Panic…panicking…panic-struck. Again, I can smell smoke drifting in through the window. The fires never seem to stop. It has been ten days now.

I remember again, last thursday, the fire is at the back fence. It is hot and smokey. I am grabbing things from inside the house, shoving them into bags. They're things I think I might need, things that might be important. Actually, I'm not thinking at all. Fear has taken over. It's instinctive.

I'm in my library. What books to take? Two walls are lined with book shelves. There are more stacked on the desk, and on the floor. There's never enough room for my books. What should I take? What should I save from the fire? I want them all. But I've only got seconds to decide. I want a particular book – a family history – where is it? I can't see it? It should be here, at this spot. But it's not. I grab two books, don't even look at them, but feel they are the right ones. I shove them in a bag, then run out of the house, throw them into the car.

It is at that moment that a fireman puts his hand on my shoulder: “Will you stay or go?” he asks. “Stay, I want to stay” I say. I don't go back to the library. All the books will be saved because I'm staying.

Later on, I bring back the bags from the car. I wonder what I have a taken. Family photos, a passport (expired), some jewellery, my wallet. No clothes, no food. Its all very light, easy to carry. Except for two books. One is the family history. The other is Ostpreussen in 1440 Bildern. They are both heavy and awkward to carry. Bloodlines, and unremembered memories. It seems a strange collection of things to face the future with – a collection chosen by instinct in a moment of dread. Trepidation has made the choices, not thought. But perhaps there is a logic in the instinct?

At first I think “material things – they don't matter – when you really have to chose, it suddenley all seems meaningless – the books are just books”. My cats and chickens had been saved by someone else – that mattered. But choosing which material things to save didn't seem to matter at the moment when choosing was most pressing. Later, however, the collection of odds and ends does matter – something beyond rational thought made me choose some things but not others. They are not just odds and ends – they are a survival kit of some sort.

What they had cost bore no relationship to the choices. It seems to come down to things to do with identity, with not forgetting who I am or how I have come to be. Personal things. Family photos, family history – they are the genealogical remembering; passport and things in wallet – documents to prove identity to others; jewellery and wallet – money for food, clothes and other things in the future: – the odd and ends begin to make sense. It just leaves Ostpreussen in 1440 Bildern – a heavy book, a type of remembering, or perhaps a bridge to another time-place. Somehow, it has come with me. I can't escape it.