They Went Left - Monica Hesse Page 0,47
clearly not Abek. Neither one looks a bit like him; their colorings are wrong. Not Abek, I tell myself immediately. But they could so easily have been.
“Sister,” the one in front says, the one with a dense moss of hair hanging low on his forehead. “Sorry, Sister, we didn’t know you had company. Frau Fischer keeps a bottle opener in her desk, and we came to borrow it.”
“Which drawer?”
“The top one.”
Sister Therese opens the drawer, rustling through pen cartridges and paper clips before she produces a small metal opener. Only as she’s handing it to the boy does she hesitate. “What’s this for, Lemuel?”
The boys exchange a conspiratorial glance, and then the silent one produces a bottle from his pocket. It’s curved glass and filled with a dark-colored liquid that appears to be fizzing. “It’s called a Coca-Cola,” he explains. “One of the American soldiers gave it to us. You can drink one sip, and your thirst is quenched all day.”
“Did he give it to you like the soldier gave you the comic books, or did he give it to you like the soldier gave you his watch?”
“Like the comic books,” Lemuel says. “I promise, we weren’t gambling.”
“How much alcohol is in it?”
“There’s no alcohol at all.”
Sister Therese uses the bottle opener to pop off the metal lid and sniffs the contents. When she’s convinced the boys aren’t lying, she hands the bottle back. “Share with your bunkmates. If there is any left after all your thirsts are quenched, bring some to me.”
“Thank you, Sister!” Lemuel calls over his shoulder. “You’re our favorite.”
“And if the kickball game is still going in the cloisters, each team gets one more at-bat,” she yells. “Then, dinner.”
The boys leave, a tumble of energy, and then Sister Therese turns back to me. “I’m sorry. As you were saying? You’re looking for something?”
I can’t find my words, though. I’m still staring after the two boys. Could one of their bunkmates be Abek? Is he waiting, just behind the door or just down the hall, to try a sip of the Coca-Cola? A stupid, stupid hope grows in my chest.
The door opens again, and this time it is the one I came through, this time it’s Josef, cap in his hand, looking at me without even exchanging pleasantries.
“Is he here?”
“Is who here?” Sister Therese asks, looking between us.
“Her br—”
“No, he’s not here,” I interrupt quickly, hoping Sister Therese doesn’t notice that my voice is unnaturally loud, but hoping Josef does. “And it’s a ‘she.’ The director is a woman, but we’ve missed her; she’s not here today.” I turn back to Sister Therese and prattle on. “Josef and I are from Foehrenwald. He was hoping to talk to Frau Fischer about trading supplies.”
Josef’s eyes are on me, confused. I look away because I can’t quite explain myself. I know what I’m doing doesn’t make any sense.
All I know is that this place, with its kickball games in the cloisters and red-cheeked boys who run in to ask for help opening bottles of Coca-Cola, I want my brother to be here. But if he’s not, I’d rather have twenty more minutes of hoping.
“I’m sorry you missed Frau Fischer,” Sister Therese says worriedly. “She didn’t tell me anyone was coming. I can put you in touch with the man who runs our storeroom; he should be able to tell you what we can spare.”
“That’s fine,” Josef says slowly, still trying to figure out what I’m doing.
“And if you like, you can stay for dinner. I was just about to go help with preparations.”
“Of course,” I say. “We’d like to stay and—and see the whole camp. All the children.”
Sister Therese leads us through the back door, and while she’s busying herself locking up the office, Josef pulls me to the side and raises both of his eyebrows.
“It just wasn’t the right time to tell her yet,” I whisper. “I just didn’t want to—”
“Here, let’s cut through the cloisters,” Sister Therese says, finishing up with the lock, sliding the keys into a hidden pocket.
The hallway we’re in is lined with low, arched doorways. She chooses one, heavy and oak, and before she even opens its door, I hear cheering on the other side; the tail end of the kickball game. And not just kickball. The whole cloisters are alive with children. Three girls with braids have scratched a chalk hopscotch game onto the pavement; two older boys toss a ball between them. My breath catches at the sight.
Abek isn’t in this