The Beloved by Annah Faulkner

father became a Nazi during the German occupation. We thought she looked more like a gypsy than a princess.
    â€˜Stefi!’ I called.
    She looked up and grinned. There was a hole in her mouth where a tooth had fallen out. ‘Hello, Bertie Lightfoot!’
    I waited for her to say something smarty-pants about my name but she didn’t.
    â€˜So this is where you are.’ Mama arrived with a pile of boxes.
    Stefi scooted over. ‘Hello. Are you Bertie’s mother?’
    â€˜Yes, I am.’
    â€˜I’m Stefi Breuer.’
    Mama smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, Stefi.’
    â€˜You too,’ said Stefi, but she was looking at my boot. ‘Polio, was it? Polio’s a virus. A bug too small for the human eye to see. Without a microscope, that is, and a much bigger microscope than mine.’
    â€˜You have a microscope?’
    â€˜Yes. Want to come to my house and see it?’
    See it? At her place? ‘Yes!’
    â€˜Mother!’ Stefi shouted. ‘That’s my mother,’ she said to Mama, pointing. ‘She’s buying stockings.’
    Mama’s eyes widened. ‘Stockings?’
    Stefi’s mother looked up. ‘What’s wrong?’
    â€˜Sorry,’ Mama said. ‘Nothing.’
    â€˜Nothing?’
    â€˜It’s a little . . . unusual, stockings in this climate.’
    Mrs Breuer pulled a pound note from her purse. A tiny muscle beat in her jaw. Mama went over and held out her hand. ‘I’m Lily May Lightfoot.’
    The shopkeeper counted out the change. Mrs Breuer studied the coins in her hand, counted them again and tipped them slowly into her purse. Mama lowered her arm. Mrs Breuer put the purse and the parcel carefully into her woven Buka basket, then suddenly she smiled and held out her hand. ‘I’m Magda Breuer.’

    Over the small end of her microscope, Stefi and I became friends. We examined the amazing detail of leaves, ants and bugs. There was a whole other life going on under the microscope, right beneath your nose. I liked Stefi. You never knew what she was going to do or say next and she never stopped asking questions. Why did zebras have stripes? Why didn’t snakes have legs? Why did oil – which felt heavier than water – float on top when you mixed them? She was always inventing things: a message machine made from a matchbox hung on a cotton reel that flew across the yard on a string. Telephones made from holes punched in Craven A tins and threaded with wire so we could talk to each other in different rooms.
    Mama liked Stefi too. ‘She’s the brightest kid I’ve ever met. Hopefully, her brains will rub off on you.’
    The Breuers lived in Boroko, not far from school, in a big house full of bright cushions and cane furniture. Their dunny was out the back and Stefi said a man in a red truck came twice a week to empty the cans and you could be sitting on it when suddenly there’d be a blast of air on your bum. The dunny-cart man had snuck in and replaced the cans while you sat. Mrs Breuer smoked like a bushfire. There were Craven A tins, matches and smouldering ashtrays everywhere and Stefi said it made her nervous to see her mother heading off to the toilet with a cigarette. Methane and matches, she said, could blow her and the dunny sky-high. Mrs Breuer worked part-time at the library, another place I reckoned those cigarettes could be a menace.
    Stefi’s father, Konrad Breuer, was a tall man with eyes like tapioca and trousers that he wore too high at the waist. I didn’t see any colours on Mr Breuer at first but straightaway something about him gave me the creeps. His strange eyes took in everything – people, machines and tropical ulcers – all with the same flat stare. Only when he looked at Stefi did they go kind of slitty, as if he was trying to work out what she was thinking. Mr Breuer sold aviation equipment and was looking for an office in town. When he saw