NCERT Textbook - The Address

 Page 1


2
The Address
 
Marga Minco
This short story is a poignant account of a daughter who goes in search of her 
mother’s belongings after the W ar, in Holland. When she finds them, the objects 
evoke memories of her earlier life. However, she decides to leave them all behind 
and resolves to move on.
‘Do you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. 
I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’
She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it opening 
any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring 
at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her 
only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had 
rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. 
She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons 
were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan 
and half hid herself again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.
‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come 
back.’
Chap 2.indd   9 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 2


2
The Address
 
Marga Minco
This short story is a poignant account of a daughter who goes in search of her 
mother’s belongings after the W ar, in Holland. When she finds them, the objects 
evoke memories of her earlier life. However, she decides to leave them all behind 
and resolves to move on.
‘Do you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. 
I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’
She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it opening 
any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring 
at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her 
only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had 
rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. 
She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons 
were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan 
and half hid herself again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.
‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come 
back.’
Chap 2.indd   9 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
10
‘Only me.’
A door opened and closed in the passage behind her. A musty smell 
emerged.
‘I regret I cannot do anything for you.’
‘I’ve come here specially on the train. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.’
‘It is not convenient for me now,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t see you. Another 
time.’
She nodded and cautiously closed the door as though no one inside the 
house should be disturbed.
I stood where I was on the step. The curtain in front of the bay window 
moved. Someone stared at me and would then have asked what I wanted. 
‘Oh, nothing,’ the woman would have said. ‘It was nothing.’
I looked at the name-plate again. Dorling it said, in black letters on white 
enamel. And on the jamb, a bit higher, the number. Number 46.
As I walked slowly back to the station I thought about my mother, who 
had given me the address years ago. It had been in the first half of the War. 
I was home for a few days and it struck me immediately that something or 
other about the rooms had changed. I missed various things. My mother 
was surprised I should have noticed so quickly. Then she told me about Mrs 
Dorling. I had never heard of her but apparently she was an old acquaintance 
of my mother, whom she hadn’t seen for years. She had suddenly turned up 
and renewed their contact. Since then she had come regularly.
‘Every time she leaves here she takes something home with her,’ said my 
mother. ‘She took all the table silver in one go. And then the antique plates 
that hung there. She had trouble lugging those large vases, and I’m worried 
she got a crick in her back from the crockery.’ My mother shook her head 
pityingly. ‘I would never have dared ask her. She suggested it to me herself. 
She even insisted. She wanted to save all my nice things. If we have to leave 
here we shall lose everything, she says.’
‘Have you agreed with her that she should keep everything?’ I asked.
‘As if that’s necessary,’ my mother cried. ‘It would simply be an insult to 
talk like that. And think about the risk she’s running, each time she goes 
out of our door with a full suitcase or bag.’
My mother seemed to notice that I was not entirely convinced. She looked 
at me reprovingly
 
and after that we spoke no more about it.
Meanwhile I had arrived at the station without having paid much attention 
to things on the way. I was walking in familiar places again for the first time 
since the War, but I did not want to go further than was necessary. I didn’t 
Chap 2.indd   10 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 3


