little boy's flattish facial features and the upward slant of his eyes were obvious. And Daniel also noticed something else - the happy smile that filled the small face.

"But that wasn't important," Mrs. Viet continued. "As soon as we met them, we knew David and Rachel were meant to be part of our family."

There was no missing the firmness in her tone and Daniel felt a stab of envy which he angrily shoved back down. He was glad that these four children had found a family, a very solid family, he suspected, if Mrs. Viet was any indication.

He sat quietly while Mrs. Viet continued to turn pages, occasionally stopping to comment about this or that picture. Daniel was careful to make suitable noises when it seemed appropriate, but more and more he wished he could escape to his little room over the garage. He felt suddenly exhausted and wanted only to sink into bed surrounded by books he had yet to examine closely.

Suddenly, Daniel realized that Mrs. Viet had stopped turning pages. When he glanced at her he noticed that she was focused on one particular picture so he looked at it more closely.

The pictures in the album had been placed in chronological order, which had allowed him to see the children growing up. This latest picture, the one that held Mrs. Viet's attention, was of David and Rachel. The twins appeared to be 15 or 16 years old now and were dressed as if for a party. Rachel, Daniel noticed, had grown up to be a very pretty girl. And David, as in all of the other pictures, still wore the same happy smile.

"There were always some people," Mrs. Viet said, "who were put off by David. Because he wasn't - " her lips thinned - "what they considered 'normal'." The last word fell from her lips, dripping with scorn. "Stupid, unthinking people. In truth, the world would be a much better place if more people were like David. He was the most loving, most caring - " She stopped abruptly.

Daniel could not have spoken even if he wanted to. He simply waited for Mrs. Viet to continue, and eventually she did.

"David's greatest gift was that he looked on everyone as a friend. He never judged, never criticized. He simply loved." Her fingers tenderly stroked the smiling face.

"As so often happens with this disorder, David also suffered from a congenital heart defect. We lost him when he was 16, just a few months after this picture was taken."

After a long moment of silence Mrs. Viet raised her head to meet Daniel's gaze. Though her eyes were unnaturally bright she was smiling again. "Everyone who knew David, and that included the members of his family, was a better person for having known him. That's quite a legacy for such a young life, don't you think?"

"Yes," Daniel agreed softly.

She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then closed the album. "I didn't intend to inflict the entire Viet family on you this evening. I hope you enjoyed your dessert."

"I did," he assured her. Not for the world would he admit that he had been so absorbed in the pictures and her stories that he didn't even remember eating the pastry. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. It's getting late and you've had a busy day. Let's get your bed made up so you can get some sleep."

"I can do that."

But despite his protests, Mrs. Viet insisted on helping him make his bed. She lingered long enough to put fresh towels in the tiny bathroom, then departed, wishing him a good night's sleep.

In truth, Daniel didn't expect to get a good night's sleep. His mind was whirling from the events of the day, not least Mrs. Viet's matter-of-fact revelations of her family. As he finally stretched out in his temporary bed, Daniel reflected again that the Viet children had been fortunate to find such parents. And maybe, he thought - and this was a new thought - Mr. and Mrs. Viet had been fortunate to find such children.

Consciousness returned to Daniel slowly. His first awareness was of being surrounded by warm comfort, which felt so good that he clung to it. But gradually he realized that he was completely covered, even his head. Groggy but curious, he stuck his head out from under the blankets, only to immediately duck back under.

The room was cold!

Safe and warm huddled beneath his blankets, Daniel thought back to Mrs. Viet's instructions before she left him last night. There was a small space heater in the room . . . where? Ah, by the tiny bathroom.

He took a few deep, regretful breaths. There was no getting around what he needed to do.

One last deep breath. Then Daniel sprang out of the bed, gasping as his feet slapped the cold wooden floor, and lunged for the heater. With one swift twist of his fingers he turned the control to "HI" before spinning around and diving back into the bed, yanking the covers over his head.

Gratefully, he nestled back amid the warm blankets, relaxing as his brief exposure gave way to comfort again. Unfortunately, the chilly air had thoroughly awakened Daniel and he knew there was no way he was going to be able to fall asleep again. But at least he could remain in his warm little cocoon until the room itself was more comfortable.

It was Saturday, he remembered. So he could linger in bed for a little bit. It was pleasant just to lie there, feeling warm and secure. Memories of last night began to return to him, memories of rooms filled with books, new and completely delicious food, and the Viet family. Four very fortunate children. A man that Daniel wished he'd had a chance to know. And Mrs. Viet.

She really was unlike any other adult he had ever met. As he recalled the time he'd spent with her last night, Daniel was surprised to realize that his habitual shyness had disappeared sometime during the evening. How? Why? Maybe it had been all the books that had distracted him. Maybe it had happened when she spoke a language he'd never heard before. He had been so excited . . . the thought that she might be willing to teach him more of this new language - Yiddish - thrilled him now, even huddled as he was under the covers.

Daniel didn't know how or when it had happened. But he realized that she had somehow broken through his defenses without his awareness.

He shivered at the thought. No, that couldn't happen. That was too dangerous.

A distant thud broke through his concentration. Daniel started, then carefully poked his head out from beneath the covers again. The air was still cool but warmer than it had been and he sat up cautiously, keeping the blankets wrapped around him.

More thuds, a faint, metallic-sounding crash, then something heavy was dragged, thumping, a short distance. The sounds were all coming from below the bed.

Frowning, Daniel looked at the floor, then "Ohhh," escaped him. This room was built above the garage. The noises had to be coming from the garage.

Mrs. Viet must be in there. Doing what?

Daniel crawled reluctantly out of bed, surrendering the warm blankets with a sigh. The floor was still cold beneath his feet but the warming air in the room made it more tolerable. He high-stepped to the small window overlooking the driveway and back of the house and peered outside.

It had snowed during the night and a light blanket of snow still covered the ground. Pressing one cheek against the frigid glass, Daniel could make out the open garage doors below, but the angle didn't allow him to see inside.

A loud thump, followed by several loud clunks and more metallic-sounding crashes, had him turning hastily toward his suitcase. He threw on his warmest clothes, pulled on his heaviest pair of socks, and stuffed his feet into his one pair of work boots, then hurried outside.

Daniel's speed was almost his undoing as he lost his footing half-way down the narrow stairs. Clutching the railing saved him and he slowed down enough to ensure a safe descent. When he hurried around the corner of the garage his first sight was of Mrs. Viet wrestling with a push mower. As he moved toward her he could hear some low-voiced mutterings and wondered if she was speaking more Yiddish that she wouldn't want him to learn.

"Mrs. Viet?" he called. "Can I help?"

She glanced briefly at him then said, "This - " she gave the mower a kick - "won't move."

Daniel waded cautiously through the tools, cans, rags and other debris that looked as if they had fallen off a shelf on the wall that was now hanging sideways.

"What do you need? Can I get it for you?"

"The mower!" she snapped, giving it another kick.

"But . . . " he hesitated, looking over his shoulder at the snowy landscape behind them.

"It's just a little snow," Mrs. Viet insisted. "Probably the last of the season. It was so warm last week the lawn had a growth spurt. I wanted to mow it today and a little snow isn't going to stop me."

He wanted to scratch his head in perplexity but refrained. Maybe it wasn't a lot of snow, maybe it was the last snow of the season, but still . . . He looked at the tall, angular figure standing in front of him, narrow shoulders set in determined fashion, and mentally threw in the towel.

"Let me get it, please," Daniel said, and bent over the mower. He discovered that a trowel had somehow gotten stuck underneath and after pulling it free, was able to push the mower out of the garage.

Mrs. Viet gave the garage a rueful look. "That's going to take some cleaning up." She glanced at him and Daniel was relieved to see that amusement had replaced her irritation.

"You see what happens when I allow my impatience the upper hand?"

"Yes ma'am," Daniel said, unable to keep his lips from twitching when she gave him a sharp look, then a harsh bark of laughter.

"Less than twelve hours and you think you've got my number, heh?"

"No, ma'am," Daniel said, then pushed the mower down the driveway before a snicker could escape.

When he reached the front yard he discovered that the snow was piled more deeply here. He stared at it in dismay, trying to imagine forcing the mower through this mess. What they really needed was a snow shovel.

"Daniel?"

The warning note in her voice turned him quickly around, all thoughts of amusement gone. She was looking at him with narrowed eyes, no longer smiling, and Daniel swallowed nervously. What had he done now?

"You haven't had breakfast."

It wasn't a question but he found himself shaking his head weakly.

"Well get inside then!"

Daniel left the mower standing and hurried into the house. Before he realized it he was sitting at the kitchen table again and she was rummaging through the refrigerator, grumbling under her breath.

He sat very quietly, his spirits sinking along with his stomach. He should have known. Somehow he'd ruined everything, just as he was beginning to realize how much he liked being here.

Not that it really mattered, he reminded himself. After tomorrow he would've been gone from here anyway. Now it looked like he wouldn't have to wait until Monday to leave.

"Daniel."

He realized that she was standing in front of him and he looked up quickly, wiping all emotion from his expression, he hoped. But as he met her gaze, he was startled to see sadness and . . . regret?

"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I wasn't angry with you but with myself. I was so focused on getting that dratted mower out and then upset by the mess I made in the garage, that I didn't even think about having awakened you, or that you hadn't had a chance to eat."

He stared at her with widening eyes. "But that's . . . that's okay. It's no . . . it's not important."

"Yes, it is," she said flatly. "It's important because you are important. Far more important than mowers or untidy garages."

Daniel looked down at the table, blinking. She was doing it again. For some reason his usual defenses weren't working with her.

He felt a warm hand squeeze his shoulder, then she was back at the refrigerator, pulling things out haphazardly and dumping them on the counter.

"Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," she proclaimed. "You know that, don't you?"

He swallowed again before judging it was safe to reply. "I've heard that, yes."

"Well, it's true. Do you like bacon?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then you'll get a good, old-fashioned American breakfast."

"Um, can I help?"

"How are you at peeling and cutting up oranges?"

Feeling suddenly lighthearted, Daniel said, "I'm okay with the first part but I've never tried the second part."

"No time like the present to learn."

