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He waves as I climb up the embankment to the road.
On my way to the house, I scout the area next to the river, but I don’t see any dwellings where a child could live. An idea takes root in my mind.
At home, I bake a cake. This time, I follow Mrs. Campana’s advice and use the oven fan. When the cake comes out of the oven, it’s nicely rounded. Bouncing on the balls of my feet, I clap my hands like an excited child. It doesn’t look half bad, even if I have to say so myself. I leave it on the windowsill to cool and open the window.
After pulling on a coat, I take one of the recipe books outside and make myself comfortable on a chair in a secluded corner of the veranda from where I have a view of the kitchen window on the side as well as the front of the house.
It doesn’t take long before I spot movement in the bushes. A scrawny boy appears from the shrubs, looking left and right before cutting barefoot across the yard. His clothes are tattered, and his small face is dirty. In one hand, he clutches what looks like a makeshift doll with twig arms and rope hair. In the other, he holds a walking stick. He plants the stick in the gravel and creeps to the corner of the house.
At the edge of the veranda, he stretches his neck to look through the lounge window. Then he hops up the steps, surprisingly lithe and quiet on his feet, crosses the veranda, and presses a small hand on the glass as he peers through the kitchen window. He turns his head far to the side, no doubt checking if someone is inside. He’s sticking his arm through the window, reaching for the cake, when I speak.
“Would you like a slice?”
He jolts, yanking his hand away and jumping back. He stares at me with wide brown eyes, fear etched on his delicate features.
Not wanting to scare and chase him off with an abrupt movement, I straighten slowly. “Do you like chocolate cake?”
His little chest heaves with breaths as he watches me quietly, frozen to the spot.
“You know what I think? I think it can do with frosting.”
His Adam’s apple bobs as I go closer.
“What do you think? Would you like to try a slice of cake with chocolate frosting?”
He brings the doll to his mouth and whispers something. The head is made from a wine cork stuck on a stick. Pieces of rope tied around the top of the cork form the hair. Round eyes and a crooked smile drawn with a black felt pen complete the face.
Lifting the doll to his ear, he listens. After a moment, he says with mistrust sparking in his eyes, “Beatrice says maybe.”
His high, musical voice catches me by surprise. I study him closer, taking in his dainty bone structure and his short, unevenly cropped auburn hair. Knock me over with a feather. The he-child is a she-child.
“I’m Sabella.” I point at the house. “I live here. What’s your name?”
“Sophie,” she says before whispering to the doll, “It’s all right. It can’t hurt telling her our names.”
“Where do you and Beatrice live, Sophie?”
“By the river.”
I glance toward the village. “Down there?”
“Not far from here.”
“With your parents?”
“My parents are gone. We lived with my grandfather, but he went back to the camp.”
“Is the camp far?”
“It’s too far to walk. Grandpa went by truck. A friend came to fetch him.”
Dear God. I hope this doesn’t mean what I think it does. “Did you stay behind with Beatrice?”
“I don’t want to go back to the camp.” She clutches the doll in her arms, cradling it against her chest. “I came here to play in the house. Beatrice and I had tea in the garden before they took our teacups away. Beatrice liked it here.” Addressing the doll, she says, “Didn’t you?”
I remember the broken crockery in the mud, the cracked saucers and teacups without ears. Sweet Jesus.
“Who takes care of you if your grandfather moved back to the camp?” I ask.