2
The Address
 
Marga Minco
This short story is a poignant account of a daughter who goes in search of her 
mother’s belongings after the W ar, in Holland. When she finds them, the objects 
evoke memories of her earlier life. However, she decides to leave them all behind 
and resolves to move on.
‘Do you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. 
I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’
She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it opening 
any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring 
at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her 
only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had 
rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. 
She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons 
were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan 
and half hid herself again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.
‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come 
back.’
Chap 2.indd   9 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
10
‘Only me.’
A door opened and closed in the passage behind her. A musty smell 
emerged.
‘I regret I cannot do anything for you.’
‘I’ve come here specially on the train. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.’
‘It is not convenient for me now,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t see you. Another 
time.’
She nodded and cautiously closed the door as though no one inside the 
house should be disturbed.
I stood where I was on the step. The curtain in front of the bay window 
moved. Someone stared at me and would then have asked what I wanted. 
‘Oh, nothing,’ the woman would have said. ‘It was nothing.’
I looked at the name-plate again. Dorling it said, in black letters on white 
enamel. And on the jamb, a bit higher, the number. Number 46.
As I walked slowly back to the station I thought about my mother, who 
had given me the address years ago. It had been in the first half of the War. 
I was home for a few days and it struck me immediately that something or 
other about the rooms had changed. I missed various things. My mother 
was surprised I should have noticed so quickly. Then she told me about Mrs 
Dorling. I had never heard of her but apparently she was an old acquaintance 
of my mother, whom she hadn’t seen for years. She had suddenly turned up 
and renewed their contact. Since then she had come regularly.
‘Every time she leaves here she takes something home with her,’ said my 
mother. ‘She took all the table silver in one go. And then the antique plates 
that hung there. She had trouble lugging those large vases, and I’m worried 
she got a crick in her back from the crockery.’ My mother shook her head 
pityingly. ‘I would never have dared ask her. She suggested it to me herself. 
She even insisted. She wanted to save all my nice things. If we have to leave 
here we shall lose everything, she says.’
‘Have you agreed with her that she should keep everything?’ I asked.
‘As if that’s necessary,’ my mother cried. ‘It would simply be an insult to 
talk like that. And think about the risk she’s running, each time she goes 
out of our door with a full suitcase or bag.’
My mother seemed to notice that I was not entirely convinced. She looked 
at me reprovingly
 
and after that we spoke no more about it.
Meanwhile I had arrived at the station without having paid much attention 
to things on the way. I was walking in familiar places again for the first time 
since the War, but I did not want to go further than was necessary. I didn’t 
Chap 2.indd   10 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
The Address
11
want to upset myself with the sight of streets and houses full of memories 
from a precious time.
In the train back I saw Mrs Dorling in front of me again as I had the first 
time I met her. It was the morning after the day my mother had told me about 
her. I had got up late and, coming downstairs, I saw my mother about to see 
someone out. A woman with a broad back.
‘There is my daughter,’ said my mother. She beckoned to me.
The woman nodded and picked up the suitcase under the coat-rack. She 
wore a brown coat and a shapeless hat.
‘Does she live far away?’ I asked, seeing the difficulty she had going out 
of the house with the heavy case.
‘In Marconi Street,’ said my mother. ‘Number 46. Remember that.’
I had remembered it. But I had waited a long time to go there. Initially after 
the Liberation I was absolutely not interested in all that stored stuff, and 
naturally I was also rather afraid of it. Afraid of being confronted with things 
that had belonged to a connection that no longer existed; which were hidden 
away in cupboards and boxes and waiting in vain until they were put back 
in their place again; which had endured all those years because they were 
‘things.’
But gradually everything became more normal again. Bread was getting 
to be a lighter colour, there was a bed you could sleep in unthreatened, a 
room with a view you were more used to glancing at each day. And one day 
I noticed I was curious about all the possessions that must still be at that 
address. I wanted to see them, touch, remember.
After my first visit in vain to Mrs Dorling’s house I decided to try a second 
time. Now a girl of about fifteen opened the door to me. I asked her if her 
mother was at home.
‘No’ she said, ‘my mother’s doing an errand.’
‘No matter,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait for her.’
I followed the girl along the passage. An old-fashioned iron Hanukkah
1
 
candle-holder hung next to a mirror. We never used it because it was much 
more cumbersome than a single candlestick.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ asked the girl. She held open the door of the living-
room and I went inside past her.  I stopped, horrified. I was in a room I knew 
and did not know. I found myself in the midst of things I did want to see 
again but which oppressed me in the strange atmosphere. Or because of 
the tasteless way everything was arranged, because of the ugly furniture or 
the muggy smell that hung there, I don’t know; but I scarcely dared to look 
1
 the Feast of Lights, a Hebrew festival in December
Chap 2.indd   11 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 4