As he removed several oranges from the fruit bowl, Daniel was struck by an odd thought. Last night he had gotten the impression that Mrs. Viet was Jewish. But hadn't he read somewhere that Jews didn't eat pork? Yet she had bacon in the refrigerator . . .

"How do you like your eggs?" she called.

Distracted, he fell back on a safe response. "Any way is fine."

Mrs. Viet glared at him over her shoulder. "How do you like your eggs?" She over-enunciated each word and Daniel realized only the truth would do.

"Um, over easy, if it's not too much trouble - "

"Daniel," she interrupted with a new warning note in her tone.

To his surprise, Daniel found himself smiling. "Over easy, please."

"Coming up."

After a filling breakfast, he found himself back in the front yard. The sun had come out and the light snow covering was melting. Daniel studied the wet ground dubiously.

"Hmph," he heard behind him.

He turned to see Mrs. Viet also taking in the inhospitable-looking front yard. "This yard is hardly ready for mowing," she said matter-of-factly.

Daniel hesitated. Was she making some kind of joke? If so, was he supposed to play along? Or was he supposed to disagree? And maybe encourage her in her original idea of mowing the yard?

He didn't know. He didn't know what to do or say. So he remained silent, hoping he didn't look as awkward as he felt.

"All right, then," she suddenly barked. "The mower goes back and we weed instead."

"What?"

Mrs. Viet pointed impatiently at the flower beds. "See those weeds? They don't care about snow or bad weather or anything else every other normal living thing cares about. You bring the mower and I'll find the weeders."

"Uh . . . okay," he said weakly, watching the tall figure march down the driveway. Belatedly, he collected himself and pushed the mower after her. Mowing, weeding, while watching the snow melting.

No doubt about it. Mrs. Viet was very definitely in a class by herself.

Nearly two hours later Daniel was ready for a break, but he wasn't about to ask for one while Mrs. Viet was still going strong. They had weeded for more than an hour, then they had raked and swept up yard debris, including broken branches that had to be broken down further before they could be disposed of.

By now, Daniel was feeling like the Abominable Mud Man. His back and arms ached and he doubted if his knees would ever work properly again.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good.

"Daniel?"

He raised his head, wincing as his back protested the change in position.

"Are you hot or cold?"

"What?"

"Do you want lemonade or hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate?" Daniel smiled hesitantly and her bark of laughter sounded again.

"Another chocoholic. No wonder I like you." She stood up, a bit slowly he noticed but not as if she was in any pain. "Have a seat," she suggested, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

"Okay," he agreed in relief. His gaze followed her idly as she moved quickly up the front steps. As she passed the doorpost, her hand reached out to touch the small metal case he'd noticed yesterday, then she brought her fingers to her lips as she disappeared through the front door.

Daniel looked after her then back at the metal case on the doorpost. He climbed up the four steps and paused by the doorpost to look more closely at the object. It was made of a silvery metal with no decoration or markings on it except for the letter shin painted black on the upper portion. And as he had noticed earlier, it had been placed on the post at a definite angle.

Obviously, it had some kind of special significance to Mrs. Viet.

Setting aside his curiosity for the moment, Daniel sat down on the top step and surveyed the neat though still muddy yard with satisfaction. Mrs. Viet found him in the same spot several minutes later when she opened the door.

Daniel jumped up to open the door more widely for her, then closed it firmly once she had come through. Mrs. Viet set a small silver tray on the wooden table beside the hot-pink geranium, pushing aside one bloom so that it didn't land in the mugs of hot chocolate.

"Sit," she ordered, gesturing at one of the rockers.

Daniel looked down at himself. "I'm pretty dirty."

"So am I. The rockers can be hosed off and as for the pillows, I just toss them in the washer when necessary. Now sit down and drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold."

"Yes ma'am," he said automatically.

The yard work had warmed him but the air was still chilly and he gratefully wrapped cold hands around the warm mug.

"Be careful," Mrs. Viet warned. "It's hot."

He nodded, inhaling the chocolaty aroma before he began to sip cautiously. "Mmm," he said happily.

"Mm-mmm."

Daniel's smile widened and he gently touched the geranium. "This is beautiful. How did it survive so well out here in the cold?"

Mrs. Viet grinned and said, "Because it hasn't been out here. During the winter I keep it inside. I just started bringing it back outside a few days ago when the weather began to warm up. Once all the snow is gone, it'll stay out here on the porch until next fall."

Ah, now it made sense. Relieved that she didn't seem to mind the question, Daniel decided to try another. Glancing again at the small case on the doorpost, he said, "Mrs. Viet, what is that?"

She followed his pointing finger and her expression changed. Daniel not only saw it but felt it. Suddenly his hot chocolate wasn't enough to keep the chill away. Confused and uneasy, he wondered if he should apologize or just disappear. But before he could make up his mind, Mrs. Viet sighed, then gave him a smile. Though not strong it looked genuine and he allowed himself to relax a bit.

"It's called a mezuzah," she said matter-of-factly, then her eyes suddenly twinkled. "How's your Hebrew?"

Daniel managed a relieved smile. "I know the alphabet and I know shalom. But that's all."

"That's more than most people know. Mezuzah is Hebrew for 'doorpost', because that's where you're supposed to place it. Jacob put that up the day we moved in here."

For an fleeting instant he saw something in her eyes but it disappeared before he could identify it. She continued her explanation as if nothing had happened.

"The mezuzah is supposed to be a constant reminder of God's presence and his mitzvot or 'commandment'. Inside the mezuzah is a tiny scroll containing the Shema." She gave him a brief glance before returning to her study of the front yard.

"It's taken from Deuteronomy 6:4-9 which begins, 'Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one.'" She fell silent, but it was not a peaceful silence.

Daniel sat very still, regretting his question, angry with himself for permitting his curiosity to lead him, yet again, into trouble.

"I am very proud of my heritage," Mrs. Viet said quietly. "But the religious aspects - " she stopped again and he looked away, unable to meet her suddenly bleak expression.

"The religious part I always left to Jacob. He was the religious one in our marriage." She gave him a brief, tight smile. "We thought a lot alike on most things, but that was one area where we agreed to disagree." She shrugged abruptly. Picking up the cup of hot chocolate, she took a long swallow then licked her lips.

"Good," she judged with an approving nod. "You like?"

Daniel took a hasty drink, wincing a bit at its heat. It was obviously made from scratch and delicious, if still a bit too warm for gulping. "Yes, very good. Thank you."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Viet nodded. This time her smile looked genuine as she gestured at the yard. "Thank you for helping. It looks much better."

"You're welcome," he returned, finally able to relax once more.

He had put his foot in it again, he knew. He could only be grateful that Mrs. Viet was willing to ignore his blunder. But although she didn't know it, her brief explanation had answered another question that he'd had.

While they had been working in the yard, Daniel had wondered at Mrs. Viet's enthusiasm. He knew that Saturday was the day of worship for people of the Jewish faith. Not a day to be doing yard work. But now he understood. Religion wasn't part of her life.

Except, if that was the case, why had she reacted the way she had when she walked by the mezuzah earlier?

"You know what still needs to be done?"

Startled from his thoughts, Daniel looked at Mrs. Viet and she quirked an eyebrow in return.

"I need to clean up the mess I made in the garage."

"I'll help," he said immediately, relieved by the change in subject.

"It's a big mess," she warned.

"I know. I saw it."

The look she gave him was both amused and challenging and Daniel thought it was safe again to return her smile. She nodded once, then toasted him with her hot chocolate.

"First we drink. Then we clean."

"Um, Mrs. Viet?" Daniel hoped his sudden nerves weren't visible, but he had to ask. "If you happen to have any free time and, uh, don't have anything else you want to do, and, well, providing you aren't too tired or anything, would it be possible . . . um, do you think you might be able to teach me some Yiddish?" After hemming and hawing at first, he'd had to get the last part out in a rush, otherwise he would have chickened out.

He waited tensely, hoping but fearful, surprised when she laughed.

"Of course, I'd be delighted, young Daniel. How about if we start tonight?"

Tonight? So soon? Daniel's trepidation was swamped by excitement. She was going to teach him!

"Yes, thank you, that'd be great. I really appreciate . . . I mean, I'm very grateful, that is, I know you're busy - "

"Daniel, relax." Though her tone was abrupt her smile took away any sting and he couldn't help smiling in return.

"But right now," she waggled a forefinger, "we have to finish our hot chocolate so we can clean up that dratted garage."

"Okay," he agreed, trying to hold back his growing excitement. She was going to teach him!

But despite his excitement, he still wondered why she kept calling him 'young Daniel'. Well, he wasn't going to ask. He didn't want to inadvertently bring up another, possibly painful, memory. Besides, he now had something far more interesting and exhilarating to look forward to.

That evening, when Daniel sat down at the kitchen table to eat dinner, he couldn't decide which part of his body was more tired. Nonetheless, anticipation and excitement kept him alert and enthusiastic. In just a little while, Mrs. Viet was going to reveal to him a brand-new language, and he felt as if he was poised to enter an enchanted world. The fact that he always felt this way when beginning a new language did not dampen his emotions in the least.

"This is one of my family's favorite meals," she said, interrupting his thoughts as she set the bowl in front of him. "It's veal ragout."

"It smells wonderful," he said as he inhaled the aroma, smiling in appreciation.

"Daniel?" One white eyebrow was cocked suspiciously. "Haven't you ever had this before, either?"

"Um," he said hesitantly, "I don't think so."

Mrs. Viet shook her head until her hair danced in the air. "I'm truly amazed you're as healthy as you are."

After another delicious meal he knew he would always remember, they cleaned up the kitchen and settled down for some serious language lessons. But Mrs. Viet had barely begun when the telephone rang.

She sighed impatiently as she rose to answer it. "I swear, sometimes I'd like to smack Edison for inventing that nuisance."

Mrs. Viet returned to the living room and Daniel heard her say brusquely, "Hello." A brief silence, then, "Yes, I did. I wasn't about to put him in some cold, impersonal institution for the weekend."

Daniel's stomach dropped down to his feet.

"I'm much more concerned about this youngster than I am about some stupid rules." Though she had lowered her voice he had no trouble hearing her, especially as anger had sharpened her tone.

