littered across the floor, their pages open at some pictures. A bent-over lady stood looking at her, adjusted her stocking; a beer bottle lolling just left of her rump. The girl stepped over it – and her – and on to the threshold. The braid was long back in her mouth.
The second room was dark. A pair of curtains blocked the sole window, hung heavily, as though weighted by lead. The bed stood against the far wall, narrow, a body spread along its length: Zuzka standing in front of it, her shoulders rolled into a hunch. She was reaching down to the body with both hands, had lifted one of its arms into her chest. It was dark, and Lieschen didn’t see much, just Zuzka’s movement, her left hand holding on to the woman’s elbow, the right hand pinching along her naked bicep. She’d grab a twist of skin between forefinger and thumb and turn it, turn it hard, it seemed to the child, up and down that long naked arm. The only other things visible to the girl were a foot, sticking out from under the sheet at one end, and a face sticking out at the other. But what a face! Lieschen had a picture book of angels who looked like this: bones fit for birds, stretching smooth the elfin skin, the long, thin face of a fairy, running to a point on a dimpled chin. Her eyes were big and hungry and green: it was as though a patch of moss had sprung up amongst the lashes, the only thing of colour in the half-dark of the room. They did not move.
It was hard to tell whether or not she was dead.
Then she blinked, both lids coming down over her eyes, blinked once, unhurried, the skin so thin you’d think that it might rip. Zuzka saw it, too: let go of the arm, a cry of anguish falling from her lips. She tore off the sheet that covered the woman, found her naked on a rubber mat; put both hands on her hip and rolled her slowly on one side. The skin, so white on chest and arms, turned raw and livid on the back: holes the size of Lieschen’s palm, staring out the midst of her, pink at the edges, their centres liver-dark and wet. She was slick with moisture from the waist down. It was only now that Lieschen saw it that the girl recognised the smell of rot and urine standing in the room. The woman’s hair had been cut, roughly, into a two-inch tangle that ran from scalp to ear to nape. The spine looked like a row of knuckles gathered for a punch.
Zuzka dropped her. She should have eased her down gently, rolled her over on her side, but did not seem to have the strength for it: dropped her, slipped and lost her balance, crying, turning, finding Lieschen standing there and gathering her in her arms.
‘The swine,’ she murmured, hugging Lieschen hard, ‘the swine.’
Their cheeks were side by side, the child’s chin flat against her crouching friend’s shoulder. It left free the view of the stranger in her bed, eyelids blinking from their perch upon the pillow, one flutter, then two, then three.
‘Beer,’ Zuzka said into her shoulder. ‘We must fetch Dr Beer.’
She lifted Lieschen up and carried her, legs dangling, away from the room and out on to the landing, then dropped her back to her feet intent on locking the door behind them. The child watched her as she stood searching for the right key: she dropped the key ring twice, had trouble finding the hole, was muttering to herself, the evening light from the windows starting to fail, her breath a penny rattling in a tin. When she dropped the keys yet again, Lieschen stooped to pick them up for her, tried one in the door. It fitted and the lock turned under the pressure of her hand.
‘What’s wrong with that woman?’ she asked as she handed the keys back to her friend. Zuzka took them, held on to her hand.
‘A man lives in that flat,’ she said. ‘He’ – she paused, uncertain – ‘he’s bad. A bad man, you understand? But you must go home now.’
She turned, dragged Lieschen behind her down the stairs, ran out into the courtyard.
‘You must go home,’ she repeated, but
The second room was dark. A pair of curtains blocked the sole window, hung heavily, as though weighted by lead. The bed stood against the far wall, narrow, a body spread along its length: Zuzka standing in front of it, her shoulders rolled into a hunch. She was reaching down to the body with both hands, had lifted one of its arms into her chest. It was dark, and Lieschen didn’t see much, just Zuzka’s movement, her left hand holding on to the woman’s elbow, the right hand pinching along her naked bicep. She’d grab a twist of skin between forefinger and thumb and turn it, turn it hard, it seemed to the child, up and down that long naked arm. The only other things visible to the girl were a foot, sticking out from under the sheet at one end, and a face sticking out at the other. But what a face! Lieschen had a picture book of angels who looked like this: bones fit for birds, stretching smooth the elfin skin, the long, thin face of a fairy, running to a point on a dimpled chin. Her eyes were big and hungry and green: it was as though a patch of moss had sprung up amongst the lashes, the only thing of colour in the half-dark of the room. They did not move.
It was hard to tell whether or not she was dead.
Then she blinked, both lids coming down over her eyes, blinked once, unhurried, the skin so thin you’d think that it might rip. Zuzka saw it, too: let go of the arm, a cry of anguish falling from her lips. She tore off the sheet that covered the woman, found her naked on a rubber mat; put both hands on her hip and rolled her slowly on one side. The skin, so white on chest and arms, turned raw and livid on the back: holes the size of Lieschen’s palm, staring out the midst of her, pink at the edges, their centres liver-dark and wet. She was slick with moisture from the waist down. It was only now that Lieschen saw it that the girl recognised the smell of rot and urine standing in the room. The woman’s hair had been cut, roughly, into a two-inch tangle that ran from scalp to ear to nape. The spine looked like a row of knuckles gathered for a punch.
Zuzka dropped her. She should have eased her down gently, rolled her over on her side, but did not seem to have the strength for it: dropped her, slipped and lost her balance, crying, turning, finding Lieschen standing there and gathering her in her arms.
‘The swine,’ she murmured, hugging Lieschen hard, ‘the swine.’
Their cheeks were side by side, the child’s chin flat against her crouching friend’s shoulder. It left free the view of the stranger in her bed, eyelids blinking from their perch upon the pillow, one flutter, then two, then three.
‘Beer,’ Zuzka said into her shoulder. ‘We must fetch Dr Beer.’
She lifted Lieschen up and carried her, legs dangling, away from the room and out on to the landing, then dropped her back to her feet intent on locking the door behind them. The child watched her as she stood searching for the right key: she dropped the key ring twice, had trouble finding the hole, was muttering to herself, the evening light from the windows starting to fail, her breath a penny rattling in a tin. When she dropped the keys yet again, Lieschen stooped to pick them up for her, tried one in the door. It fitted and the lock turned under the pressure of her hand.
‘What’s wrong with that woman?’ she asked as she handed the keys back to her friend. Zuzka took them, held on to her hand.
‘A man lives in that flat,’ she said. ‘He’ – she paused, uncertain – ‘he’s bad. A bad man, you understand? But you must go home now.’
She turned, dragged Lieschen behind her down the stairs, ran out into the courtyard.
‘You must go home,’ she repeated, but
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