Yiza Read online

  The child climbed out of the dumpster and cleaned herself up. She took off her hat and gloves and brushed the dirt off them.

  Then the child left, too, walking towards where she thought the market was, and Bogdan’s shop.

  But she couldn’t find Bogdan’s shop.

  It was lunchtime, and she hadn’t eaten anything that day. She tried to quench her thirst by brushing the thin snow into a heap and putting it in her mouth. But that just made her thirstier.

  She came across a man sitting on a wall. He had a can of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She didn’t say anything; she just pointed at the can. She tapped the can with her finger, and in her language she said: Give me!

  That’s beer, said the man. You’re too little for beer. Go away!

  She prodded the can harder. Some beer spilled out.

  Give me, she cried out tearfully. Give me!

  Alright, I’ll get you something to drink, said the man. Stop that! Wait here.

  Give me! she screamed in her language and prodded the can.

  Fine, come with me then, said the man, and took her by the hand. You stink, he said. My God, you stink to high heaven! Where’s your mother? Has someone sent you out begging? Where’s your father? Do you even have a father?

  Give me, she said, give me. But now when she said it, it sounded like something that wasn’t urgent.

  The man took her to a supermarket. He didn’t let go of her hand. His own hand was clamped tightly around it. Sometimes he tugged at her hand. There was no reason for him to do that. He talked to her. She didn’t understand him. When he looked at her, she nodded vigorously. He put two cans of lemonade and two cans of beer into the basket. They went past the bakery section, and the man put a bread roll in with the lemonade and the beer. He paid with a note. Outside, he gave the lemonade and the bread to the child. She ran away at once.

  She ran for a good while before looking back. She couldn’t see the man. She didn’t think he would come after her now. She hid the bread and the lemonade inside her coat and started walking, staying close to the walls of the buildings. She was on a busy road with wide pavements on either side. The pavements were full of people, and nothing looked familiar. It had stopped snowing; the umbrellas weren’t up any more. There was a long row of shops. And although it was a bright, white day – brighter and whiter than usual because there was snow on the ground – the brightest lights of all were shining in the shops, and some of the shop windows glinted and glittered in every colour of the rainbow. The doors were open and she could hear music. It was all very confusing.

  She looked around for an entryway to sneak into, so she could eat and drink in darkness and silence. She was afraid someone might take the good things away from her. But then she couldn’t wait any longer and opened the lemonade in the way her uncle and the women had taught her, and drank from the can right there on the pavement and bit into the roll and drank more lemonade and bit into the roll again. She put the empty can in one coat pocket, and the full one in the other. She held the half roll with both hands.

  For a while she was happy, and she stopped thinking about her uncle and the women, and Bogdan and his shop.

  The child passed a coffeehouse just as a man and a woman walked out. He held the door open out of politeness, and the woman thanked him.

  Hot air streamed out of the entrance. It felt so good to the child. There was a second door inside, and it was only this one that opened into the coffeehouse; the vestibule between was heated so that the customers weren’t troubled by a cold draught. She slipped inside quickly, before the door closed, and ducked down into a corner. The waiters inside couldn’t see her. Perhaps they would have let the girl sit in the hot space. Perhaps not. There were heaters fixed to the ceiling, glowing and heating the little room. The customers took no notice of the child as they went in and out – some didn’t see her at all. She wasn’t begging. She was just sitting there. She sat there drinking from a can of lemonade and pulling little pieces off a bread roll. And not looking at anyone. When she had finished eating and drinking, she did nothing. She just sat there, her arms folded over her coat. After a little while the child got too hot, and took off the coat the fishmonger had given her. She had already taken off the hat and gloves. She packed the coat into the corner, lay down on it and fell asleep.

  A customer picked the child up and carried her into the coffeehouse.

  I don’t know what’s wrong with her, he said. She’s boiling hot.

  The owner of the coffeehouse bedded the child down on the carpet in his office and called the police.

  The child slept. The coffeehouse owner watched her.

  When the child woke up, a woman in police uniform was kneeling in front of her. She had stroked the girl’s cheek with the back of her hand.

  What’s your name? she asked.

  The child didn’t reply.

  Where’s your mother?

  The officer smelled the child’s clothes and pulled a face.

  Does she have any papers on her? Anything written?

  The coffeehouse owner said the child had had a coat, a hat and gloves on her. They stink to high heaven, he said. I put them in the storeroom. What shall I do with them?

  Did you search the pockets?

  No, I didn’t.

  Bring them here: I’ll search through them. Can you get rid of them? asked the officer.

  Should I? I mean, they belong to her, said the coffeehouse owner.

  She’ll get new ones where we’re taking her, said the officer. We’ve got a blanket in the car.

  Now the child was just wearing her vest and knickers, with a thin jumper over the top. The officer checked the coat, smelled it and handed it over to be disposed of. She took the child by the wrist and led her out onto the street, where her colleague was waiting in the police car.

  It was snowing even harder now, and it was starting to get dark. Another day had passed.

