Prologue
Her earliest memories were of her Papa and Mama, together with her, living in a small, old house on the outskirts of town. The street they lived on was lined with similar, unseemly houses; crowded enough to feel lost if one did not pay attention, but sparse enough to not feel suffocated. When the sun shone, the place was bright and colourful, but when it rained, it was cold and grey, the darkest place she had ever known. The people around had faces so common that have all blurred into one odd and vague impression, but she remembers that they were nice and friendly; like the plump lady next door who always smelled of honey and fresh bread, whose door she would knock on to ask for sugar to bring back to Mama, or the boy living down the street, slightly older than her, who would sometimes come for her in the afternoon and take her outside to play with his friends.
Every day Papa would leave at the break of dawn, and would not return till after dusk fell; because of Papa's hard work they had this lovely place called home, which Mama would always remind her, and so every time Papa came home she would run to the door to meet him, and he would swoop her up into his strong arms so she could give him a hug as a thank you for that day's hard work. Mama would always be following close behind, with the brightest smile on her face. Papa would then give them each a kiss on the cheek; always Mama first, then her turn, and after that he would carry her in one arm and his other hand holding Mama's as they made their way to the small, crammed kitchen for dinner.
They would talk about their day, things they had seen, people they met, and everything else that came to mind. They were always happy, and although she did not have nice clothes to wear, or the fancy candies she saw in the stores, she did not mind, because having Mama and Papa was enough for her. But sometimes, she wondered if she was enough for Mama and Papa to be happy; times when she heard Mama whispering quietly to Papa, her beautiful features warped with worry and Papa's handsome face strained like hers. Mama would run her hand tenderly through his smooth, dark hair, and he would catch hold of her hand to hold it against his face, telling her not to worry, that those people would not find them; that even if they did find them, there was nothing they could do anymore. On those nights Papa would come to her bedside, thinking she was asleep when she was only pretending to be, and he would stroke lightly on her long hair—soft and dark like his—and call her his sweet, darling girl. She would start to fall asleep, his voice her lullaby as she drifted off into her land of dreams. Little did she know then that soon enough, in her dreams was the only place she would ever see her dearest Papa again.
It came to them one grey, summer afternoon, with that knock on the door—too late to be the postman, who very seldom came anyway, but too early to be Papa. Mama went to the door, and out of curiosity she got up from the floor to follow her, leaving in her place Papa's favourite book which she had been trying forever to learn its difficult words and lengthy sentences. The guest took his hat off and placed it in front of his chest as he gave a quick nod to Mama and her; she frowned, because she had never met him before, but he introduced himself and said he worked with Papa, which Mama nodded in return, so it must be alright. He spoke a few words and paused; she had not been able to understand him clearly, but she heard Mama gasp, and reached one arm around her shoulder to pull her small body close against her own, her other hand up to cover her paled lips as she whispered to herself that this wasn't happening. What wasn't happening? What did this strange man say to Mama? She looked at the man who seemed awfully troubled as he gave a deep bow and apologised to Mama, then turned around and left. Mama closed the door behind him, and—like those puppets she saw other children play with when the strings were let loose—her Mama fell to the floor, held her close as she wept against her tiny chest, crying Papa's name; she cried till her throat was too tired to make another noise, her eyes too dry to let another tear. And Natarle knew, there and then, that Papa was gone forever.
Edited on 19 Oct 2014