More silence, then Mrs. Viet said, "There was no reason to. But now is not the time to go into this. . . . No. I'll call you tomorrow. . . . So? You didn't mind calling me tonight, did you? . . . Exactly. We'll talk tomorrow. Good night."

Daniel wouldn't say that Mrs. Viet slammed the receiver back into its cradle, but she certainly hung up with some authority.

His throat was dry and his stomach was doing flip-flops, making Daniel feel slightly nauseous. He kept his gaze firmly fixed on his hands, folded on the table in front of him, but he heard Mrs. Viet come back into the kitchen and sit down across from him.

"I'm sorry you had to hear that," she said without preamble.

Daniel had to swallow several times before he could respond. "I . . . I'm sorry that I got you in trouble."

He was startled by her harsh bark of laughter and looked up to see her watching him, her face bright with amusement.

"Oh, Daniel, you aren't responsible. Believe me, I'm quite capable of getting into trouble without anyone's help. I made a choice to bring you home with me and I'd make the same choice if I had to do it over."

"But what about - " he waved vaguely toward the living room and the now-silent telephone.

She shook her head. "Don't worry about it. That was my supervisor, Vera Sorenson, a nice woman but far too concerned about her job and, oh my, all the rules." The derisive note in her voice when she spoke that last word helped ease some of his concern, but Daniel was still worried.

"But you're still in trouble because of me."

"Oy," she rolled her eyes. "Please don't be so concerned. You'll just give yourself an ulcer and you're far too young for one." Mrs. Viet took in his still-worried expression and her smile gentled as she patted his folded hands.

"I've been through this kind of thing before, young Daniel. Mrs. Sorenson will fret and stew and in the end she will go back to her paperwork and I will do as I see fit. You see, next year I will reach the age when my brain begin to atrophy and Mrs. Sorenson is dreading the day."

"Atrophy?" he said in bewilderment.

Her smile widened. "The not-so-wonderful bureaucracy calls it the age of mandatory retirement. According to the bureaucratic powers-that-be, when one turns 65 one's brain immediately turns to mush so it's time to be put out to pasture. Mrs. Sorenson is fully aware that she is going to lose me, the most experienced case worker in the program, in eight more months and she's already a nervous wreck just thinking about it."

Daniel stared at the elderly yet lively and vital woman before him. He couldn't recall ever meeting anyone who had such a zest for living. Not since his parents. And she was going to be forced to retire?

"What are you going to do?" he said impulsively, then he wished he could kick himself for making her think of her future.

But once again she surprised him, this time with a brief but distinct giggle.

"The bureaucracy is not the only one who has plans for me. Do you recall me mentioning my youngest daughter, Rachel?"

Daniel nodded in confusion.

"A few years ago, after she finished up her Ph.D. at the University of Chicago, Rachel opened a new school there, in Chicago." Her eyes were bright with pride. "It's a school designed for students who need special education and she has been after me for the last two years to come and be a part of it. Which is exactly what I'm going to do next year." She snorted unexpectedly. "Retire, my foot!

"So you see?" she continued. "You don't need to feel guilty or worried or any of those other emotions that you're thinking you need to feel. All right?"

"All right," he said weakly.

"However," Mrs. Viet went on, "I am glad this subject has come up because I want to ask you something."

"What?"

"I'm wondering if you'd like to stay here until you graduate. My, that's just three months away."

Feeling as it he had just been run over by a truck, Daniel stared at her. "I, uh . . ." but his vocabulary had disappeared, along with everything else.

"You needn't worry about me getting into trouble over this," Mrs. Viet said reassuringly. "If you agree, I will bring it up with Mrs. Sorenson. She will be appalled, of course, but in the end she will let me have my way. I can always choose to leave early, you see, and she's already terrified at the thought of having to find a replacement when I leave next year. Of course, I would never come right out with such a threat but we both know it's there, available for me to take if I wish. And besides . . ." she gave a little shrug, "she's not a strong woman."

In the midst of his emotional turmoil, Daniel was suddenly struck by that simple adjective. But why? Then he remembered. The first time he had looked at her wedding picture he had been captivated by the strength he had seen in Mr. Viet's face, not of physical might but strength of character.

He looked at Mrs. Viet with new eyes as her meaning slowly sank in. Unlike her supervisor, Mrs. Viet was a strong woman. Just like her husband, Mrs. Viet's strength lay in her character, her mind, her will.

And with that understanding came a flood of relief and excitement. "Yes," he said, with a firmness he rarely felt. "I would like to stay."

She gave him a smile that looked as wide as his felt. "Good. Now, about learning Yiddish . . ."

Daniel had no idea how difficult it was for Mrs. Viet to have her way in this matter. She never mentioned any difficulties but in the end she did have her way. Daniel stayed.

And with each passing day he felt a growing security that had been absent from his life since the day he lost his parents. Mrs. Viet did not treat him like a temporary foster child or even as a guest passing through. From that first day she offered him an indiscriminate affection as if he actually belonged in the house. She did not stand on any ceremony nor did she allow him to. There were chores to be done and he was expected to help with them. But laughter was also an integral part of Mrs. Viet's life and she was constantly inviting him to share in it.

One such avenue of pleasure was immediately revealed to Daniel during that first weekend. He discovered that Mrs. Viet was a fiend for board games and they spent innumerable evenings battling each other over Monopoly and similar games. Except for Scrabble. After Daniel had 'creamed' (her word) Mrs. Viet in eight straight games, she tossed the box in the back of the hall closet.

"There is a time for being a good sport," she told him, "and a time for protecting one's self-esteem from being completely destroyed."

Her favorite game, however, was chess. Although he hadn't had many chances to play in the last several years, Daniel had always enjoyed the game. Plus it was one of the few 'popular' activities at which he excelled. So he was surprised by how consistently Mrs. Viet beat him at it. Where on earth, he wondered, had she learned to play so . . . so professionally? Eventually, she answered his unasked question.

After losing every game he had played against her for three consecutive nights, Mrs. Viet eyed him sitting across the table, his shoulders a bit slumped, and said, "You play quite well, you know."

Daniel shook his head ruefully. "No, I don't think so."

"You do," she insisted. "I just happen to have been taught by a master."

That caught his interest. "Who?"

"My husband, Jacob." Her eyes were twinkling again which always made him feel better. "You see, Jacob's father was a brilliant chess player. He out-played everyone, even Emanuel Lasker, who was only the world's second official chess champion at the time."

"And Mr. Viet's father taught his son?"

She nodded. "According to Jacob, he started learning chess almost before he had learned to walk. And by the time he was a teenager he had begun to beat his father at the game. If things had been different . . ." Some of the light left her eyes.

"At any rate," she continued, "Jacob taught me to play and he taught each of our children. They're all impressive chess players."

Though curious at what she had left unsaid, Daniel was not about to ask any more questions. He gave her a shy smile as he said, "You play brilliantly."

"Thank you," she said with a nod. "So can you, if you'd like a few pointers."

Daniel straightened in his chair. "Really?" he said eagerly and she laughed.

"Yes, really. Let's begin, shall we?"

It was all so different from the foster homes to which he had become accustomed over the years. But as he occasionally considered the differences between his past foster homes and now, one of the most striking was his 'loss' of privacy now.

Daniel had never expected that he would so enjoy losing his privacy, or at least most of it. As Mrs. Viet quickly made clear, his room over the garage was fine for sleeping but otherwise she expected Daniel to spend most of his time in the house or out in the yard, when he was not at school. This point was emphasized when she reminded him that there was no table in his room, therefore he could do his homework in the kitchen. Just as all of her children had done when they were growing up.

Because he normally got back from school before she returned home, Daniel had a couple of hours in the afternoon when he was alone in the house. Mrs. Viet had reminded him that work came before pleasure, so he made an extra effort to finish his homework as quickly as possible. Then the vast collection of books that filled the house and his room over the garage were all available to Daniel.

Perusing the collection, dipping into one book after another before choosing one that he could read while curled comfortably in the old wingback chair or stretched out on the sofa, became his favorite way to spend an afternoon.

During these quiet weeks, Daniel gradually came to experience a sense of peace that had been a stranger to him for eight years. Though he rarely allowed himself the luxury of thinking about it, deep down Daniel felt as if he had found a place to belong, at least for a little while. This was due mainly to Mrs. Viet's attitude toward him. She never made him feel like a foster child or an orphan. On the contrary, she bossed him around with a warm, casual affection that often startled from him long-forgotten memories of his all-too-brief years with his parents.

Old habits and nervous caution continued to warn him against getting too close to the old woman but as the days continued to pass, without upset or disruption, he gave less and less of an ear to those voices.

The shattering of his peace came, as it was wont to do, without warning.

Daniel was stretched out on the sofa, deep in a Russian translation of Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov, when Mrs. Viet arrived home on that Tuesday afternoon. Her arms were loaded with bags of groceries and he jumped to his feet to help.

"Thank you," she said breathlessly, surrendering a couple bags to him and carrying the rest toward the kitchen. "Serves me right for being so impatient."

"What did you do?"

Mrs. Viet gave him a cheeky smile over her shoulder. "I was too impatient to be willing to make two trips. I wanted to bring them all in at once." She rolled her eyes theatrically. "Oy! Serves me right." She flexed her wrist as she added a frown to her smile, achieving a vaguely diabolical look.

Daniel wanted to laugh but resisted. "I can put them away," he offered.

"Thank you but I can do that. I'm not decrepit yet."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . ." his voice trailed off when he recognized the mischief in her eyes.

"Daniel, Daniel," Mrs. Viet said, shaking her head, "you're too easy."

He had to smile at that.

"Ah," she said suddenly, pulling an envelope out of a grocery bag. "This came for you. It was sent to the Ingrams' address so it took a little time to be re-routed to me."

She held out the obviously well-traveled envelope and Daniel's heartbeat quickened at the sight of the return name and address, UCLA, Office of Admissions. He had sent in his application months ago and, though he had never said anything to anyone, the long silence had made him nervous.

Daniel gingerly took the envelope from her hand. As much as he had grown to like Mrs. Viet, he had a sudden, overwhelming urge for privacy. He looked at her hesitantly and she smiled and waved him off.

"Go. Dinner won't be ready for almost an hour. Don't be late," she called after him as he sped out.

"Daniel?"

