Lore by Rachel Seiffert Page B

subdued, tired. Lore has to decide which direction to walk in every morning, which fork to take in the road, where they should stop at night, when they should eat. They stand silently waiting while Lore makes decisions. Move when she tells them, stop when she says so. Only Peter cries and laughs at will.
    They sleep in barns, haylofts, outhouses. Sometimes with permission, mostly without. Lore tries to keep the children clean, rubbing earth off their boots with handfuls of grass, scrubbing their clothes in cold streams without soap. She pops their blisters, pads their boots with leaves, walks off the pain with marching songs. Lore repacks the bags every time they stop. Redistributing weight, clothes, belongings. She checks her apron pocket as she walks, feeling for the smooth fold of notes, the hard coins, her mother’s brooch, and no ring.
    Evening, and the twins have been asking all day about the war. Is it really over? Did we really lose? Why? Lore tries to explain, but her half-answers only lead to more questions, and Lore is exhausted now, and shouts at them to shut up. Liesel cries; Jochen frowns and Jüri yawns, both very tired.
    —Is there anything to eat, Lore? We’re hungry.
    —There’s bread, but that’s for the morning.
    —Please?
    —No.
    Liesel asks where Vati is now, and Lore tells her he is on his way to Hamburg and will be with Oma by the time they arrive. The lie slips out before she has time to think, and she is shocked at herself. The boys crawl under the blankets to sleep, but Liesel is excited now. Her tears have gone, replaced by smiles, and more things to ask about Vati.
    —Lie down, Liesel.
    —Lore!
    —I’m tired, Liesel. I mean it.
    Lore ignores her sister’s tears. Liesel sleeps with her head under the blanket; Peter lies quiet in the baby carriage; the boys are curled together under their coats.
    Lore is woken by dreams of Mutti. The wedding ring is at the bottom of the stream and her mother won’t look at her. Crying, buttoning her coat, closing the door as she leaves. Lore buries herself deep into the stiff oilskin folds, but her eyes won’t close, and sleep won’t come, and her stomach turns to ice. She can’t keep pace with the questions, can’t keep track of her lies.
    Liesel throws up three or four times in the afternoon. They stop for a rest each time, find water for her to drink. Making slow progress, passing above a village, leaving it gradually behind, the church spire still visible over Lore’s shoulder. Liesel shivers and complains of the cold despite the afternoon sun. There is a forest up ahead. Lore decides to stop.
    The twins find a spot not too far into the trees. They lay out the oilskins, try to light a fire, Lore wraps Liesel in blankets and she sleeps. The twins go to gather more kindling, but they still can’t get the wood to burn. Lore divides up the last of the apples from the morning and they rub the potatoes and eat them raw. Liesel wakes up as it gets dark and cries because she doesn’t want to spend the night in the forest. Peter cries, too, and refuses the chunks of potato which Lore has bitten off for him. Jochen watches her in the half-dark.
    —We could go back to that village.
    —And stay in a hotel?
    —We could ask. We could knock on doors and ask for a room.
    —You have money in your apron, Lore.
    —We need to keep that for food.
    —But you said Mutti left us money to go on the train. We must have saved money by walking all this way.
    —It’s an hour down the road, more. It’s going backwards. It’s silly.
    —Please, Lore.
    They whisper in the bluish evening light. Peter cries. The trees are thick and silent around them. Lore folds up the oilskins with the twins, and they load up the baby carriage once again.
    In the village the streets are empty. They are turned away at every house; too many faces, too many mouths. An old man gives them sour milk and swaps their potatoes for eggs. Liesel throws up again in the main square, by the