Wunderland(97)

Now, though, something in the Virgin’s gently vacant gaze gave rise to one last heartfelt, desperate request: Please, Ava asked her silently. Please let her be alive. Please let her come back soon and take me home.

“Well, Ava.” The Mutter Oberin’s words were tight and terse. “I understand that you spoke very rudely to our visitors.”

Ava squeezed her hands together hard enough that her knuckles grew nearly as white as the statue’s smooth, pale cheek. “I was only telling the truth.”

“And what is that?”

Ava looked up rebelliously. “My mama isn’t dead.”

“But you said more than that, didn’t you.” The nun leaned back in her chair, eyeing Ava over her glasses. Her face was as creased as a walnut shell: rumor had it she was at least a hundred years old. She’d been known to beat children with a heavy volume of Starck’s Prayer Book, kept specifically for that purpose.

Ava bit her cheek and said nothing.

“I understand,” the Mutter went on, her voice lowering in tone in a way that made it more unnerving than if she’d shouted, “that you said your mother had not been…not been violated.”

“Violated?”

The Mother Superior cleared her throat. “It means—the word you used to the Dunkels. The thing you said hadn’t happened to her.”

“Raped?”

Frowning slightly, the nun nodded.

“That’s because she wasn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter if she was or was not. We do not speak in that way here. Ever.”

Ava scuffed the toe of one shoe against the floor, feeling the sole pull back slightly where the seams had worn away. On rainy days her feet soaked right through. Until the next Red Cross clothing shipment arrived, however, there was nothing that could be done.

“What on earth made you think it was all right to say such things?” the Mother Superior went on. “Where did you even get those awful ideas?”

Ava shook her head mutely. She knew better than to rat out Maja; in her half year spent roaming Berlin’s rubbled streets the latter had seemingly perfected every surreptitious torture trick in the book. The last girl who’d tattled on her had been so fiercely pinched in retaliation that her arms resembled those of a black-and-blue leopard.

“Ava.” Mother Superior let out a short sigh. “Look at me. I must make one thing very clear to you.”

Ava stared at her bare, grubby knees, knowing full well what was coming. Knowing, too, that it was wrong. Wrong-wrong-wrong.

“Your mother,” the Mother Superior continued, “has not been heard from since before the end of the war. Indeed, she wasn’t even present at your grandparents’ funeral. We have waited over a year for her, or another relative, to contact us. Your photograph is in every Red Cross office in the sector. I understand that it’s painful, but you must accept that your mother isn’t going to come back.”

“She is.” Ava kicked the wooden rung on the Unruhestuhl. “Even Greta says she is.”

“Greta is a child,” the Mother Superior said sharply. “There are certain things in life that only adults can understand. But there is more involved here.” Leaning forward, she looked Ava in the eyes. “You know that there are many, many girls and boys in Germany who don’t have family or a roof over their heads. The mission given to us by God is to take them in and find them homes. But we can only do that if and when we have space. And even then we can barely care for them, especially since the Allies won’t give food or clothing to Germans. Not even German children.” She paused. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Ava shook her head. The gesture felt strangely passive, as though she were a puppet and someone was making her move with strings.

“Every child that comes to our doors has a right to our care and protection. But we can only give it for a little while—just until we find a safe, good place for them.” She sighed. “We’ve now had two fine opportunities to find such places for you. But both times, you have rejected them outright.” Planting her hands on her desk, the Mother Superior heaved herself creakily to her feet. As she made her way around the desk Ava shrank against the chair’s hard oak back, though the dreaded prayer book was nowhere to be seen. But the Mother Superior merely perched herself in the other chair and placed her hands on Ava’s bare thighs.

“If you don’t leave,” she said, “it means we can’t help another child. And do you really want that? To deprive another little girl of food, of clothes, of a home?” She leaned closer, so that Ava could smell the combination of mint tooth powder and the cod oil she took daily for her arthritis: a sick-sweet blend of pristine and putrid. “Do you really want to do the same thing to another child that the Americans and the Russians and the British did to you?”

Ava felt powerless to look away. What she wanted to say was Yes. Yes, I do—just until my mother comes. But somehow, all she could do was shake her head.

Mother Superior nodded. Releasing Ava’s legs, she sat back. “I didn’t think so. So tonight, you will apologize to Sister Agnes and Kapit?n Ron for your behavior. And for Evening Devotion you will pray both for forgiveness, and that you might be lucky enough that a kind couple like the Dunkels will make you their daughter.”

Daughter. Every cell in Ava’s body wanted to shout out: No! No, I won’t! But as the nun held her gaze she once more found herself unable to do anything but nod.