Someone was saying his name.

Someone was calling him.

The repetition of his name finally broke through the atmosphere of shock and despair that surrounded him. It took almost more effort than he possessed for Daniel to raise his head and meet Mrs. Viet's anxious eyes.

"I've been calling you for several minutes," she said worriedly.

He felt her hand on his forehead and wanted to pull away but that would have required too much energy. Instead, he sat inertly, barely aware of her presence, barely aware of anything. Except for the fact that all of his hopes and dreams had been destroyed. One simple letter and it was all gone. All of his work, all of his effort, and it had come to nothing. He had failed.

His parents would be so disappointed in him.

Daniel squeezed his eyes shut as the thought sent pain knifing through his heart, dissipating some of his shock.

"Daniel!" Strong hands gripped his shoulders and gave him a hard shake. "Talk to me. What's happened? What's wrong?"

He wanted to ignore her. He didn't want to think, to talk. He just wanted to find someplace deep and dark to hide. Except hiding wouldn't work because he'd still have his miserable self with him.

He didn't want to show her, didn't want her to see this public acknowledgment of his failure, but seven weeks of living in this woman's house had taught him that she would not allow a question she'd asked to go unanswered.

Better to get it over with. Maybe then she would allow him to be alone with his devastated hopes.

Daniel shoved the letter from UCLA - the same letter he had opened with such excitement edged with trepidation a little while ago - closer to her. He was vaguely aware that she had released his shoulders to pick it up. But he tried very hard to focus on nothing, to think of nothing. To be nothing.

After a moment or an hour her voice broke into his despair.

"There has to be a mistake."

"They said no." Was that his voice? It didn't sound like him.

He felt the bed give slightly as she sat down next to him.

"Daniel." Again, a strong hand gripped his arm, this time with enough force so that a little pain flowed from her grip and cut through his desolation.

"Listen to me," she said with increasing urgency. "I know your file forward and backward. I know your grades, all of them. I know what you have achieved, especially remarkable considering all that you've had to deal with in the past eight years. And I'm telling you that this letter is a mistake."

"It has my name on it," he said dully. "It was sent to me."

"Yes," she agreed, "but nonetheless it is a mistake." Paper crackled but it was the anger in her tone that broke through to him. He looked at her and surprise at her expression sent more cracks through the despair that had filled him since opening the letter. A letter that, he now saw, was half-crumpled in her fist.

"You probably didn't notice the paragraph," she said, her tone gentle despite the anger that still colored it, "that said certain required family and financial information had been omitted from your application. Daniel, Ms. Connors should have supplied that information. Do you remember if she gave you any forms or other documents to send in with this application?"

A direct question. That required an actual answer. The combined urgency and anger in her tone was unlike anything Daniel had ever heard from her before. It served as a goad, pushing him further out of his blanket of misery and back into reality. Had Ms. Connors given him any forms or documents? No. He knew she hadn't. But asking himself that question brought a forgotten memory drifting back into his consciousness.

"She said," he recalled slowly, "she didn't have time. Not then. But she was going to send it in herself. Later."

With each word the memory grew stronger and Daniel's gaze turned back to the letter Mrs. Viet still held.

"Is that what happened?" he said hesitantly.

"I don't know. But it's possible." There was an unfamiliar grimness to her tone and when he looked at her again he saw that her normally expressive features were immobile, as if carved out of rock.

For an instant he dared feel a sense of relief - it wasn't because of him. He hadn't failed. But just as quickly his relief was demolished by a bleak and painful recollection of his situation. It didn't matter why his application had been rejected. It had been rejected. He was not going to UCLA. He was not going anywhere for college.

"Daniel!"

He winced as her grip on his arm tightened and she immediately released him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "But you need to listen to me. I don't want you to give up yet. Give me time to look into this, will you? Let me see what I can do."

Daniel shook his head, swallowing hard, horrified to feel unexpected tears threatening. "It's too late. It'd be impossible to get in now."

Mrs. Viet tch-tched, shaking her own head so firmly that her white hair waved wildly around her head. "Haven't you ever heard that old saying? The difficult we do immediately, the impossible takes a little longer."

He took a deep, shaky breath, wishing desperately that she would leave. And once again, as if reading his mind, she responded. Sliding off the bed and standing up, Mrs. Viet gave his shoulder a pat.

"Dinner's ready. I want you to come down and eat."

"I - I'm not really hungry," he managed.

"I know. But you need to eat something. I don't want you making yourself sick over this."

Daniel heard her move away, then he heard the door open. "You have fifteen minutes," she said, then the door closed behind her.

Fifteen miserable minutes later, Daniel dragged himself up to the front door. Some part of him realized he was sweating, followed by the realization that the weather had changed. Spring had sprung with a vengeance and the temperature today was actually feeling summer-ish.

If he hadn't been so deep in despair, Daniel would have snorted at himself. His entire future had just been destroyed and he was obsessing about the weather. Maybe UCLA knew what it was doing. Maybe he deserved to have his application rejected.

Daniel closed the door behind him and walked through the living room. When he reached the kitchen his eyes automatically found Mrs. Viet, standing in front of the sink. It was even warmer in this room and he noticed that, for the first time in his memory, she had pulled her sleeves up to her elbows. And for the first time he saw on the inside of her left forearm, still visible despite the passage of decades, a hideous mockery of a tattoo - a serial number.

The sight seared through him, instantly burning away all of his confusion and despair, leaving him horror-struck.

He didn't realize that he was staring until he looked up to meet her dark eyes.

"I . . . I'm sorry . . ." he stumbled, suddenly overwhelmed by all the pain and horror contained in this one planet.

"It's all right, Daniel," she said matter-of-factly. "You have nothing to apologize for. I came to terms with my past long ago." Surprisingly, she smiled at him.

He could not smile in return. His own little tragedy disappeared into nothingness before the evil represented by the ugly tattoo on her arm.

Although his greatest interests were in languages and ancient cultures, he was also fascinated by history. He had read a great deal about World War II, including what he had always thought was the most horrific aspect of an atrocious war - the Holocaust.

All of the appalling facts he had learned about the Holocaust paled before the reality of standing before an actual survivor of that unspeakable horror. A dozen questions instantly pressed against Daniel's lips but he swallowed them. To ask someone who had survived a living hell to recall it seemed obscene.

"Do you wish to know my story, young Daniel?" she said quietly.

How did she do that? Was he so easy to read? Daniel felt his heart begin to race but as he studied her expression he saw only a calm concern. Then he realized. She was worried for him.

"Is it all right . . . um, if you're sure you don't mind . . ." he cringed at his awkwardness and she smiled that warm, comforting smile again.

"Come, let's sit down. We can be comfortable." Daniel obeyed, sitting across the kitchen table from her. The aromas of the food on the table would have, on another occasion, made his mouth water. But now they only made him feel vaguely nauseous.

"You are young," Mrs. Viet said quietly, "but, I think, old enough to understand. Too many people today try to belittle or even deny what the Nazis did. It is important that those of us who survived it speak up so that the world will not forget. Would you like to ask me your questions or shall I just tell you my story?"

Daniel hesitated but he was too overwhelmed to know what to ask. Apparently, Mrs. Viet was accustomed to such reactions for she began to speak quietly, with little emotion.

"I was born in Berlin," she said, her eyes taking on a distant look. "My father was a fine tailor and my mother was kept busy taking care of my two brothers and me. We were very happy until - " she sighed. "I was a young girl when Hitler first came to power. Many Jews recognized which way the wind was blowing and chose to leave Germany. But my parents believed that things would eventually settle down again. My hope that they were right was destroyed by Kristallnacht."

The night of crystal. Daniel translated the word automatically in his mind.

"The night of broken glass," she said, as if reading his mind again. "November 9, 1938. One of many dates I will never forget. It was the most massive, coordinated attack on Jews by the Nazis up to that time. Thousands of Jewish homes and businesses were destroyed, hundreds of synagogues were burned, nearly a hundred Jews were murdered in that single night.

"My fianc was praying in our synagogue when the Nazis came. Our neighbors saw the soldiers drag him out and beat him while they vandalized and then burned the synagogue. I found out later that he was one of more than 2,000 Jews sent to concentration camps the next day. I believe he was sent to Dachau but I never knew for sure. I never saw him again."

Daniel could no longer look at her implacably calm face and stared down at his hands. Mrs. Viet continued in that same matter-of-fact tone.

"The situation grew steadily worse after that. I was 24 years old when my family and I were dragged out of our home. I was shoved into a boxcar that took me and many others to Ravensbrck, a concentration camp for women. As for my parents and my younger brothers, I never saw them again, either."

Out of the corner of his eye, Daniel saw her fingers gently brush over the hideous tattoo on her arm and he blinked back his tears. He was startled when her hand suddenly closed over his.

"Thank you," she said softly.

He stared at her, unable to speak for the warmth in her eyes.

"For your tears," Mrs. Viet clarified. "I have a very hard time weeping over those years."

He swallowed and managed to nod, relieved yet disappointed when she released his hand.

"You don't need to know all the details of life in a concentration camp, young Daniel. For now, let me just state the obvious. I survived." She shook her head and her white hair waved in the air.

"It's strange how life works out," the old woman went on conversationally. "Against all odds, I survived the Nazis. But after Ravensbrck, after the war was over and I knew my family was gone, then I wanted to die. I tried very hard to kill myself."

Daniel's jaw dropped but her expression didn't change. Instead, much to his surprise, she smiled again.

"In the hospital I met a young man who was working as an orderly. His name was Jacob Viet. He was also a survivor, of Buchenwald. And over time he was able to teach me that survival is not a sin, that there can still be happiness despite all the grief and loss in the world. And for nearly 34 years he was the major reason for my happiness."

She cocked her head slightly and gave him a lopsided smile. "So there you have the condensed version of my life. I hope it wasn't too upsetting for you."

Daniel shook his head slowly. "I . . . I think . . ." he stumbled over the words, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "I think you're amazing."

She gave a harsh bark of laughter but there was little amusement in the sound. "Thank you for the thought but I am simply a survivor. When I look back on my life I am astonished that I survived. Oh, not that I survived the Nazis, though most would think that was my meaning. What nearly destroyed me weren't the Nazis themselves but what they did to me when they took away my family. That was my greatest tragedy, losing my family."