2
The Address
 
Marga Minco
This short story is a poignant account of a daughter who goes in search of her 
mother’s belongings after the W ar, in Holland. When she finds them, the objects 
evoke memories of her earlier life. However, she decides to leave them all behind 
and resolves to move on.
‘Do you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. 
I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’
She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it opening 
any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring 
at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her 
only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had 
rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. 
She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons 
were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan 
and half hid herself again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.
‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come 
back.’
Chap 2.indd   9 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
10
‘Only me.’
A door opened and closed in the passage behind her. A musty smell 
emerged.
‘I regret I cannot do anything for you.’
‘I’ve come here specially on the train. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.’
‘It is not convenient for me now,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t see you. Another 
time.’
She nodded and cautiously closed the door as though no one inside the 
house should be disturbed.
I stood where I was on the step. The curtain in front of the bay window 
moved. Someone stared at me and would then have asked what I wanted. 
‘Oh, nothing,’ the woman would have said. ‘It was nothing.’
I looked at the name-plate again. Dorling it said, in black letters on white 
enamel. And on the jamb, a bit higher, the number. Number 46.
As I walked slowly back to the station I thought about my mother, who 
had given me the address years ago. It had been in the first half of the War. 
I was home for a few days and it struck me immediately that something or 
other about the rooms had changed. I missed various things. My mother 
was surprised I should have noticed so quickly. Then she told me about Mrs 
Dorling. I had never heard of her but apparently she was an old acquaintance 
of my mother, whom she hadn’t seen for years. She had suddenly turned up 
and renewed their contact. Since then she had come regularly.
‘Every time she leaves here she takes something home with her,’ said my 
mother. ‘She took all the table silver in one go. And then the antique plates 
that hung there. She had trouble lugging those large vases, and I’m worried 
she got a crick in her back from the crockery.’ My mother shook her head 
pityingly. ‘I would never have dared ask her. She suggested it to me herself. 
She even insisted. She wanted to save all my nice things. If we have to leave 
here we shall lose everything, she says.’
‘Have you agreed with her that she should keep everything?’ I asked.
‘As if that’s necessary,’ my mother cried. ‘It would simply be an insult to 
talk like that. And think about the risk she’s running, each time she goes 
out of our door with a full suitcase or bag.’
My mother seemed to notice that I was not entirely convinced. She looked 
at me reprovingly
 
and after that we spoke no more about it.
Meanwhile I had arrived at the station without having paid much attention 
to things on the way. I was walking in familiar places again for the first time 
since the War, but I did not want to go further than was necessary. I didn’t 
Chap 2.indd   10 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
The Address
11
want to upset myself with the sight of streets and houses full of memories 
from a precious time.
In the train back I saw Mrs Dorling in front of me again as I had the first 
time I met her. It was the morning after the day my mother had told me about 
her. I had got up late and, coming downstairs, I saw my mother about to see 
someone out. A woman with a broad back.
‘There is my daughter,’ said my mother. She beckoned to me.
The woman nodded and picked up the suitcase under the coat-rack. She 
wore a brown coat and a shapeless hat.
‘Does she live far away?’ I asked, seeing the difficulty she had going out 
of the house with the heavy case.
‘In Marconi Street,’ said my mother. ‘Number 46. Remember that.’
I had remembered it. But I had waited a long time to go there. Initially after 
the Liberation I was absolutely not interested in all that stored stuff, and 
naturally I was also rather afraid of it. Afraid of being confronted with things 
that had belonged to a connection that no longer existed; which were hidden 
away in cupboards and boxes and waiting in vain until they were put back 
in their place again; which had endured all those years because they were 
‘things.’
But gradually everything became more normal again. Bread was getting 
to be a lighter colour, there was a bed you could sleep in unthreatened, a 
room with a view you were more used to glancing at each day. And one day 
I noticed I was curious about all the possessions that must still be at that 
address. I wanted to see them, touch, remember.
After my first visit in vain to Mrs Dorling’s house I decided to try a second 
time. Now a girl of about fifteen opened the door to me. I asked her if her 
mother was at home.
‘No’ she said, ‘my mother’s doing an errand.’
‘No matter,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait for her.’
I followed the girl along the passage. An old-fashioned iron Hanukkah
1
 