  She had been in a car many times in her life. She had liked it. It had been noisy and cramped. Mostly she had sat on someone’s lap. Often, they had teased her. In the police car, she was given her own seat. They put a seat belt on her. She didn’t know it was a police car. She didn’t know it was a seat belt. And she didn’t know that the man and the woman were police officers. She had never seen a police officer in her life. She just knew the word. Once some police officers had come by, and her uncle had put his hand over her eyes and a finger on her lips. Afterwards he told her it had been the police. Now, she wasn’t thinking anything at all. Her breathing was shallow and fast and she didn’t move, not even her eyes.

  The male officer sat in the front and drove, and the female officer sat in the back beside the child. She had wrapped her in a blanket. She held a bottle of mineral water to the child’s lips so she wouldn’t have to take her hands out from under the blanket. The water ran down the child’s chin and throat onto her chest.

  She liked that. She was feeling hot. She wasn’t thirsty. It had been hot in the vestibule of the coffeehouse and in the coffeehouse owner’s office, and the blanket was hot, too, and she was wrapped up so tightly she couldn’t move. The officer was wearing a little chain around her wrist. She would have liked to have it. There was a little tag on the chain. The officer’s face didn’t seem friendly to her. Particularly not when she laughed. Not even when she gave the child a bite of a chocolate bar. She only bit off a small piece, and spat it straight out again. She hadn’t eaten Bogdan’s chocolate, either. She had left it lying on the counter, and the next day it had been gone. She didn’t like the way chocolate smelled, and she didn’t like the colour, or the fact that it was hard like wood.

  The officer wiped the saliva-smeared chocolate off the blanket. She opened the window and threw the tissue out. After that, she left the child alone and just looked straight ahead.

  Before they reached their destination, the child had fallen asleep.

  A nurse washed the child. First she washed her hair and hands and face, and then she
put her in the bathtub and soaped her from head to toe. She even washed her hair a second time. She complimented her on her hair. She had been told that the child didn’t speak her language, so she found it easy to say nice things. She complimented her eyes as well. The child’s hair reached a long way down her back. She combed her hair carefully. The child stayed calm and didn’t complain.

  Lastly, the nurse dried the child’s thin body with a towel. She took some hand cream out of her handbag – she always had it with her because her hands were so sensitive and she bathed so many children every day. She rubbed the cream into the child’s face. It made the child laugh as though she had been tickled. She rubbed cream into her chest and back, and her arms and legs.

  Do you want to do your hands yourself? she asked.

  She took one of the child’s fingers and dipped it into the white cream and showed her how to knead one hand with the other.

  The child liked that.

  Already, the nurse knew this child was going to be her favourite. She wrapped her in the towel and picked her up. She kissed her head. The child was completely calm.

  The nurse could have handed the child over at the clothing issue room; it wasn’t her job to take care of her after that. But this child was naked. Her clothes hadn’t been sent to the laundry; they had been thrown away. She didn’t want to leave the child alone, wearing only a towel, at the door to the clothing room. She wanted to make sure her favourite was given nice things to wear.

  There were new cloths and second-hand clothes. The nurse insisted on new. She picked out two pairs of knickers, two t-shirts, two pairs of tights, two pairs of thick socks, two boys’ flannel shirts, a Goretex sweatshirt with a zip down the front, a pair of padded dungarees, gloves, a hat and a hooded anorak. Washing things and bedding as well. She dressed the child then and there.

  The clothing room woman watched her.

  The child hid behind the nurse, and the nurse acted as a screen while the child took off the towel.

  The nurse led the child into the dormitory and pointed out a bed. She helped her put the sheets on, but made sure the child did most of it herself. There was a little cupboard beside the bed. That was where the child’s things should go. The nurse showed her.

  There were twenty beds in the dormitory. They stood head to head, foot to foot, in two rows. Only six of the beds were made up. A teddy bear was sitting on each of the made beds. There were no other children in the room. The windows were barred.

  The others are having supper, said the nurse. I’ll take you to them. Shall I come and have a bowl of soup with you?

  But before that, she gave the child the teddy bear that each child received when they were admitted.

  Whatever happens, you can keep that, said the nurse. We can write your name on his tag. What’s your name?

  She pointed to her chest and said loudly: Agnes. Me. Agnes. Agnes. Then she pointed at the girl’s chest. Who are you? Me, Agnes, who you? Me, Agnes, who you?

  She wasn’t angry with the child when she didn’t answer.

  The dining hall was one floor down, in the basement. A good smell was coming from down there. The girl had an appetite. And now the nurse did, too.

  It was a long time since the child had eaten anything hot.

  There was broccoli soup and white bread. The way the child ate the soup made the nurse think it was a long time since she’d eaten anything hot. She had a word with one of the women in the kitchen and asked her if there was anything left over from lunch, which had been meat with multi-coloured rice and a blancmange with raspberry sauce. She asked if they could heat up some of the meat and rice. The girl drank a lot as well. She preferred plain water to lemonade.

