Anna locked the front door and turned the sign around: CLOSED. She’d had enough of customers today, with their endless complaints, spilling out their life stories and dreadful woes uninvited. She did not want to be the mender of souls, nor the repairer of broken dreams. She was there to fix dolls, not hearts.
Betty sat on the shelf, her new blue eye repaired, a perfect match. Anna had told the woman to collect her doll just before closing, but it was already five o’clock and Betty’s owner still hadn’t appeared. She had obviously forgotten about it. Funny how clients were always in a hurry to have their dolls fixed, but when asked to come back later because she didn’t want to be rushed, it inevitably took them several days to return. If they ever did. She wiped down the workbench and cleaned her tools. Lalka sat watching Anna gather up assorted limbs and body pieces and place them in a tub labelled ‘Spare Parts’, which she slid under the bench. Then she gently dropped the tangle of eyes – green, blue and brown glass orbs, threaded onto the ends of a thin wire – into a silk-lined wooden box. She looked up at her favourite doll, her life companion, and thought about how far they had travelled together, how much Lalka had witnessed over the years, holding all Anna’s secrets.
‘Always look behind the eyes for truth,’ Papa had told her.
Lalka seemed to be winking at her. Anna packed up her things, threw a shawl around her shoulders and hung the keys on a hook by the door. Betty was propped up on a shelf, at the end of a row of dolls. Once a month, Anna had started taking all these repaired dolls, abandoned by customers, over to a Jewish orphanage. It was filled with young children who had lost their families during the war. Some of them had no one left in the world. They had been brought from Europe to Australia by boat, sponsored by a couple who had no children of their own.
Anna had already taken off her laboratory coat and hung her bag over her shoulder, ready to go upstairs, when something made her look up at Lalka again. She noticed that the doll’s left eye appeared strangely off centre. In all these years, despite being carted around the world, Lalka had never needed any sort of repair. She was a survivor, stronger and far more resilient than any of the newer models. Anna reached up and took Lalka down from the shelf, resting her on the table. Her blue eye was sitting at a weird angle, looking outward, as if she had a squint.
It had been a long day, and Anna was tired. She still needed to make it to Polonski’s on Lygon Street to pick up some chops for dinner. But that eye bothered her. It wasn’t right. She put her bag on the end of the bench and sat down on her stool again. She lay Lalka on her back and, following the same steps she had learned from Fraulein Schilling in the Puppetarium all those years ago, went about carefully removing the doll’s head so she could check the faulty eye.
Lalka lay there decapitated as Anna searched her box for an eye that would perfectly match the original. She had just turned her attention back to the doll when she noticed a piece of yellowed paper poking out from inside her head, in the small space that lay behind the eye socket. It was rolled up into a miniature scroll. She felt a sudden wave of terror.
Using a pair of fine forceps, she carefully prised the paper out and slowly unrolled it. There were tiny letters scrawled on it. A note, or a letter of sorts, longer than the ones Alter had found inside her costume dolls. Years later, she still recognised her father’s writing. Trembling, she grabbed her magnifying glass and started to read:
My darling Anna. I have always told you truth lies behind the eyes. When you read this, it’s likely I will be long gone. No matter what it may seem, everything I have done in my life has been to shield you from harm. Sadly, there are people in this world who deplore anyone who is different. But there are always those who resist them like Mutti and me, and dearest Fraulein Schilling. Together, we prevented many of Hitler’s vile ideas reaching publication. The dolls doubled as our couriers. I know you have witnessed far too much pain for a young girl. Your eyes are so beautiful and wise – when you look upon things, may you see where real love and truth lie. I am ready to leave this world so that you might live freely. But I will watch over you forever. Love, Papa.
She pictured him standing before her, his strong face and gentle eyes, and saw him clearly now. He had lived in a private world of his own all those years, his allegiance to the Resistance hidden behind his mundane job as a chauffeur. A double life. He had always told her: ‘Sometimes it is easier not to look at things we do not wish to see.’
Just then, Leo came in through the back door, followed closely by a young girl, who ran straight over to Anna.
‘Mama!’
Anna lifted the child onto her lap. ‘Rachel, my sweetheart. Have you been having fun with Daddy?’
Leo came up to hug them both. ‘Anna, darling. Surely that’s enough work for today. You need to rest. I’ve put on a pot of soup.’ He stopped short, seeing Lalka splayed open on the workbench.
Anna picked up the letter and handed it to him. He took time to read and then, resting his glasses on his forehead, reached out and hugged his wife and child. Anna looked up at him, this man who had saved her from darkness. His eyes were filled with tears.
‘Mama,’ Rachel said, clutching her mother’s hand. ‘What happened to Lalka?’
Leo and Anna both looked at their little daughter. She was only seven years old, an orphan from Germany they had adopted from the Jewish Refugee Children’s Home, but she had seen things during the war no child should have to witness.
‘Her eye is broken,’ Anna said.
‘Will she ever be able to see again?’
‘Of course, darling. You can help me fix her tomorrow. Then, if you like, she can become your doll.’ She bent down and kissed her young daughter’s cheek. ‘Lalka will always be there to look out for you.’