Daniel shuddered, meeting her gaze half-fearfully. He hadn't expected her story to take a sudden right turn into his own life. If there had been sympathy or pity in her expression he didn't think he could have borne it. But to his relief he saw only understanding. And her voice remained as matter-of-fact as if she had been discussing the weather.

Mrs. Viet's gaze shifted toward the darkened window. "It took me a long time to realize how angry I was with my parents."

"An - angry?" he exclaimed. "Why? It wasn't their fault the Nazis . . ." he stopped abruptly, afraid he had overstepped some boundary. But she only nodded.

"You're right, the Nazis weren't the fault of my parents. But that evil didn't suddenly appear out of nowhere. The world had several years in which to see what was coming. That was especially true in Germany. Many Jews were smart enough to leave the country early on, while they still could. But my parents refused to believe what was happening, refused to believe how far it could go. And our family paid the price for their refusal to face reality."

"But your parents . . ." Daniel paused, but she did one of her mind-reading tricks again.

"My parents loved my brothers and me and they loved each other. I knew that. I've always known that. But their refusal to be cautious, their refusal to put the safety of their family first, and their refusal to act in the face of potential disaster, was their undoing." Her eyes closed briefly.

"So I was angry with them. But I was most angry with them for dying and leaving me behind."

Daniel stared at his hands resting on the table, feeling a sudden frisson of emotion stirring deep inside. Their situations were totally different, he told himself shakily. There was no reason to identify with her story. None at all.

He was startled when she reached out to gently touch his face, and even more startled by the realization that tears were sliding down his cheeks. Horrified, humiliated, Daniel jerked away from her touch and scrubbed roughly at his face with his sleeve.

"It's all right to be angry," she said softly. "It doesn't make the love any less."

He stared at the table, her words reverberating through him. He didn't know how much time passed before she spoke again.

"My Jacob taught me much over the years," she said. "But the hardest truth he ever taught me was one that life has reinforced over and over again. And that truth is that there is only one way out of the pain."

Daniel realized that he was having trouble breathing and he opened his mouth to drag in more air. All the while her words continued, quietly inexorable.

"The only way out of the pain is to go through it. To face what has to be faced - so that it ceases to have power over us, ceases to control us - and then we can begin to move on. If we refuse to face it then the pain will cripple us all of our lives and make it impossible to remember all of the wonderful things about our loved ones, all of the wonderful memories we have of them, that we want to remember, that we should remember. That we owe it to them to remember."

In the week that followed, her words continued to echo through his mind. Never, he thought, not since the days immediately following his parents' deaths, had he felt so confused, so lost, so filled with sorrow - for another - and fear and uncertainty on his own behalf.

Mrs. Viet's story had struck Daniel on so many levels he didn't know how to handle it. She had endured the unspeakable and survived. More than survived, she had overcome experiences that would have destroyed countless others, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically.

While lying in bed one night Daniel recalled her words about her supervisor, how the woman "wasn't strong." He had sensed then, at least to a degree, the strength of character in Mrs. Viet that so differentiated her from her supervisor. But now he had a much better understanding of how that character had been forged. Previously, he had thought she was unique, unlike anyone else he had ever met. Now he had a much better understanding of why.

But despite his preoccupation with Mrs. Viet's story, Daniel was embarrassed and angry with himself that his own tragedy still dominated his thoughts. Not going to college was insignificant, even meaningless, compared to what Mrs. Viet and millions of others had endured, compared to what countless people around the world were still enduring.

So he reminded himself night after night. He had no right to be so upset. Just because he wasn't going to college now didn't mean it was out of the question in the future. Mrs. Viet was right. His grades were good. He had done everything required and more. Eventually, he would make it to college. Education delayed was utterly inconsequential when compared to enduring the Holocaust.

Daniel knew that. And he continued to scold himself each time he had to remind himself of that truth. But still, every night, as he tossed and turned in his bed, disappointment and despair would well up again from the recesses into which Daniel tried to shove them every day, until they filled him full with the knowledge that the future he wanted more than anything else might not be attainable after all.

So much chaotic emotion filled him, day and night, that Daniel couldn't see anything beyond it. He was still overwhelmed by the thought of what Mrs. Viet had endured, as well as angry and disappointed with himself that he could not keep a sense of perspective about his own little setback.

In the midst of Daniel's confusion and dark misery, Mrs. Viet was the only positive constancy. As he knew from previous experience, her sharp eyes missed very little. And he had no doubt that she recognized his feelings of wretchedness and failure. All the more unforgivable now that he knew her story.

Yet Mrs. Viet continued to support and encourage him, refused to allow him to hide in his room so that he could lick his wounds in lonely isolation. And never, not by a single glance or word, did she ever indicate that she was disappointed in his attitude or his struggle. Which, on those rare occasions when Daniel thought about it, made him feel even worse. She had suffered the Nazis and the obliteration of her entire life, yet she had survived to re-build not only her life but, in the process, help make life better for many others.

He didn't deserve her support. But despite his continuing despair, Daniel knew better than to give voice to that sentiment. Mrs. Viet's probable response to that statement was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Eight days after the one-two punch of UCLA's rejection and Mrs. Viet's revelations of her past, after yet another restless night of little sleep, Daniel dragged himself out of bed, made himself - at least outwardly - presentable for humanity's view, and headed reluctantly for the house and breakfast.

"Good morning, young Daniel," Mrs. Viet said as she turned around, two large glasses of orange juice in hand.

As usual, she was bright and chipper during a time of day that most people were sleepwalking through. He managed to murmur something as he entered the kitchen.

"You like waffles, don't you? Of course you do. Everyone does." Mrs. Viet gestured. "Sit. Eat. I have something to tell you."

Daniel obeyed, waiting until she sat down before he picked up his fork. Her eyebrows rose as she looked at him.

"Do you want your breakfast to get cold? Eat!"

"You, too," he said, trying to smile. He felt guilty for the dark cloud that continued to hang over him despite all the stern lectures he had given himself. On one level he knew the waffles would be delicious. But on another he knew they were going to taste like sawdust, just like everything else he'd eaten this past week. However, he also knew what he could expect from Mrs. Viet if he said he wasn't hungry. So he reached for the maple syrup.

"I am eating, see?" She swallowed a bite before reaching for her coffee cup. "How many more weeks until graduation? Five?"

"Four," Daniel said. Nausea stirred at the thought and he set his fork down. He knew Mrs. Viet was still watching him but refused to meet her gaze while he took a long drink of his orange juice.

"And then - " the excitement in her voice raised his eyes to her. "On to college."

Shock and pain raised Daniel's eyes to her. Why was she doing this? Why was she rubbing his nose in it?

"No," he said, trying to swallow despite his aching throat. "I told you - "

"You're getting a scholarship."

" - that I was rejected . . ." the rest of his bitter thought tumbled out before he heard what she was saying. He stared at her in disbelief and she nodded vigorously, smiling from ear to ear.

"You heard correctly, young Daniel. You should be receiving the official notification in the mail this next week."

What was she saying? A scholarship? But it was too late. All the deadlines had passed.

"It . . . it must be a mistake."

"No," she shook her head. "As I understand it, the scholarship is being awarded to you in part for the translations of Phoenician poetry that you did last year. 'Ground-breaking stuff', I was told by the Chairman of the committee who made the decision."

His translations of Phoenician poetry . . . of course he remembered. It had begun as a challenge posed by Ancient Archeology magazine two years ago. It had taken him a year to figure out the final translations but, as he discovered later, no one else had even come close. The day his work had been published in the magazine had been one of the proudest of his life, albeit one of the loneliest, because he'd had no one to celebrate with.

He remembered all the effort he'd put into those translations, all the hard work, the late hours, the unending fascination of trying to bring to life a long-dead language. And along with the memories, a flush of warmth began to move through him, slowly burning away all the fears and doubts and uncertainties that had dominated him for more than a week.

Daniel looked at the elderly woman across the table, wanting desperately to believe but still afraid. "You're sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." She rustled her napkin indignantly. "I told you, I talked to the Chairman himself."

"But how . . . when . . . I mean, why now - " Daniel's confused thoughts suddenly slammed up against her bright smile and he knew, and he reproved himself for his slowness.

"It was you," he said with certainty.

"What was?" Mrs. Viet demanded, eyes wide with innocence.

"You talked to someone, pulled some strings, did something - "

"Daniel, stop." Her smile had disappeared and her intense dark eyes held him captive. "Your application should not have been rejected in the first place. That was the fault of the system, of people dropping the ball. All I did was throw the ball back up in the air so that the correct decision could be made. It was your own hard work that won you that scholarship. And I don't want to hear any um's, but's or what-if's, understand?"

"But - " he stopped, blushing, and she laughed.

"So," she rushed on. "You're going to study archeology, yes?"

Daniel blinked. After spending the last miserable week thinking his future was lost to him, he was having a hard time re-adjusting his focus. But thanks to Mrs. Viet he had his future back. He was going to college, he was going to UCLA and -

His growing excitement faded a bit. He was going to UCLA. And?

"I - I'm not sure," he stammered. "I think . . . maybe I'll just stick with philology."

She sat back in her chair, her forehead creasing. "Philology," she said slowly, as if tasting the word. "Study of . . . something . . . words?"

Daniel managed a smile. "You know Greek, too."

"Just a little bit," Mrs. Viet smiled in return. "So tell me, how does philology differ from linguistics?"

"Linguistics is the scientific study of language," he explained, "while philology covers a broader area. It includes linguistics but it's also concerned with the humanistic study of language and literature. Language is studied both scientifically and philosophically."

Her eyebrows rose. "Philosophically?"

"Yes," he said with growing enthusiasm. "Philology investigates the laws of human speech, the relation of different tongues to one another, and the historical development of languages. It's much more involved than simple linguistics."

She was smiling again. "Thank you for the explanation. I can certainly understand your interest. But I thought you were going into archeology?"

Daniel stared determinedly at his uneaten waffles. For some reason, it was easier to talk if he didn't look at her.

"Actually, it was never that certain. I mean, I like archeology but I also like philology. And anthropology, too. I've been debating between the three and I just think . . . I mean, especially if this scholarship is partly because of my translations of Phoenician poetry, it would make more sense if I majored in philology - "

"Daniel."