candle-holder hung next to a mirror. We never used it because it was much 
more cumbersome than a single candlestick.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ asked the girl. She held open the door of the living-
room and I went inside past her.  I stopped, horrified. I was in a room I knew 
and did not know. I found myself in the midst of things I did want to see 
again but which oppressed me in the strange atmosphere. Or because of 
the tasteless way everything was arranged, because of the ugly furniture or 
the muggy smell that hung there, I don’t know; but I scarcely dared to look 
1
 the Feast of Lights, a Hebrew festival in December
Chap 2.indd   11 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
12
around me. The girl moved a chair. I sat down and stared at the woollen 
table-cloth. I rubbed it. My fingers grew warm from rubbing. I followed the 
lines of the pattern. Somewhere on the edge there should be a burn mark 
that had never been repaired.
‘My mother’ll be back soon,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve already made tea for her. 
Will you have a cup?’
‘Thank you.’
I looked up. The girl put cups ready on the tea-table. She had a broad back. 
Just like her mother. She poured tea from a white pot. All it had was a gold 
border on the lid, I remembered. She opened a box and took some spoons out.
‘That’s a nice box.’ I heard my own voice. It was a strange voice. As though 
each sound was different in this room.
‘Oh, you know about them?’ She had turned round and brought me my 
tea. She laughed. ‘My mother says it is antique. We’ve got lots more.’ She 
pointed round the room. ‘See for yourself.’
I had no need to follow her hand. I knew which things she meant. I just 
looked at the still life over the tea-table. As a child I had always fancied the 
apple on the pewter plate.
‘We use it for everything,’ she said. ‘Once we even ate off the plates hanging 
there  on the wall. I wanted to so much. But it wasn’t anything special.’
I had found the burn mark on the table-cloth. The girl looked questioningly 
at me.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you get so used to touching all these lovely things in the 
house, you hardly look at them any more. You only notice when something is 
missing, because it has to be repaired or because you have lent it, for example.’
Again I heard the unnatural sound of my voice and I went on: ‘I remember 
my mother once asked me if I would help her polish the silver. It was a very 
long time ago and I was probably bored that day or perhaps I had to stay at 
home because I was ill, as she had never asked me before. I asked her which 
silver she meant and she replied, surprised, that it was the spoons, forks and 
knives, of course. And that was the strange thing, I didn’t know the cutlery 
we ate off every day was silver.’
The girl laughed again.
‘I bet you don’t know it is either.’ I looked intently at her.
‘What we eat with?’ she asked.
‘Well, do you know?’
She hesitated. She walked to the sideboard and wanted to open a drawer. 
‘I’ll look. It’s in here.’
Chap 2.indd   12 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
Page 5