  She wolfed down the rice and meat and it made her throw up. She vomited on the floor and hurriedly wiped her mouth, knocking over her glass in the process and breaking it – she reached for it, cut herself on a shard of glass and then sat mutely, staring into space.

  Her right thumb was bleeding.

  First the other children stopped talking, then they laughed. There were six of them. They shouted out scornful remarks in their own languages. She didn’t understand the languages or the scorn.

  But then she did understand something.

  We don’t need kids who throw up here, a boy shouted. He was fourteen already. He was a big boy. He was wearing a tracksuit, like the others. But his was red. The others’ were blue.

  I don’t want to do it again, she shouted back.

  What’s your name, he shouted.

  I’m not telling, she shouted.

  Do I know your mother? Do I know your father?

  I’m not telling, she shouted.

  Tell me your father’s name!

  No, she shouted.

  Don’t you have one?

  I’m not telling, she shouted.

  The big boy came over. He walked slowly, looking at the nurse and not the child. He was very thin, with a fuzz of hair on his cheeks and his upper lip. He let out a little laugh, and the child saw that he wasn’t being mean.

  And what’s your name? the child asked.

  I’m not telling, either, he said.

  Is she going to do something to me now? the child asked. She meant the nurse.

  When it gets dark, she’ll eat you up, said the big boy, deliberately not laughing.

  That’s not true, said the child. She didn’t dare move her eyes to look at the nurse.

  The nurse shooed him away with a wave of her hand. She wrapped a tissue round the child’s thumb, made the child’s right hand into a fist with the thumb tucked inside, and squeezed it.

  Hold it, she said, hold it tight! Hold it like this, like this. Tight. This is tight. Hold it tight!

  She hurried into the kitchen, got them to give her a roll of sticking plaster and some scissors. She bandaged the cut and wiped the blood off the table.

  I was just teasing, the big boy called over, she won’t do anything – no one’s going to do anything to you. If someone does something to you, you tell me. Then I’ll do something to them. Want me to look after you?

  The child nodded.

  But the nurse thought the big boy had been mean to her favourite. She came over and yanked him to his feet and dragged him by the collar to the table where her favourite was sitting.

  Do you know her? she barked at him. She didn’t let him go; she even gave him a shake. Who is she? What’s her name? You two know each other, don’t you?

  No! No, we don’t, said the big boy, and he opened his mouth as if he was trying to show he wasn’t hiding anything there. He shoved the nurse and shook himself free of her grasp and ran up the stairs out of the dining hall. He swore as he went.

  The child understood him. It was a swearword she knew, because her uncle had said it a lot. But her uncle had never meant it nastily, and so the child wasn’t frightened by the swearword, even if it sounded nasty. But now she did feel frightened of the nurse.

  The nurse wiped the vomit off the floor. The child didn’t watch her. She sat there, her fingers laced together, not daring to move her eyes.

  In the dormitory the nurse showed her how to brush her teeth. But she already knew how to brush her teeth. She knew what a toothbrush was and what toothpaste was. The nurse brushed too hard, and it hurt. But she didn’t cry.

  When all the children were in bed, the nurse turned out the light.

  Because the nurse had been holding her head still while she brushed her teeth, she hadn’t been able to see if the big boy was in the dormitory, too. She could have called out to him now, in the dark. She knew he spoke her language. She thought he was the only one who spoke her language. She would have liked to talk to him. It was so long since she had talked to anyone. The big boy might have teased her then. In fact, she was sure he would. But she didn’t dare call out to him. She thought she could see the glint of the nurse’s apron by the door.

  She pulled the covers over her head, only leaving a gap for her nose and mouth. It was warm and soft. And it was quie
t.

  The big boy woke her. He whispered in her ear. Don’t be scared, kid, he whispered. Do you want to go with us. I know my way round. I know something good.

  She opened her eyes and sat up. She saw the big boy, wearing a coat, kneeling beside her bed, and he had a hat on, pulled low over his forehead. It was possible that she was dreaming. She dreamed every night, and she liked dreaming, because the dreams were always nice, and often when she woke up she would think it hadn’t been a dream at all, but had really happened, and she would look forward to the daytime when things would carry on like that.

  There was another boy standing at the foot of her bed, smaller than the big boy. She couldn’t remember seeing him in the dining hall. But in the dining hall they had all been wearing t-shirts and jogging bottoms and they had all looked the same, except for the big boy. And now the smaller one was wearing a coat and hat and gloves as well, and he had a rucksack on his back. His hat, too, was pulled down over his face, a good hat, fur-lined, with long flaps to stop his ears getting cold. She couldn’t see much of his face, but she could see that he had thick eyebrows. He came closer to her now, looked her in the eye. He nodded, like adults do when they want to greet each other, but without saying anything.

  He reached into his pocket and took something out. It was a thimble; it was made of brass and looked like gold. He held it up to the girl’s face, moved it back and forth, now in front of one eye, now the other, slowly. He took the girl’s hand and put the thimble on the thumb with the plaster over it and pushed it down. The girl hid the thumb and the thimble in her fist.