Gisela watches the child playing in a corner with a doll. The sun shines through the window – which is polished so clean the glass is invisible – and catches the golden lights in her hair. She’s never seen such hair. Helga, pretty as she was, had dark hair. Truth be told, it was mouse-coloured, dull. Sometimes when the sun shone on it you could see a reddish glint, but mainly it soaked up light without reflecting it back. Gisela could look at this child’s hair for hours, the way it sparkles and shifts, the soft bounce of the curls. She understands now the obsession that begot tales such as Rapunzel, and almost comprehends the Führer’s infatuation with Nordic looks. She pushes the Führer out of her mind. She doesn’t like to think of him for he says things that she thinks are wrong, evil even. They’re not in line with what she learnt at school about everyone being equal in the eyes of God. And she doesn’t like what is happening to the Jews. True, she doesn’t care for them much, but they never harmed her, and she doesn’t see why they should be taken away to work camps. People should be paid for their work, not treated like slaves.
“Helena,” she says, her voice low so as not to frighten her. The child is nervy, highly strung. Poor little thing, to have lost both parents so young. Helena looks at her, her blue eyes open wide, but doesn’t reply. “Come here, Liebchen.”
The child puts down the doll and approaches Gisela. She stands in front of her, hands at her side, unmoving. You’d almost think the child had been drilled in some way. It isn’t natural the way she stands to attention, rigid as a soldier. Gisela puts out a hand to the girl’s hair. Helena flinches away like she always does. She’s like a little scared animal – a rabbit or a deer perhaps – that wants to be near people, but hasn’t learnt to trust them yet. Gisela knows she must be patient with her, and she moves slowly. Helena allows Gisela to touch her hair. It’s as soft as duck down. Gisela has never felt hair like it. Her own hair is thick, wiry, and feels like the bristles of a shaving brush. She sighs. She could play with this hair for hours, but she is aware of Helena’s discomfort, and so she lets her return to her doll.
Later, when Helena is asleep in bed, Gisela sits in her chair by the kitchen range and sews. She is making a dress for the child. The poor soul arrived wearing a brown shapeless shift and wooden clogs that pinched her feet. Underneath the shift there was a pretty rose-patterned garment that looked like a nightdress. Gisela tried to take it from her, but Helena howled as if she was being murdered. Only after many soft words did the child allow her to take it and wash it, and then she put it on again as soon as it was dry. Gisela vowed to make her pretty dresses to replace the brown shift, but it was many weeks before she managed to get into town to buy some suitable material. There were Helga’s old dresses, but Gisela couldn’t cut them up to make them into smaller ones that would fit Helena. Not yet.
She’s pleased with the material she found in Heidelberg, a blue cotton with white stripes, cheerful and bright. Another evening’s work and it should be finished. She can’t wait to see Helena’s face when she gives it to her. Gisela works harder, spurred on by this thought. The light is dim, and she screws up her eyes to see better, but she’s tired and, after pricking her finger for the third time, she puts the dress aside. Friedrich is reading on the other side of the fire. He looks up.
“It’s pretty that. I think the child will like it.”
“Do you? I hope so.” Gisela pauses. She wants to talk, but Friedrich has been very quiet since the child arrived three months ago. She decides to press on. “So, what do you think of her?”
Friedrich puts aside his book. “What do you think of her?”
“I asked first.”
“Yes, you did.” He rubs his nose as he often does when he doesn’t want to talk.
“She’s pretty isn’t she?”
“Mmm. Has she said anything yet?”
“Not a word. Sometimes…”
“Go on.”
“Sometimes I wonder if she’s dumb.” The words are out before Gisela realizes what she is saying.
“No, I don’t think so. She understands what we say. At least I think she does.”
“Do you ever wonder about her real parents?”
Friedrich shrugs. “Can’t say I do.”
“I wish we knew more about her.”
Friedrich nods and carries on reading. Gisela sighs. It’s so hard to get him to open up. Sometimes, it’s like living in a monastery it’s so quiet in the house. Still, Wilhelm will be home soon, on leave for a fortnight. She shivers. They haven’t told him about his new sister. Gisela hopes he’ll be pleased.
The dress is finished. Gisela takes it upstairs and lays it on the chair beside Helena’s bed. She will rise early tomorrow for she wants to see the child’s face.
Gisela is there when Helena awakes. The child stares at her with her customary silence. Gisela nods to the chair. “Look, mein Liebchen. Look what I’ve made for you.”
Helena looks round. She gets up from her bed and picks up the dress from the chair. Her mouth moves into a different shape. She is smiling. Gisela catches her breath. She could swear the child spoke. “What did you say?”
“Für mich?” Helena’s eyes are wide, blue as the flowers that bloom each spring in the nearby woods.
Gisela nods, smiles, then laughs as the child smiles back at her. It is going to be all right.