offered. “You must have engagements, rehearsals . . .”
“Not every day,” he replied. “I mean, I have a little time at present. You know how it is in the world of the theater. But we’ll need a budget: nothing big, just about three hundred marks.”
Sister August hemmed and hawed, she offered more cups of tea, but it was clear even to the actor that she had made up her mind. And so before she had even formally consented, he had fixed a date, the second Wednesday in January at four in the afternoon, to take the first class of a series in dramatic arts.
Wernher Siegfried smiled and slicked back his hair. He always placed a few coins in the box at the orphanage gate every time he passed on foot. Granted, it was not very often. But every time he took the elevated train along the river Spree, he thought of the actress and the baby she dressed in black and wondered how she had turned out.
His reasons for offering a class were, however, motivated mostly by self-interest. When he had gone to visit his mother that summer and found her dead and buried—he’d left no recent forwarding address—he felt suddenly and absolutely alone. He had been an only child with an elderly father, who had expired an inconsiderably short time after his birth, and a mother who had no interest in acquiring another husband or having any more children. The loneliness and longing he had felt as a child had come rushing back in one huge and engulfing wave. And then he remembered the orphan. Lilly Nelly Aphrodite could be the closest thing he had to a living relative. No wonder he had decided to seek her out, to befriend her, and then, if the circumstances were right, to unmask himself as her real father.
Tiny Lil had given up any fantasies of being claimed. Her anger had subsided but now she felt doubly bereft. Since visiting the general, Sister August had barely glanced in her direction. It was as if she had simply stopped noticing her, as if she had become someone not entirely there, invisible.
The night after the Christmas show, however,Tiny Lil recalled the effect Hanne’s singing had had on the nun. She had watched the way Sister August’s eyes fixed and observed the way her head rose and fell, just a fraction, to the melody of the song. Even though she tried to hide it, her brow was furled, her face was flushed; nothing could drag her gaze away from the girl on the stage; she was captivated, immersed, spellbound. And Tiny Lil lay and tried to imagine how it must feel to be at the very center of her focus.
At the other end of the bed, Hanne wasn’t asleep. Tiny Lil could tell by her breathing.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Tiny Lil whispered. “To sing?”
“Can’t remember,” Hanne said.
To be a child is to be absolutely without power. At St. Xavier’s, the children had no choice in anything, from the food they ate to the clothes they wore. The only capacity they had was in whom they chose to love. Tiny Lil’s shoulders began to shake despite herself. She sobbed silently into her pillow, her mouth jammed up against the cotton so that no one would hear her or tease her or tell on her.
“Don’t cry,” Hanne whispered. “She’s only a nun.”
But Tiny Lil wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. Hanne sat up, sighed, and blew her hair out of her face. And then she crawled up the bed and climbed in at the other end, Tiny Lil’s end. At first they lay back-to-back, spine to spine, until Tiny Lil’s sobs subsided. And then Hanne rolled round and laid her face against Tiny Lil’s shoulder and her arm across her belly and almost immediately fell asleep. Hanne’s cheek was warm and her arm was heavy. Tiny Lil lay as still as she could, aware that any movement might wake her and she would move away. And then, as she slowly succumbed to the rhythm of Hanne’s breathing and the heat of the body next to hers, she, too, slipped into a dreamless, subterranean state. They woke early the next morning in exactly the same position,
“Not every day,” he replied. “I mean, I have a little time at present. You know how it is in the world of the theater. But we’ll need a budget: nothing big, just about three hundred marks.”
Sister August hemmed and hawed, she offered more cups of tea, but it was clear even to the actor that she had made up her mind. And so before she had even formally consented, he had fixed a date, the second Wednesday in January at four in the afternoon, to take the first class of a series in dramatic arts.
Wernher Siegfried smiled and slicked back his hair. He always placed a few coins in the box at the orphanage gate every time he passed on foot. Granted, it was not very often. But every time he took the elevated train along the river Spree, he thought of the actress and the baby she dressed in black and wondered how she had turned out.
His reasons for offering a class were, however, motivated mostly by self-interest. When he had gone to visit his mother that summer and found her dead and buried—he’d left no recent forwarding address—he felt suddenly and absolutely alone. He had been an only child with an elderly father, who had expired an inconsiderably short time after his birth, and a mother who had no interest in acquiring another husband or having any more children. The loneliness and longing he had felt as a child had come rushing back in one huge and engulfing wave. And then he remembered the orphan. Lilly Nelly Aphrodite could be the closest thing he had to a living relative. No wonder he had decided to seek her out, to befriend her, and then, if the circumstances were right, to unmask himself as her real father.
Tiny Lil had given up any fantasies of being claimed. Her anger had subsided but now she felt doubly bereft. Since visiting the general, Sister August had barely glanced in her direction. It was as if she had simply stopped noticing her, as if she had become someone not entirely there, invisible.
The night after the Christmas show, however,Tiny Lil recalled the effect Hanne’s singing had had on the nun. She had watched the way Sister August’s eyes fixed and observed the way her head rose and fell, just a fraction, to the melody of the song. Even though she tried to hide it, her brow was furled, her face was flushed; nothing could drag her gaze away from the girl on the stage; she was captivated, immersed, spellbound. And Tiny Lil lay and tried to imagine how it must feel to be at the very center of her focus.
At the other end of the bed, Hanne wasn’t asleep. Tiny Lil could tell by her breathing.
“Where did you learn to do that?” Tiny Lil whispered. “To sing?”
“Can’t remember,” Hanne said.
To be a child is to be absolutely without power. At St. Xavier’s, the children had no choice in anything, from the food they ate to the clothes they wore. The only capacity they had was in whom they chose to love. Tiny Lil’s shoulders began to shake despite herself. She sobbed silently into her pillow, her mouth jammed up against the cotton so that no one would hear her or tease her or tell on her.
“Don’t cry,” Hanne whispered. “She’s only a nun.”
But Tiny Lil wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. Hanne sat up, sighed, and blew her hair out of her face. And then she crawled up the bed and climbed in at the other end, Tiny Lil’s end. At first they lay back-to-back, spine to spine, until Tiny Lil’s sobs subsided. And then Hanne rolled round and laid her face against Tiny Lil’s shoulder and her arm across her belly and almost immediately fell asleep. Hanne’s cheek was warm and her arm was heavy. Tiny Lil lay as still as she could, aware that any movement might wake her and she would move away. And then, as she slowly succumbed to the rhythm of Hanne’s breathing and the heat of the body next to hers, she, too, slipped into a dreamless, subterranean state. They woke early the next morning in exactly the same position,
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