Without Waking Up

  Maja’s memory focuses on the moment when she had entered the house for the first time. Her father went ahead of her and sat at the bare wooden table; Maja stayed standing in the doorway and didn’t understand what her aunt wanted from her.
  Don’t just stand in the doorway, she must have said; that’s what her aunt always says whenever Maja leans against the doorframe, waiting for her aunt to thrust the tea towel into her hand or point at the kitchen dresser with her chin when it is time for Maja to set the table.
  It was dusky in the room; Maja had counted the little windows – adzin, dva, try – she could already count to ten but there were only three. Three little windows in thick stone walls, a wood-panelled ceiling. A lamp with a linen shade above the dining table gave out a feeble light. Her aunt turned her back to her and rattled cutlery; something was cooking on the stove. Maja didn’t recognize the smell rising from the pot and couldn’t even decide whether it was pleasant or not. She stood, rooted in the doorway, looking in turn from her father to her aunt and back again. Her father’s face was half in shadow. No one was looking at her, her aunt placed a glass of milk on the table in front of her father, then stirred the saucepan; her father was staring at the tabletop. Well then, he said. And he repeated, well. After a time that seemed endless to Maja, her aunt took a step or two towards her. Maja stood in front of the flower-patterned skirt of her apron; her aunt wiped her wet hands on it and pushed her towards the table. Maja sat down opposite her father, watching as he drank his milk. He had visited her in the children’s home; the matron led Maja to understand that he was her father and this father took her for a walk and treated her to ice cream – strawberry ice cream. When they returned to the home, Maja stood in the middle of the playroom. Strawberry ice cream, she shouted, pointing to her mouth and her dress which was flecked with pink spots. A girl stood in front of her, ran her tongue over Maja’s lips, then the screaming began, and a care worker came in looking severe and, without a word, grabbed the girl under the arms and carried her out of the room.
  Sometime later the same care worker had packed a few pieces of clothing into a bag with the Matryoshka on top, put Maja’s shoes on her and pushed her outside the door to where her father was waiting. She had to go with him because her mother was lying under the ground and her father was going to look after her.
  Maja’s aunt put a glass of warm milk in front of her, sprinkled a little cocoa powder into it, stirred it noisily and gestured for her to drink. She sat down with them, looked at Maja, then stretched out her arm and patted the child’s head.
  Whatever will be, will be, she said.
  Her father said nothing.