He winced but there was no escaping that firm tone, or the unblinking stare that he knew was being directed at him. Reluctantly, he raised his head and, sure enough, Mrs. Viet's dark eyes were fixed on him. But instead of irritation he saw only gentleness in her expression.

"Don't try to baffle me with words, my young linguist. Or philologist. Or whatever. I want the truth, please."

Daniel might have been able to withstand her concerned gaze, but the 'please' did him in. After all that she had done for him, she certainly had the right to demand. But she didn't. She only requested.

He had to swallow several times and in the end lower his gaze again before he could answer. "I'm not sure I want to become part of a profession that killed my parents."

"Ahh." It was more an exhaled breath than spoken word and it carried a wealth of understanding.

Daniel waited, fits clenched in his lap, shoulders hunched protectively. But once again she took him by surprise.

"You know my story, Daniel. Do you believe I should hate or otherwise hold accountable the German people of today for what Hitler and the Germany of fifty years ago did to me and my people, not to mention the rest of the world?"

Daniel's head jerked up and he looked at her with startled eyes. "Wh - why, no, of course not. What happened fifty years ago isn't their fault."

She nodded. "That's right. Do you believe that American Indians should hate or otherwise hold accountable the Americans of today for all the wrong done to Indians by European settlers back in the first few centuries of this country's existence?"

He shook his head again, this time warily. She was going somewhere with this, he knew it.

Mrs. Viet nodded again and held up a forefinger. "This isn't a perfect analogy, but I'm trying to make a point here. Do you hate or otherwise hold accountable for your parents' deaths any archeologists who may have encouraged your parents to go into archeology?"

Daniel's heart turned over. He worked so hard not to dwell on his tragedy it always caught him painfully unaware when someone else brought it up.

"N - no," he managed. "It was . . . it was an . . ."

"An accident," she finished gently. "A terrible accident. The past is always important, Daniel. Otherwise we wouldn't know how we got to where we are today. But we can't make the present responsible for the past, except if the present forgets and as a result repeats the mistakes of the past." Mrs. Viet wrinkled her nose.

"Definitely not a perfect analogy," she repeated, "but let me see if I can make sense of my convoluted thoughts. Archeology is a science, not an individual. Say that someone used archeology to commit a crime. That makes them a criminal, but archeology itself is not a criminal. Taken as a whole, it's a tool, an amazing tool to help us uncover and explore the past. Your parents loved it, didn't they?"

"Yes," he whispered, forcing the word from his aching throat. He didn't know when it had happened but she was holding his hand again and now squeezed it gently.

"We can't allow the past to hold us prisoner," she said softly. "We can't allow it to distort our thoughts or keep us from living the lives we are meant to live. If you truly want to major in philology at UCLA, then you should do just that. But if in your heart you would prefer to major in archeology, then please, young Daniel, do so. After all, philology and anthropology will always be there to study later."

She eyed him for another long, intense minute, then suddenly her expression softened into a smile. "It's your choice, of course. I ask only that it truly be your choice."

We can't allow the past to hold us prisoner. Mrs. Viet had something similar the night she had told Daniel about her experience in the Holocaust. Then he remembered. She had talked about the necessity of facing the pain in one's life in order to overcome it and move on . . .

Daniel took a deep, shaky breath, aware of the faint trembling that gripped his body. How did she do it? How did she always seem to know the right words? How could someone he'd only met two months ago know him so well?

He had no idea. But right now, as he sat in the little kitchen, very aware of the quiet figure sitting across the table from him, Daniel was grateful beyond words that their paths had crossed.

"Maybe," he said tentatively, "I'll major in all three."

She laughed and patted his arm, eyes bright with approval. "I am sure, young Daniel, that whatever you chose to do will be the right thing for you."

Eight weeks later Daniel stood outside the bus station, waiting for the bus that was going to take him across the country to begin his new life.

"Finally!" Mrs. Viet exclaimed behind him and he turned to see her hurrying toward him. "The parking around here, oy!" She rolled her eyes and shook her head simultaneously, and Daniel smiled at the sight of her white hair waving around her head.

"Did you get your ticket?" she continued as she reached his side.

Daniel held it up for her to see and she pulled it out of his grasp.

"Mrs. Viet," he started but she shook the ticket at him.

"I'm sure it's right but for my own piece of mind, allow an old woman to double check."

He smiled ruefully, thinking it would be easier to stop a hurricane in its tracks than this woman. So he waited while she carefully perused the ticket, finally handing it back to him.

"I know you're going to be sixteen in a few days but I don't like you traveling across the country alone."

"I'm going to be with a whole bus-full of people, Mrs. Viet," Daniel reminded her.

"Yes, yes," she said impatiently, "but I still don't like it."

He couldn't restrain his grin so he didn't try. Much better to focus on laughter than the thought of his imminent departure.

Daniel had looked forward to this day for eight years but now that it was at hand, he was feeling nervous and uncertain. And he dreaded the thought of saying goodbye to this woman who had taken him in and made him feel as if he belonged in her home.

When the moment had come four weeks ago for him to walk across the auditorium stage to receive his high school diploma, Daniel had been dumbfounded by the sight of Mrs. Viet standing up in the midst of all the parents and friends of the other students and clapping jubilantly. There had been so much pride and exultation in that solitary applause that tears had sprung to Daniel's eyes.

He had, albeit shyly and stammering over every word, invited her to attend his graduation, but he had not allowed himself to believe she would really turn up. The fact that she had come, that she had chosen to be there to celebrate this hugely significant event in his life, had overwhelmed him. Even now, weeks later, he dared not dwell too long over the memory for fear of more tears.

"Daniel!" she suddenly exclaimed. "What about your luggage?"

"They're right there," he pointed at the two brand-new, navy blue pieces of luggage Mrs. Viet had surprised him with as a graduation present, currently sitting by the steps.

"Who's supposed to load them onto your bus? Wait here, I'll check inside."

"Mrs. Viet - " he started, then sighed in resignation as he watched her power-walk into the bus station. Daniel had no doubt that the employees of the bus company were in for a thorough going-over before that redoubtable woman was done. Shaking his head in amusement, he looked back at his new suitcases, feeling a now-familiar warmth spreading through him at the sight.

Four weeks since graduation. He had been so focused on the thought of graduation that he hadn't thought about what would come after that event, what would fill his days until he arrived at UCLA.

After the first excitement of graduation had passed, the thought had belatedly occurred to Daniel. Only after he had hesitatingly raised the issue with Mrs. Viet did she address his situation.

"Technically, young Daniel, you will still be under the authority and guidance of Social Services." Her dark eyes were observing him closely and he knew she caught his inadvertent wince.

"However," she continued, "I have made some calls to Los Angeles and your case worker will be Sophia Carli. We used to work together many years ago before she married and moved out to California." Mrs. Viet patted his shoulder.

"It's going to be all right, Daniel. She's a good person and she'll do everything she can to make the transition easier for you."

For a moment he couldn't speak. Mrs. Viet was still looking ahead, much further than he had done, and she was doing it for him. He didn't care how nice or experienced the case worker in California was. She would never be able to fill Mrs. Viet's shoes.

"Thank you," he finally managed, fighting back emotion.

Yet again, Mrs. Viet surprised him. She gave him a grin and a slap on the arm. "Don't thank me yet. I have ulterior motives for keeping you here until it's time for you to go to California."

"Ulterior motives?" Daniel repeated uncertainly.

"Wait til you see!" she crowed.

Mrs. Viet revealed her ulterior motives the next day. With mandatory retirement only months away, she had decided it was time to begin sorting through and packing up more than three decades worth of belongings. A surprised but willing Daniel was shanghaied into providing assistance in the packing-up part of her plan. He was especially delighted when she asked him to work on the books, beginning with those in his room over the garage.

Although Daniel had read scores of the books during his time at Mrs. Viet's, he was all too aware that he hadn't even begun to scratch the surface of her 'library home'. So, despite his best intentions, his packing went slowly because he kept encountering intriguing-looking volumes he couldn't resist dipping into.

On one occasion, Mrs. Viet walked in while he was sitting cross-legged on the floor, perusing an Italian translation of Machiavelli's The Prince. Daniel winced when he saw her, expecting that she would be upset with him. Instead she laughed, dropped down to the floor beside him, and immediately engaged him in a lively debate over the pros and cons of the book's philosophy.

But in spite of these enjoyable delays, the packing continued. As bare spots began to replace furniture, books, pictures and various knick-knacks around the house, Daniel couldn't help wondering how Mrs. Viet was really feeling about all this. Yes, she was going to be joining one of her children in doing work that she was looking forward to. But to do that, she had to break up the home she and her family had lived in for more than thirty years. It couldn't be easy, regardless of her bright spirit.

One night he walked into the house to find her looking through the same photograph album she had showed him that first night he had come to stay with her - for just the weekend, so he had thought back then. Daniel was immediately troubled by the sight of her suspiciously reddened eyes.

"Are you all right?" he said anxiously.

Her smile seemed genuine and she patted the cushion beside her. When he sat down she gave his knee a quick pat.

"I am fine, young Daniel. I just need to come to grips with a lifetime of memories and that takes a while."

"It must be difficult," he said hesitantly.

"What?"

"Packing everything up. Getting ready to leave your home after you've been here so long."

Mrs. Viet nodded. "Difficult, emotional, slightly nerve-wracking, but exciting when I consider what is to come." She cocked her head slightly as she looked at him. "And I suspect that you know exactly what I mean."

Daniel dropped his eyes, afraid to meet that knowing gaze. His memories of his time here only covered four months, but they were among the best four months of his life. And beyond that were eight years that he would prefer to forget, though he knew he never would. And beyond that period were eight years that he would always hold close to his heart.

He had moved so many times in the last eight years that he couldn't understand why this move felt so momentous. Well, yes, he understood in one sense. He had graduated from high school. He was finally about to begin college, which would necessitate a cross-country bus ride. Those were momentous events. But he couldn't escape the feeling that something more was involved this time. He just didn't know what.

For a moment, Daniel feared that Mrs. Viet might ask questions that he was not prepared to answer. But instead she gave him another pat and closed the photograph album firmly.

