The rainbow never sets

from his visit in 1977, but there was no trace of them. Then Andre asked one of the workers if we could go through the house. He just nodded, what a bonus for us!

We walked up the front steps where we had always stood for the harvest festival presentations. The hall still had its old tiles, but the walls had all been newly rendered, parquetry replaced by concrete, and some doors had been bricked up, while others had been created. We heard that the Raczynski Library of Poznan had taken over the house for storage and as a branch office. Walking through the room where we always celebrated Christmas with the whole family, brought tears into my eyes. Was some of the childhood magic still there?

Then we looked through all the rooms upstairs, and I thought that the renovators had really done an excellent job. I was so pleased that Alison and Margie could see the house from the inside, it gave them so much more of an impression about what must have been there in the past. They just had to imagine the views of the lake from each room.

As we left the manor house, we came past our beloved climbing tree with its three branches, where once little feet had climbed nimbly to the very top. And the linden tree of my childhood dreaming stood still there in all its majesty, just larger around the trunk. I had the distinct feeling it responded to my touch.

The 'villa' was occupied by the administrator of the farm. It looked in good condition. I had to smile, though, what had become of the once beautiful hedge of beech trees along the drive way. They had never been trimmed and had grown into a row of tall, thin beech trees.

The old village pump was still there, but it didn's seem to be in use any more. We saw the farm yard from the outside only, we didn't want to cause a stir. Slowly we walked back to the car. It had been good to see it all again, even though it became very emotional for me.

Before we drove back to Maria for lunch, we went via Antonin, our old out station, to show Alison and Margie the extent of our property. In the afternoon the son of our former mason called with his wife. Kubala and I used to play together so often in the park. He had followed his father's foot steps and showed us with great pride his own house he had built. Then he took us again to Sapowice and we called at Stefan Kempa's house in the village. He was another play-mate of mine. When we arrived, he was just tinkering with his car.

"I have just brought some visitors," Kubala said. "You should know the man."

Stefan looked at me and shook his head, "I don't know him." "Look again and think back many years when you were boys." Suddenly his face lit up: "Dieter Tieman, I know you. You look just like your father when you were here." And he opened his arms and gave me a big hug.

Soon Jósef (whom we used to call Józiu) dropped in, his younger

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