Dobryd by Ann Charney Page A

There had to be something else. I was certain she was keeping the real reason from me.
    Perhaps I had caught this habit of suspicion from my aunt, who was never satisfied with the explanations that seemed plausible to most people. As it happened I was right to doubt my mother. But there was no satisfaction in my discovery.
    I learned the truth about my mother’s trips from Elsa, the daughter of one of our neighbours. It was on a day that had begun with much pleasure. I had a new dress, my first real dress. Until then my aunt had made my clothes from old remnants or dyed sackcloth.
    Elsa was one of those girls who are born to be coquettes. There was no other way of explaining her obsession with her appearance. She did not acquire her tastes from her grandmother, with whom she lived. Nor were there any women at the time in the town whom Elsa could have regarded as models to emulate. Yet, in spite of the drabness around us, Elsa, on the verge of adolescence, managed to develop the same preoccupations with grooming that I was to discover a few years later among teenagers in Canada.
    When I came down the stairs from our flat, I spotted her in the doorway leading to the courtyard, but I didn’t go over to her. Normally she had no use for me: I was much too young to share her pastimes or to be of any interest to her. This time, however, my changed appearance roused her. She called me over and I walked towards her, proud of her attention, and stiff with the responsibility of keeping my new clothes clean. Elsa looked me over with enthusiasm.
    â€œHow nice you look!” she exclaimed. “I wish I could get something decent to wear.” An expression of resentment and spite settled over her pretty features. “You’re lucky. Your mother works for the Russians and she can get you anything you want.”
    â€œYou’re wrong,” I protested. “My mother didn’t get this dress from the Russians. She bought it for me in Lwow.”
    Elsa looked at me with contempt. “I know how she got it better than you do, silly. Of course the Russians didn’t give it to her. What do you take me for? I’m not a baby like you. I know how much they pay. But I also know that she didn’t just buy it. She must have stolen plenty from the Russians to get that dress for you.”
    For a long moment I could think of nothing to say. Was Elsa serious, or was this just another form of the teasing to which she subjected all those younger than her?
    â€œStolen? How can you say that? My mother told me. She said it was just luck. She found someone who needed the money and she bought it for very little.”
    â€œYou’re just a kid. What do you expect her to say? She’s not going to tell you the truth. It’s too serious a matter for her to trust you with.”
    At this point Elsa’s insinuations clicked with my own previous suspicions. I became certain that she did know something I didn’t know. A wave of terror, something like nausea, came over me, and I knew I shouldn’t persist. But it was too late. Too much had already been said to turn back.
    â€œWhat do you know? Tell me. What do you mean—the truth?”
    Elsa looked at me in a different way, calculating just how much she could benefit from the anxiety she had just evoked in me. After a minute she turned away, as if she had no further interest in talking to me.
    â€œI can’t tell you. I overheard my grandmother talking about it to a neighbour. She’d beat me if she found out I told you. You’d better go away.”
    But I was not going to be dismissed. Besides, I sensed that Elsa was after something. If only I could guess what it was.
    â€œYour grandmother won’t find out. I promise. Look, I’ll give you my piece of white tulle. Maybe you can make something out of it.” I trembled inside as I committed the precious bit of cloth that wasn’t mine to give. But Elsa wasn’t