2
The Address
 
Marga Minco
This short story is a poignant account of a daughter who goes in search of her 
mother’s belongings after the W ar, in Holland. When she finds them, the objects 
evoke memories of her earlier life. However, she decides to leave them all behind 
and resolves to move on.
‘Do you still know me?’ I asked.
The woman looked at me searchingly. She had opened the door a chink. 
I came closer and stood on the step.
‘No, I don’t know you.’
‘I’m Mrs S’s daughter.’
She held her hand on the door as though she wanted to prevent it opening 
any further. Her face gave absolutely no sign of recognition. She kept staring 
at me in silence.
Perhaps I was mistaken, I thought, perhaps it isn’t her. I had seen her 
only once, fleetingly, and that was years ago. It was most probable that I had 
rung the wrong bell. The woman let go of the door and stepped to the side. 
She was wearing my mother’s green knitted cardigan. The wooden buttons 
were rather pale from washing. She saw that I was looking at the cardigan 
and half hid herself again behind the door. But I knew now that I was right.
‘Well, you knew my mother?’ I asked.
‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had come 
back.’
Chap 2.indd   9 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
10
‘Only me.’
A door opened and closed in the passage behind her. A musty smell 
emerged.
‘I regret I cannot do anything for you.’
‘I’ve come here specially on the train. I wanted to talk to you for a moment.’
‘It is not convenient for me now,’ said the woman. ‘I can’t see you. Another 
time.’
She nodded and cautiously closed the door as though no one inside the 
house should be disturbed.
I stood where I was on the step. The curtain in front of the bay window 
moved. Someone stared at me and would then have asked what I wanted. 
‘Oh, nothing,’ the woman would have said. ‘It was nothing.’
I looked at the name-plate again. Dorling it said, in black letters on white 
enamel. And on the jamb, a bit higher, the number. Number 46.
As I walked slowly back to the station I thought about my mother, who 
had given me the address years ago. It had been in the first half of the War. 
I was home for a few days and it struck me immediately that something or 
other about the rooms had changed. I missed various things. My mother 
was surprised I should have noticed so quickly. Then she told me about Mrs 
Dorling. I had never heard of her but apparently she was an old acquaintance 
of my mother, whom she hadn’t seen for years. She had suddenly turned up 
and renewed their contact. Since then she had come regularly.
‘Every time she leaves here she takes something home with her,’ said my 
mother. ‘She took all the table silver in one go. And then the antique plates 
that hung there. She had trouble lugging those large vases, and I’m worried 
she got a crick in her back from the crockery.’ My mother shook her head 
pityingly. ‘I would never have dared ask her. She suggested it to me herself. 
She even insisted. She wanted to save all my nice things. If we have to leave 
here we shall lose everything, she says.’
‘Have you agreed with her that she should keep everything?’ I asked.
‘As if that’s necessary,’ my mother cried. ‘It would simply be an insult to 
talk like that. And think about the risk she’s running, each time she goes 
out of our door with a full suitcase or bag.’
My mother seemed to notice that I was not entirely convinced. She looked 
at me reprovingly
 
and after that we spoke no more about it.
Meanwhile I had arrived at the station without having paid much attention 
to things on the way. I was walking in familiar places again for the first time 
since the War, but I did not want to go further than was necessary. I didn’t 
Chap 2.indd   10 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
The Address
11
want to upset myself with the sight of streets and houses full of memories 
from a precious time.
In the train back I saw Mrs Dorling in front of me again as I had the first 
time I met her. It was the morning after the day my mother had told me about 
her. I had got up late and, coming downstairs, I saw my mother about to see 
someone out. A woman with a broad back.
‘There is my daughter,’ said my mother. She beckoned to me.
The woman nodded and picked up the suitcase under the coat-rack. She 
wore a brown coat and a shapeless hat.
‘Does she live far away?’ I asked, seeing the difficulty she had going out 
of the house with the heavy case.
‘In Marconi Street,’ said my mother. ‘Number 46. Remember that.’
I had remembered it. But I had waited a long time to go there. Initially after 
the Liberation I was absolutely not interested in all that stored stuff, and 
naturally I was also rather afraid of it. Afraid of being confronted with things 
that had belonged to a connection that no longer existed; which were hidden 
away in cupboards and boxes and waiting in vain until they were put back 
in their place again; which had endured all those years because they were 
‘things.’
But gradually everything became more normal again. Bread was getting 
to be a lighter colour, there was a bed you could sleep in unthreatened, a 
room with a view you were more used to glancing at each day. And one day 
I noticed I was curious about all the possessions that must still be at that 
address. I wanted to see them, touch, remember.
After my first visit in vain to Mrs Dorling’s house I decided to try a second 
time. Now a girl of about fifteen opened the door to me. I asked her if her 
mother was at home.
‘No’ she said, ‘my mother’s doing an errand.’
‘No matter,’ I said, ‘I’ll wait for her.’
I followed the girl along the passage. An old-fashioned iron Hanukkah
1
 
