MY WIFE ANITA and I walked wearily, as if in a trance, beneath the hanging yellow signs and brushed aluminum fixtures of Amsterdam’s Schiphol airport. Bleary eyed, looking ahead, silent. The call had come just after midnight on Monday. It was Orsolya, Anita’s sister, and as if she already knew, Anita cried out, “Anya!”
Their mother had died. After a brief stay in hospital, she had quietly passed in her sleep. She was 59 years old.