"Enough lollygagging," she pronounced. "Work's a'waiting."

Daniel grinned and rose. "Back to packing," he agreed.

Mrs. Viet threw him an impish grin. "Back to sneaking a few more peeks through irresistible books."

Standing outside the bus station now, he smiled at the memory. Despite all the distractions they had gotten an amazing amount done in the last month. Much still remained to be done but, as Mrs. Viet reminded him when he was fretting about it last night, she still had several months in which to complete everything.

"Unbelievable!"

Daniel jumped and turned to see Mrs. Viet marching down the stairs, her features set in grim lines.

"They say the bus is going to be fifteen minutes late," she announced with a shake of her head. "That's no way to run a bus line."

He grinned. "And I'm sure whoever's in charge has now been advised of that."

Her dark eyes slanted in his direction then a reluctant grin broke through her annoyed expression. "I did explain my feelings to the supervisor," she said in an unusually demure tone.

Daniel laughed and after a moment Mrs. Viet joined in. When they quieted she was still watching him, an approving light in her eyes.

"Laughter makes every journey a little easier, especially when we're just starting out."

Though he knew it wasn't her intention, her not-so-oblique reference to his fast-approaching departure snuffed out his amusement and left him standing awkwardly, shifting from one foot to another.

"If I were in your shoes," she continued, as if oblivious, "I'd be feeling a little nervous right about now."

A little nervous? If the butterflies in his stomach stirred any more vigorously, Daniel expected that they would fly him right into the air. He thought he had been hiding it pretty well. Meeting those wise old eyes made him realize how silly such a thought really was.

He managed a slightly sheepish grin which she returned.

"You know," she said, "there is a line in the Talmud about beginnings that Jacob liked to quote." Her eyes were serious though she was still smiling. "'All beginnings are difficult.' And it's true. Good or bad, it doesn't matter. They are all difficult. This is everyone's experience. If you accept that and let it happen while you continue to move forward, you will discover that beginnings eventually end and become part of life. Which isn't so bad, heh?"

Daniel was beginning something brand-new, something he thought - he hoped - would be wonderful. Nonetheless, he was scared. There, he'd finally admitted it to himself. And in her own inimitable way she had gone right to the heart of his concern and given him a way to make sense of it.

She was right, he realized. All beginnings are difficult. Recognizing that, recognizing the truth of her words about new beginnings eventually becoming part of one's life, he found himself able to take a deep breath for the first time since he had awakened this morning.

"You always know the right thing to say," he said softly, wonderingly.

Mrs. Viet's smile widened. "Oh, I don't know about that. My mouth gets me into trouble quite often."

"I haven't seen that."

"Your memory is too kind," she said with unexpected tenderness. When he swallowed and looked away, she went on more light-heartedly. "The truth is, I've just lived a long time and tried to pay attention to what life was teaching me." She smacked herself on the head. "Oy, doesn't that sound pompous."

Daniel shook his head, suddenly shy. "Not pompous," he demurred. "True."

"Thank you," she said solemnly, but the smile quivering around her lips gave her away. Suddenly her eyes widened as she gazed over his shoulder.

"So!" she exclaimed, obviously pleased. "Not late after all!"

Daniel turned around and started laughing again. The sight of the big bus rumbling slowly toward them was proof of everything he had come to think about the irresistible force that was Mrs. Viet. He turned quickly back to see her give a satisfied nod.

"Better," she proclaimed.

"I'll bet the poor supervisor is still quaking in his shoes," he said, still grinning.

Her nose wrinkled. "He got no more than he deserved. Oh, wait." She pulled the voluminous bag that served as her purse against her stomach and began rummaging inside.

"Ah-hah," she declared.

Daniel had watched curiously during her brief excavation. As she removed her hand he noticed she was holding something . . . something small and squared. A box. Wrapped in heavy paper with the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY scrawled across it in a multitude of neon colors and sporting a tie-dyed silk bow.

"Happy birthday to you," she sang as she held out the little present, "happy birthday to you . . ."

Daniel spared a moment to wish the ground would open up and swallow him, though he knew his wish would go ungranted. But simultaneously he could feel, along with the blush that he knew was turning his face fire-engine red, a surge of warmth spreading through him. Along with shock and delight came the thought - why am I surprised?

He waited until she had finished the song before saying weakly, "Mrs. Viet, you shouldn't - "

"Ah!" she interrupted with an imperious wave of her free hand. "Don't you dare start."

"But it's not even my birthday," he protested.

"Oh, please," she sniffed. "Don't give me that pitiful excuse. It will be your birthday in three days and since I won't be in Los Angeles you'll just have to accept this now. Now smile and say thank you."

"Thank you," he repeated dutifully.

"You're welcome," she said, shoving the gift into his chest.

Daniel caught it and looked at the package closely but it offered no hint of what was inside. Curiosity and excitement began to stir and he looked back to Mrs. Viet.

"Is it all right if I, um . . ."

"You're supposed to open it now," she clarified.

"Oh, okay." Daniel carefully slid a finger inside the tape and began to carefully ease it free.

"Daniel, this is not an ancient vase," she scolded. "Will you please open the blasted thing before I die of old age?"

"Sorry," he grinned, before grasping an edge of the wrapping paper and ripping it with abandon.

"Much better," Daniel heard as he continued his assault until the paper was gone and he was looking at a plain white box. Curious, he turned it over and then around but there were no markings.

"Daniel," Mrs. Viet said again, in an ultra-patient tone, "the box is not the present. You need to open it to find the present."

He grinned and lifted the top of the box away . . . to find yet another box beneath it, this one black. When he turned it over he found, in small gold print, the word "TIMEX" printed neatly. Daniel raised wondering eyes to the elderly woman watching.

"What did you - "

"You haven't opened it yet," she interrupted, abandoning patience for impatience.

Daniel recognized that tone and without another word he opened this last box, to find nestled inside a slim, gold wristwatch. Gently he brushed his fingers over the metal, marveling at the quality.

"It's . . . it's beautiful," he said softly. "But Mrs. Viet, you already got me the luggage. This is so, I mean - "

"Ah!" she interrupted with a snap. "I don't want to hear it. You need a new watch so you won't be late for your classes. Here."

Before he realized what was happening she was unbuckling his old watch from his wrist and then waving it in front of his face.

"This poor old thing should have been put out of its misery ages ago. Now, do you want to do the honors or do I have to - "

As she spoke, she was reaching for the box in his hand. Daniel took a quick step back. "No! I mean, thank you. I can do it."

Suiting actions to his words, Daniel quickly slipped the new watch over his hand and settled it on his wrist. He stared at it for a long minute before daring to look back at the elderly woman.

"Thank you," he said, a bit hoarsely.

"You're welcome. Now, one last thing."

Still stunned, Daniel watched as she scrabbled furiously in the depths of her bag. "Every time I want something," she grumbled, "it always has to be at the bottom. Ah-hah!"

Yet another small square box emerged, though this one was bigger than the one containing his new watch. Mrs. Viet carefully opened the top herself and Daniel saw a cupcake sitting inside, topped with chocolate frosting and a single yellow candle.

"I wanted to surprise you with a whole cake," she said regretfully, "but I couldn't figure out how to hide it from you. Not to mention how on earth you were going to carry it on a bus for the next three days. So I'm afraid this is the best I could do."

He stared at the little cupcake, blinking rapidly when his vision blurred, trying to stem the hot flow of tears.

"I, uh . . ." Hearing the shakiness in his voice Daniel shut up and concentrated on regaining control. A few minutes passed before he thought it was safe to speak again.

"I don't know how to say thank you,"

Mrs. Viet beamed. "You just did a fine job of it. You're welcome. Now you have to blow out the candle." She dived once more into the depths of her bag and re-emerged holding a book of matches. One quick flick of a match and the small yellow candle burned merrily.

"Now," she said with raised eyebrows, "make a wish, then you can blow it out."

His wish came immediately to mind and he blew out the candle with a quick puff of air.

"Yes!" Mrs. Viet declared with a broad smile. "Now your wish will come true in one year."

Daniel hoped that she was correct. He noticed people beginning to move toward the bus now stopped just a few yards away and his heart suddenly beat like a trip hammer at the realization that it was almost time.

"Wait, wait. I have one very last thing," she said. This time she left her bag alone and reached into the pocket of her jacket, slung over one arm. "Here," she said, handing him a neatly folded piece of paper.

Daniel looked at it then back to her, uncertain if he should open it.

"My address and telephone number for the next six months," Mrs. Viet informed him. "Also my daughter Rachel's address and telephone number for after that. If you should ever have the urge to pick up the phone or write a letter, well . . ." she paused to clear her throat before continuing. "I would be happy to hear from you, hear how things are going with you or whatever else you wish to pass along. If you would prefer not to, of course, that's your choice. If so, I promise I won't be offended."

He had never heard Mrs. Viet sound so tentative and his heart swelled with emotion. It was his turn to clear his throat, then he said, "I'd like that. Thank you. And I'd like to hear how well Chicago survives two members of the Viet family."

Her harsh laughter startled a few birds hopping along the ground, who abandoned their search for crumbs for the safety of flight.

"I will be pleased to provide you with all the dark details, young Daniel. Of that you can be sure."

Daniel saw the bus driver coming out from behind the station and knew their time was almost up. That knowledge and simple curiosity made him blurt out a question he had been holding in for four months.

"Mrs. Viet, why do you call me 'young' Daniel?"

Her eyes widened, then softened. "When I was a little girl living with my family in Berlin, there was a large picture hanging in the hall of the prophet Daniel when he was young, facing the lions in their den. According to the story, everyone expected him to be eaten but Daniel was ultimately victorious against not only the lions but those who wished him ill. You remind me of the young man in that picture."

As she looked at him, Daniel had the sudden uncomfortable feeling that she was seeing something other than an uncomfortable, almost-sixteen-year. But her next words still surprised him.

"Believe in yourself, young Daniel. I know that's a lot to ask right now but I hope that you will one day learn to do that, just as I believe in you now."

More rapid blinking and clearing of throats came from both parties. Finally, Daniel took a deep breath and nodded. He couldn't help voicing one last, lingering concern.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right packing up the house? There's still so much to do."