candle-holder hung next to a mirror. We never used it because it was much 
more cumbersome than a single candlestick.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ asked the girl. She held open the door of the living-
room and I went inside past her.  I stopped, horrified. I was in a room I knew 
and did not know. I found myself in the midst of things I did want to see 
again but which oppressed me in the strange atmosphere. Or because of 
the tasteless way everything was arranged, because of the ugly furniture or 
the muggy smell that hung there, I don’t know; but I scarcely dared to look 
1
 the Feast of Lights, a Hebrew festival in December
Chap 2.indd   11 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
 Snapshots
12
around me. The girl moved a chair. I sat down and stared at the woollen 
table-cloth. I rubbed it. My fingers grew warm from rubbing. I followed the 
lines of the pattern. Somewhere on the edge there should be a burn mark 
that had never been repaired.
‘My mother’ll be back soon,’ said the girl. ‘I’ve already made tea for her. 
Will you have a cup?’
‘Thank you.’
I looked up. The girl put cups ready on the tea-table. She had a broad back. 
Just like her mother. She poured tea from a white pot. All it had was a gold 
border on the lid, I remembered. She opened a box and took some spoons out.
‘That’s a nice box.’ I heard my own voice. It was a strange voice. As though 
each sound was different in this room.
‘Oh, you know about them?’ She had turned round and brought me my 
tea. She laughed. ‘My mother says it is antique. We’ve got lots more.’ She 
pointed round the room. ‘See for yourself.’
I had no need to follow her hand. I knew which things she meant. I just 
looked at the still life over the tea-table. As a child I had always fancied the 
apple on the pewter plate.
‘We use it for everything,’ she said. ‘Once we even ate off the plates hanging 
there  on the wall. I wanted to so much. But it wasn’t anything special.’
I had found the burn mark on the table-cloth. The girl looked questioningly 
at me.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘you get so used to touching all these lovely things in the 
house, you hardly look at them any more. You only notice when something is 
missing, because it has to be repaired or because you have lent it, for example.’
Again I heard the unnatural sound of my voice and I went on: ‘I remember 
my mother once asked me if I would help her polish the silver. It was a very 
long time ago and I was probably bored that day or perhaps I had to stay at 
home because I was ill, as she had never asked me before. I asked her which 
silver she meant and she replied, surprised, that it was the spoons, forks and 
knives, of course. And that was the strange thing, I didn’t know the cutlery 
we ate off every day was silver.’
The girl laughed again.
‘I bet you don’t know it is either.’ I looked intently at her.
‘What we eat with?’ she asked.
‘Well, do you know?’
She hesitated. She walked to the sideboard and wanted to open a drawer. 
‘I’ll look. It’s in here.’
Chap 2.indd   12 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26
The Address
13
I jumped up. ‘I was forgetting the time. I must catch my train.’
She had her hand on the drawer. ‘Don’t you want to wait for my mother?’
‘No, I must go.’ I walked to the door. The girl pulled the drawer open. ‘I 
can find my own way.’
As I walked down the passage I heard the jingling of spoons and forks.
At the corner of the road I looked up at the name-plate. Marconi Street, it said. 
I had been at Number 46. The address was correct. But now I didn’t want to 
remember it any more. I wouldn’t go back there because the objects that are 
linked in your memory with the familiar life of former times instantly lose their 
value when, severed from them, you see them again in strange surroundings. 
And what should I have done with them in a small rented room where the 
shreds of black-out paper still hung along the windows and no more than a 
handful of cutlery fitted in the narrow table drawer?
I resolved to forget the address. Of all the things I had to forget, that would 
be the easiest.
1. ‘Have you come back?’ said the woman. ‘I thought that no one had 
come back.’ Does this statement give some clue about the story? If 
yes, what is it?
2. The story is divided into pre-War and post-War times. What hardships 
do you think the girl underwent during these times?
3. Why did the narrator of the story want to forget the address?
4. ‘The Address’ is a story of human predicament that follows war. 
Comment.
Chap 2.indd   13 11/29/2024   2:23:38 PM
Reprint 2025-26