head popped out of a window above.
‘We’re here for the puppet show.’
The door opened with a click and we slipped in. A man with a smile like a summer’s day greeted us. I felt a sharp pang in my heart, remembering my Tatus. The man led us into a dimly lit living room where some chairs were laid out, all facing in one direction, ready for our show.
I felt awkward without the usual stage, but I draped the coat over two chairs and told Hannah to hide behind it, together with the princess and the monkey.
The room filled, and the cheerful father who had sent the invitation sat down next to his son, the birthday boy of nine, who was right in front of us.
I announced the show, then ducked down behind the coat and whispered to Hannah to start. She reached up and pushed the princess over the edge of the coat, bouncing her up and down as if she were promenading with a spring in her step. The monkey joined her and the two began a game of hide and seek, accompanied by some silly babble. Hannah clearly had talent.
Then, with a loud clatter, one of my favourite sound effects – a pot-lid crashing to the floor – I produced the villain, who abducted the princess, leaving a shrieking Hannah and a jumping monkey. What a tumultuous play it was: one minute it looked as if the prince, the doctor and the fool would win, then the villain took over again; but in the end it was the fool who rescued the princess in front of an enthusiastic audience.
Hannah beamed as she bowed with me, and even more so when the man handed me a small pouch of sugar and a jar of strawberry jam.
We left the house, and when we were out of sight, I carefully rolled back the cellophane and opened the jar. A long-forgotten smell greeted us: sweet and full, a whole happy summer in a jar.
‘Come, Hannah, have a scoop.’
In a flash she transformed once more into the shy girl I had met a few hours earlier.
‘It’s OK, Hannah, you deserve it, you helped me out.’ I smiled at her and held the jar in front of her nose.
She stuck her tiny finger into the jam and left it there for a moment, not quite sure whether to trust this delicious, sticky substance. Was it a trick? Maybe it wasn’t jam at all?
Then she bent her finger, pulled it out and quickly put it into her mouth. She could not hide her pleasure – it was everything it had promised to be.
By now the light had faded; and it was not long until curfew.
‘Let me take you home.’
‘But my brother . . . you promised.’
‘We can look for him on the way.’
I took her tiny hand in mine – it weighed almost nothing, was as light and thin as a bird’s wing – and she guided me swiftly through labyrinthine backstreets until the road opened out in front of a large, three-storey building – a benevolent, whitewashed creature with too many eyes and a large mouth for an entrance.
‘You live here?’
Hannah nodded.
‘Yes, and a lot of other children do too.’ Pride shone in her voice. She let go of my hand, stepped on to the porch and rang the bell. We could hear its sound echo deep inside the house. Quick running steps, then the door was flung open.
‘Hannah! Where have you been? We thought we’d lost you.’
A woman, her flushed face in contrast to her white, starched uniform, a pair of round golden spectacles framing her thin face, scooped Hannah up and lifted her over the threshold. Her delight at seeing Hannah made me smile and she embraced her like a long-lost treasure.
Only then did she notice me.
‘And who are you, young man?’
‘He is a puppet player.’ Hannah was hopping up and down with excitement, her dark curls bouncing. ‘I helped him. He’s called Mika.’
‘What kind of a place is this?’ I asked.
‘It’s an orphanage, dear, and Hannah here is one of our little ones. Would you like to come in? Now that you have brought back our angel we at least owe you some tea.’
And so Margaret, the matron of the orphanage, introduced herself. Very soon a group of
‘We’re here for the puppet show.’
The door opened with a click and we slipped in. A man with a smile like a summer’s day greeted us. I felt a sharp pang in my heart, remembering my Tatus. The man led us into a dimly lit living room where some chairs were laid out, all facing in one direction, ready for our show.
I felt awkward without the usual stage, but I draped the coat over two chairs and told Hannah to hide behind it, together with the princess and the monkey.
The room filled, and the cheerful father who had sent the invitation sat down next to his son, the birthday boy of nine, who was right in front of us.
I announced the show, then ducked down behind the coat and whispered to Hannah to start. She reached up and pushed the princess over the edge of the coat, bouncing her up and down as if she were promenading with a spring in her step. The monkey joined her and the two began a game of hide and seek, accompanied by some silly babble. Hannah clearly had talent.
Then, with a loud clatter, one of my favourite sound effects – a pot-lid crashing to the floor – I produced the villain, who abducted the princess, leaving a shrieking Hannah and a jumping monkey. What a tumultuous play it was: one minute it looked as if the prince, the doctor and the fool would win, then the villain took over again; but in the end it was the fool who rescued the princess in front of an enthusiastic audience.
Hannah beamed as she bowed with me, and even more so when the man handed me a small pouch of sugar and a jar of strawberry jam.
We left the house, and when we were out of sight, I carefully rolled back the cellophane and opened the jar. A long-forgotten smell greeted us: sweet and full, a whole happy summer in a jar.
‘Come, Hannah, have a scoop.’
In a flash she transformed once more into the shy girl I had met a few hours earlier.
‘It’s OK, Hannah, you deserve it, you helped me out.’ I smiled at her and held the jar in front of her nose.
She stuck her tiny finger into the jam and left it there for a moment, not quite sure whether to trust this delicious, sticky substance. Was it a trick? Maybe it wasn’t jam at all?
Then she bent her finger, pulled it out and quickly put it into her mouth. She could not hide her pleasure – it was everything it had promised to be.
By now the light had faded; and it was not long until curfew.
‘Let me take you home.’
‘But my brother . . . you promised.’
‘We can look for him on the way.’
I took her tiny hand in mine – it weighed almost nothing, was as light and thin as a bird’s wing – and she guided me swiftly through labyrinthine backstreets until the road opened out in front of a large, three-storey building – a benevolent, whitewashed creature with too many eyes and a large mouth for an entrance.
‘You live here?’
Hannah nodded.
‘Yes, and a lot of other children do too.’ Pride shone in her voice. She let go of my hand, stepped on to the porch and rang the bell. We could hear its sound echo deep inside the house. Quick running steps, then the door was flung open.
‘Hannah! Where have you been? We thought we’d lost you.’
A woman, her flushed face in contrast to her white, starched uniform, a pair of round golden spectacles framing her thin face, scooped Hannah up and lifted her over the threshold. Her delight at seeing Hannah made me smile and she embraced her like a long-lost treasure.
Only then did she notice me.
‘And who are you, young man?’
‘He is a puppet player.’ Hannah was hopping up and down with excitement, her dark curls bouncing. ‘I helped him. He’s called Mika.’
‘What kind of a place is this?’ I asked.
‘It’s an orphanage, dear, and Hannah here is one of our little ones. Would you like to come in? Now that you have brought back our angel we at least owe you some tea.’
And so Margaret, the matron of the orphanage, introduced herself. Very soon a group of
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