The Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery Page B

I said. “She’s just like The Grandmother!”
    â€œYes, she is.” My mother’s eyes welled with tears. “Auntie Mary took care of us when we were little and looked after us when we were sick. She was more of a mother than my mother ever was, and I really loved her—” she choked back a sob and her chin began to tremble.
    It was terrible to see my mother cry. I threw my arms around her neck and patted her hair with Mrs. Nedbal’s mitt.
    â€œDon’t cry, Mummy!” I pleaded.
    â€œI’m all right, little one.” My mother wiped her eyes and smiled weakly. “Don’t worry.”
    She took the mitt and inspected it. “Did Auntie Mary give you this as well?” she asked.
    â€œNo, I found it in the Nedbals’ kitchen,” I said. “It was lying on the floor but it’s very clean and green! Mrs. Nedbal says that they have to go and live in the street because nobody cares for them. Do they really have to live in the street?”
    My mother laughed and shook her head.
    â€œOf course not,” she said. “We gave them and Mr. Kozel some money and helped them find a new apartment. Don’t you worry about Mrs. Nedbal. She likes to try to make people feel sorry for her, but when other people are having a hard time, she always seems rather happy.”
    â€œIs that why she smiles all the time?” I asked.
    â€œMaybe it is,” my mother said wistfully.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I asked, looking around the kitchen. “Are you cooking something?”
    â€œYes, I am,” my mother smiled. “We’re having some people over to help us celebrate getting the house back, so I’m baking a cake and making some strudel. Would you like to help?”
    â€œOkay!” I said. “Can I sit up on the bench?”
    My parents threw a party to celebrate their victory, and the house filled with people laughing and talking at normal volume. My mother was dressed in a fashionable outfit my dad had bought her as a present, and she looked very pretty. My father was in high spirits, and I could hear his booming laugh. There were at least ten people in the living room, but the only person I really knew was Tomas Glatz, my father’s best friend. Mr. Glatz was a Jewish intellectual who came from Slovakia and spoke many languages. He and my father had met when my dad was working for the government and, after the Soviet invasion, he and his wife, Helena, had stayed friends with my parents in spite of their expulsion from the party. Whenever my father needed to make a phone call without the Nedbals listening on the other line, he would drive to Prague and visit the Glatzes. They were a lovely couple and I liked them very much. According to my mother, they had been inspired by her decision to have me, and Helena had recently given birth to their own baby daughter, Monika.
    My dad was a good host and made sure that everyone was enjoying themselves, but the real star of the party was the glamorous Mr. Poloraich, an elegant man who had once been a famous spy in America. Mr. Poloraich had striking features and tufts of hair sticking out of his ears and nose, which gave him the look of a puppet stuffed with straw. He had also known my father in the old days and, after the invasion, he would often turn up with a bottle of scotch and spend the evening in the kitchen talking politics with my dad. He was a very good storyteller, and I couldn’t help noticing that in spite of his hairy nose and ears, a lot of ladies seemed to congregate around him. He stood in the middle of the room with a cigar in one hand and a glass of scotch in the other, and regaled the crowd with amusing stories from the West. Midway through one of them, he was interrupted by a series of loud exclamations in the hallway, and we turned to see a well-dressed lady rushing into the room.
    The lady must have been in her sixties, but she wore a tight-fitting purple suit with