Her smile flashed brightly. "I will be quite all right, thank you. I have plenty of friends who will help. And this will give me time to do a lot of clearing out." Her expression changed, startling Daniel, and he wondered as her eyes darkened. "This will be a good time to get rid of things I've been hanging onto, just for sentimental reasons."

He hesitated, sensing danger, but once again his curiosity forced the issue. "Can I ask what things?"

When she glanced at him this time her eyes were hooded and her expression noncommittal. "I was just thinking of the mezuzah Jacob put up when we moved into that house. He's been gone for three years yet it still hangs there for no good reason. I've become a silly, sentimental old woman. Well." Mrs. Viet straightened, her jaw firming. "I'd say it was long past time to let go of the past."

Daniel swallowed as he studied her expression. He had watched Mrs. Viet pass by the mezuzah several times during his time with her and never had she done so without pausing to acknowledge it, even if unconsciously.

She had given him so much. Did he had the nerve to try to give something back?

"Maybe," he said, "you believe more than you want to admit to yourself."

Mrs. Viet stared at him with wide eyes that immediately narrowed. "You think so, do you?"

"I didn't say I thought so," Daniel backpedaled rapidly. "I just said 'maybe'. Maybe it wasn't just sentiment that made you leave it on your doorpost all this time."

"Oh, well. 'Maybe'," she drew the word out as if it tasted unpleasant. "That's a whole different story." She glared at him for a moment longer before her gaze shifted, turning inward.

Daniel waited, not daring to move, hoping she couldn't hear his pounding heart, hoping she wouldn't be angry at his presumption. Hoping, above all else, that he hadn't just destroyed a friendship that had taken a long time for him to accept.

Finally her gaze re-focused on Daniel and to his relief she had stopped glaring. Even better, he noticed a small smile playing about her lips.

"Leave it to you, young Daniel. Turning things upside down again. I will think about what you said." Her eyes narrowed into that fierce gaze that had intimidated him in the beginning.

"No promises, you understand."

Daniel smiled. "I understand."

From behind them a business-like voice boomed, "Bus 168, cross-country to Los Angeles and points in-between, leaving in three minutes. All passengers need to board now."

Without warning she enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug . . . that went on for a long time, although Daniel didn't mind. For the first time in eight years he felt surrounded by love and the realization made his eyes sting. When she finally released him, her own eyes were moist but sparkling with mischief.

"I've been wanting to do that for four months," she said.

Surprise escaped him in a huff of laughter that was quickly taken up by Mrs. Viet. Then she gripped his shoulders and said softly, "Be well, young Daniel. That is my wish for you, that all may be well with you."

Daniel gradually returned to the present to realize that the side of his face was aching from being pressed against the window. He sat up and worked his jaw for a moment before taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.

Three long, interminable, days, sitting in a bus as it made its way across the country, had left him feeling like an aging pretzel, a feeling not much helped by the occasional brief stop along the way.

But the cross-country ride was coming to an end. In less than an hour, Daniel would arrive at his destination to begin his life all over again.

He glanced down at the picture in his hands and smiled sadly. He wished, how he wished, his parents could have been at his graduation, could have seen him off to college. But since they hadn't been able to, he was grateful Mrs. Viet had been there.

She had given him so much over the past four months but Daniel wondered if Mrs. Viet knew the greatest gift she had given him.

"The only way out of the pain is to go through it . . ."

For so many years he had been unwilling to remember his life with his parents because his memories had been tainted by the pain surrounding their deaths. So he had resisted remembering in an effort to avoid that pain.

"The only way out of the pain is to go through it . . ."

Those were hard words and, Daniel suspected, even harder to live. But she had given him the key to regaining his parents. Although he feared doing it, thanks to Mrs. Viet he now recognized the necessity of facing what had happened to them eight years ago. It wasn't going to be easy and he was sure it wasn't going to happen overnight, but Daniel thought that maybe, some day - when he was brave enough to do it -

One day, he hoped, he would be able to face his pain and loss and, in facing it, would discover that it no longer had power over him. And then he would be able to remember his parents with all the love and joy that their lives warranted.

One day, he mused. Maybe he could begin soon. Maybe . . .

His eyes dropped to the new watch on his wrist and he rubbed a finger over the bright metal. Beneath his hand he heard a faint crackling and reached inside his jacket pocket to find the paper that Mrs. Viet had given him.

He hadn't even opened it, Daniel realized. Smiling to himself, he unfolded the paper to find Mrs. Viet's neat handwriting providing him with the addresses and telephone numbers she had told him about. He was glad she had given it to him because he really didn't want to lose touch with the old woman who was, in fact, one of the youngest and liveliest people he had ever known.

Daniel smiled as he recalled his last sight of her. As the bus pulled out of the station she was still waving vigorously, her ear-to-ear grin sending him on his way.

He owed her so much, not the least of which had been allowing him to experience a sense of 'home' such as he had not felt for eight years.

Daniel's rambling thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Suddenly he felt as if every nerve ending was on fire. Trembling, uncomprehending, he looked down again at the paper Mrs. Viet had given him, realizing for the first time that it was covering the picture of his parents.

What?

No!

His fist closed convulsively over the page, crumpling it into an unwieldy ball that slipped out of nerveless fingers to fall to the floor.

What was he doing?

The only home he had ever known or wanted had been with his parents. How had he allowed this to happen, that he could so easily replace them with someone else? Someone who, however wonderful, was not his parent and could never take their place.

Daniel's eyes burned and he turned his head toward the window so that no one would notice. What had he done?

A child's laughter intruded on his bitter self-recrimination. He didn't need to open his eyes to recognize where it came from. The five-year-old girl and her mother had gotten on the bus in Albuquerque. From their excited chatter, Daniel had deduced that they were going to a relative's in Los Angeles for a surprise birthday.

People had been getting on and off of the bus for the last three days as it made its way across the country. Daniel had lost count of how many happy reunions he had seen through the bus window. Each time he had felt an ache deep inside his heart, along with another stab of loneliness.

There would be no one to greet him when he arrived.

Anger suddenly surged through him, dislodging his misery. Stop it, Jackson, he thought fiercely. He had gotten along just fine for the last eight years, keeping himself to himself. He was going to be just fine at UCLA doing the same thing. It was safer that way, after all.

"We can't allow the past to hold us prisoner . . . We can't allow it to distort our thoughts or keep us from living the lives we are meant to live."

Mrs. Viet's words suddenly rang so loudly in his mind that Daniel jumped in his seat, looking around for her despite the fact that he knew better.

He rubbed his face hard, ignoring the fact that he was also rubbing away a few traitorous tears. Was he being disloyal to his parents, identifying Mrs. Viet with a long-missing sense of 'home'? He didn't mean to be. He loved his parents. He would always love them. He just didn't know how his love for them fit into his life anymore.

What would Mrs. Viet say if he had voiced such concerns to her?

In his mind's eye he suddenly saw her standing in the garage, hands on hips as she glared at a recalcitrant mower. Unexpected laughter bubbled up, washing away his distress and pain in a great, cleansing wave. He quickly clapped a hand over his mouth to keep the laughter from escaping. That wonderful, compelling force of nature that was Mrs. Viet had already answered his question

"The only way out of the pain is to go through it. To face what has to be faced - so that it ceases to have power over us, ceases to control us - and then we can begin to move on. . . . to remember all of the wonderful things about our loved ones . . . that we want to remember . . . that we owe it to them to remember."

He had been so focused on the idea of needing to go through the pain that he had forgotten the freedom that waited at the end of that difficult journey. Not freedom from loving but freedom to love without the straightjacket of old pain and grief tainting the love.

Would his parents have felt betrayed or set aside by his affection - come on, Daniel, you can think it - by his love for Mrs. Viet?

Without warning a memory intruded on his thoughts, the memory of his mother's birthday in Egypt, just a week before they had traveled to New York. There had been much laughter in the camp as everyone celebrated, then the Jacksons had retired to their tent for a more private party. Though it was long past his usual bedtime, little Daniel had been allowed to remain up to share in the merriment. Melbourne and Claire Jackson had danced around the tent and their son to the strains of Louis Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, then Melbourne had caught up their son so that he and Claire could wrap their arms around each other, enveloping Daniel between them. And so the family Jackson had danced the night away, laughing and loving all the while.

Daniel rubbed his eyes, wondering that his mind had chosen to bring up that memory, unsurprised to feel tears on his face. He scrubbed them away with his shirt sleeve, amazed by the realization that, this time, pain hadn't overwhelmed the memory. Thanks to Mrs. Viet, he hadn't been dismayed this time when the old grief reared up. Almost unwittingly, he had permitted it while refusing to bow before its power. And this time, for the first time, the sweetness of the memory had proven stronger than the pain.

Despite his tears he felt himself smiling. Once again, Mrs. Viet had been proven right. The memory had reminded him of how much his parents had loved him. And he realized that they would be happy to know that love was still a part of his life.

Bending over, Daniel fumbled around on the floor until his searching fingers closed over a crumpled ball of paper. He straightened up again and carefully smoothed out the crumpled piece of paper, then folded it neatly into a small square that he stuck in his jacket pocket. He'd keep it, at least for now. After all, he could always throw it away later, if he really thought he needed to.

"Westwood, next stop!"

Daniel jerked upright at the driver's announcement. Instantly, he could feel butterflies fluttering vigorously in his stomach. As the bus slowed to turn into the station, Daniel looked at the picture of his parents again.

Disregarding the other passengers rising to file down the narrow aisle, he gently brushed his finger over the tiny celluloid faces. So softly that no one could possibly overhear, he whispered,

"I'll make you proud. I promise."

Then he carefully slid the picture inside his jacket pocket. He swallowed hard as he glanced around, wiped damp palms against his jeans, and stood up.

Squaring his shoulders, Daniel Jackson began the slow walk out of the bus and into his future.

END

Trivia Info - I didn't come up with the idea of Daniel's translations of Phoenician poetry winning him a scholarship to UCLA when he was 16, or of his interest in philology over linguistics. That's actually part of the SG canon. It comes out of the novelized version of the movie "Stargate," by Dean Devlin & Roland Emmerich, the two geniuses who originally created the Stargate universe. My undying gratitude to both of them!