The Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery Page A

I tiptoed nearer and listened. The heavy shuffling definitely didn’t belong to any members of my family, and my heart leaped to my throat as I realized that my grandmother must have come back for her furniture. I summoned up all my courage and peeked around the door.
    My grandmother’s room was lavishly furnished. There were three large, elaborately framed paintings on the walls and plush red carpet on the floor. Most of the furniture had been covered with sheets, but I could tell that everything was expensive and nice. It was as though I had discovered a secret room in a castle.
    At the far end of the room, an old, plump woman was removing some dusty books from an even dustier bookcase and packing them into a cardboard box. Her gray hair was rolled up in a bun, and she was humming quietly as she worked. She was the spitting image of the grandmother from Ms. Nemcova’s book. After a while, she turned and saw me in the doorway.
    â€œYou must be Dominika,” she said gently.
    The old woman had blue eyes and a melodic voice, and I ran into the room and threw my arms around her knees.
    â€œAre you my grandmother?” I asked her.
    The old woman looked down at me with astonishment.
    â€œNo,” she said. “I’m your Auntie Mary. But I know your grandmother very well.”
    â€œDo you?” I asked. “What is she like? Is she nice?”
    â€œOf course she’s nice,” the old lady smiled. She bent down to rummage in one of the boxes, and pulled out a leather-bound album.
    â€œHere,” she said. “This is your grandmother Kveta in front of the National Museum.”
    The photograph was a black-and-white image of a lady wearing a fur coat and a hat. She looked very dignified and important, but her face was quite fat and she had a double chin. Her mouth was set in an imperious smile, but she didn’t look very happy, even though she was well-dressed and standing on the steps of a beautiful building.
    â€œThat’s my grandmother?” I said incredulously.
    Auntie Mary must have heard the disappointment in my voice, because she closed the photo album and put it back in the box. There was a little antique table next to the bookcase, and on top of the table was a pink Duralex glass. Auntie Mary picked up the glass and showed it to me.
    â€œThis is a very special glass,” she said. “It will never break, even if you drop it on the floor. Would you like to have it?”
    â€œYes, please,” I nodded enthusiastically.
    She gave me the glass, then she took my hand and led me downstairs. She knocked on the kitchen door and my mother opened it. There was a long, embarrassed pause.
    â€œGood afternoon, Auntie,” my mother said. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
    â€œNo, no,” the old woman replied, and I noticed that her voice was trembling. “I just came down to tell you that it would be better if you could keep your little girl out of our room until I finish packing. I have a lot of work to do, and I’d really like to finish before it gets dark.”
    â€œOf course,” my mother said.
    Auntie Mary nodded, and went back upstairs to my grandmother’s room. My mother watched her leave, and a look of longing appeared on her face.
    â€œLook what I’ve got!” I tried to cheer her up. “I have a big green glove and a special glass that will never break!”
    â€œWhere did you get the glass?” my mother asked.
    â€œAuntie Mary gave it to me!” I said. “Is she really my auntie?”
    My mother sighed heavily. She sat down on a chair and pulled me into her lap.
    â€œNo, she’s not your real aunt,” she told me. “Auntie Mary isn’t anyone’s aunt. She’s my mother’s servant. She spent her whole life working for my parents, but because people aren’t supposed to have servants in communism, we had to call her Auntie Mary in public.”
    â€œShe’s nice,”