And the Rat Laughed - By Nava Semel Page 0,10

if a few spikes did somehow come loose nevertheless, the granddaughter’s mother was quick to turn them against the old woman.

You’re a lousy mother.

You should never have had children.

On that day, the daughter came knocking on the old woman’s front door ahead of schedule. The granddaughter who is no longer a girl opened it, and stood facing her, more surprised.

Didn’t I tell you I’d be picking you up? Now there was a mother who kept her promises.

When the daughter discovered the notebook, she lost no time trying to gain possession of it. She tugged at the sweet angel. The granddaughter resisted vehemently. She didn’t want anyone sharing the story. Not even her mother. Especially not her mother.

Gratified, the old woman watched her granddaughter and told herself: It’s the worst traits that are passed on from one generation to the next. That’s what she said but what she really meant was quite the opposite.

The granddaughter’s mother wasn’t the kind of person who gave up easily. If she had not been chosen to hear the story, then no one else should receive it either.

Not everything needs to become known.

Everything has already been written.

Except for what has not been written.

Mother, don’t you go messing up my daughter’s head.

For the first time on a blinding afternoon, the old woman actually cracked a smile. The realization that the one she had given birth to had become such an expert at survival was gratifying.

5

When the farmer’s wife pulled her out of the pit, the little-girl-who-once-was covered her eyes. For a moment, the burning sensation caused by the light reminded her of the illusion of tears, though she would never ever shed any real ones again for the rest of her life.

The farmer screamed to his wife: What a horrible stench! Wash her first.

The girl who once was, was sure she was blind. Couldn’t see a thing. The farmer’s wife said: Cross yourself. Say thank you. And pulled her into the church.

They went in, the farmer’s wife dragging her along like a sack of potatoes.

Her whole body was itching from the lice.

You stink to high heaven. Even Jesus would hold his nose. Ask His forgiveness.

Emerging from a black pit-box was another Stefan. That’s the confessional, the farmer’s wife announced. Six years old, the little girl understood they were about to shove her into another darkness. A black figure stuck a head-spike out of the other side of the pit-box.

It’s his reverence, our priest. Kiss his hand. The farmer’s wife pushed her inside.

The little-girl-who-once-was teetered, stumbled, crawled. Said her first confession to Ave Maria.

Holy Mother, thank you for making me blind. Never again will she see another Stefan intent on doing to her what the Stefan always does.

She didn’t have a name for it.

Back then.

***

The story is between her legs. It must be excised.

Cut it off.

But without giving it a name. Not because she doesn’t know the exact word. It’s just that her granddaughter is so sharp. It would be dangerous to name it. Whatever energy she has left the old woman puts into concealment, because if she utters...

***

“If.” A tough, unrelenting conditional word, which some people squander, almost like, “What if ”.

What if they hadn’t handed her over...

What if there hadn’t been a servant...

What if there hadn’t been the farmer and his wife...

What if they’d been childless...

What if her parents hadn’t promised...

Promise.

That’s a word that ought to be abolished for all eternity, that should never exist in any story, or beyond.

***

Outside the black box, the farmer’s son too was kneeling before a gilt statue of a woman.

The girl prayed: Holy Mary Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Don’t let him turn around. Amen.

His face moved and he invaded the inside of her. Her sense of vision was back to normal. The trembling – between her legs and in her other cavities – made all the lice fall out.

The farmer’s wife said, Confess, you little sinner.

***

Black man, I hope you die.

I hope Ave Maria dies too.

The man in the box pulls some small round wafers out of his habit. Her mouth opens wide with hunger. He puts all of them on her tongue at once.

Little girl, Jesus is your father and your mother now. I don’t want parents, she tells the priest. I hope they die.

She avoids the word Father, to bypass the pain.

When he pulled her out, she’d been soaking in her own urine. Excrement was dripping down to her feet. Her primordial sin. The stench overpowered the