Chapter 2: An Ordinary Girl
As the days wore on—a week, and then another with that scowling man left in the past, disappearing into the night—Maria's life had the same routine, the same pattern and texture. About all that had changed was the weather moaning outside. That cool evening with its drenching rain had given way to the swirl and howl of snow by the following Monday, gusts of fine powder mounded on the streets. The temperature sank so low that she spent most of the day huddled in her nightgown with her quilt pulled tight around her shoulders, leafing through a worn novel—perhaps less of what her father might have one day dreamed she would read and more what girls in her college classes hid in their bags—or strumming her guitar. Late the night before as the flurry had transformed into a deluge and a quick glance through the tiny window in her washroom made her wonder if the snow outside had already transformed from drifts to the same glaciers that loved many a mountain.
But there hadn't been too much time to think on it, a call coming on the communal phone, along with a knock on her door. "Closed until further notice," the headmaster had said, having fought his way in to the main office to make the calls to the small staff. (The students who couldn't conquer the snow and ice simply wouldn't come, he'd added after Maria's worried question.) The worst had melted by Thursday, leaving them to try to attempt to interest their students in their studies after a few free days just ahead of the weekend and all its distractions. At least the next round of snow falling this Monday morning was merely a gentle dusting of powder over the few inches clinging on from the last snowstorm.
Apart from those odd days, itching to be out of her small room and the memories that plied at her from every side, it was the same as it always was.
She woke earlier than she would have preferred, sometimes pulling her quilt closer about her shoulders as she ignored the morning for a few more minutes, not quite ready to step out into the cold day still blanketed by the darkness. It was so warm in her bed, bundled away from the night, wishing she could wait for the first splashes of morning light to pull her from sleep. But there always just enough to do before she had to leave for her small classroom.
Her feet froze when they touched the scratched wooden floor, a shudder running up her back as she tried to pull her snagged flannel nightgown tighter. She snapped her small lamp on—squinting at the sudden glare—and grabbed for the small watch on the side table. Another memory of her father she had managed to cling to over the years, always hidden deep in her small collection of possessions away from prying eyes, she twisted the wheel at the top to reset it for the next little while before peering at the hands. Half past five: time to be getting up and ready for the day. At least there wasn't too much to think about until she reached school and her classroom. After all, every morning began like the one before.
She showered, always impatient for water that was more than tepid, sometimes so long she worried she might be late for the start of the school day as waited for something warm rather than frigid. Maria always held her braid out of the way; there was no time to dry all of her hair at the start of the day, and with the cold outside...She'd never forgotten her foster mother's warnings about frozen hair and the chills. Drying her arms and legs as quickly as she could—cocooning herself in her worn towel as she wrapped it around her breasts—Maria fairly ran back into her bedroom and slammed the door behind herself, the lingering steam bringing a fresh chill to her skin. She'd open it again before she left so that the dark mold she had scrubbed away when she first let the room didn't reappear.
Reaching into her wardrobe, she pulled out everything she needed for the day: fresh underclothes, her chemise, whichever of her dresses looked the nicest. (She washed most of them each weekend, but some always came out of the soapy water better than others.) Twisting her arms around her back, she scowled as she worked the buttons up from her waist until she couldn't quite touch the next and she had to struggle over her shoulders, at last meeting in the middle of her back. Perhaps a roommate would still be nice.
With a seat on the edge of her bed, Maria tugged her braid apart, her fingers tangled in the frayed ends and flyaway chunks toward the top. Running a brush through it all, she wondered as always how many more months would pass until she finally decided it was too much, when she would finally trim the most ragged ends away. And then, her last task before closing the door behind her, Maria worked her hair into a tight plait, winding it around the back of her head before securing it all with a handful of pins. (As she often did, she scraped her scalp several times; the fact that the metal was rounded didn't make it hurt any less.)
Finally presentable though a few strands of hair had refused to be captured by her braid and the band at the very end, Maria made her way down the few flights of stairs to the boarding house's kitchen, traipsing step over step without a worry about the noise. Most of her neighbors were already at work, whether baking another round of bread or pastries (not that she knew much about baking anything), or searching for a fare. She occasionally ran into one of the nurses that lived around her, eating a meal that looked more like a dinner than a breakfast as they yawned after a long night's work, their white starched dresses sometimes stained with dark marks she wasn't quite brave enough to inquire after. Every now and then when she passed a pair of them in the hallway, Maria heard a few muttered complaints about the night before. A hemorrhage, an unexpected hospital birth, a wild man clawing at them...All the thoughts that would turn her stomach.
But today, at least, as she prepared for her first workday of the week without another soul in sight—slicing bread and cheese for her lunch later that day, wrapped in a towel with the final apple from her last greengrocer's visit—she had a treat from one of her neighbors. The baker a room or two down from hers must have purloined a bag of croissants the afternoon before, leaving one for each of them. Even almost a day old, it easily flaked apart in her hands even as she pushed it to the back of her little cupboard. Later, she thought, licking the crumbs from her fingers. Oh, the butter is lovely—
Somewhere very far in the distance, bells were chiming: one, two...seven in all. And far too late to have time to do much more in her classroom than toss her students' latest papers on her desk before the chattering children overwhelmed her. Really, there wasn't time for anything, not even a mouthful of that lovely pastry. Every Sunday night, you tell yourself today will be different. It never is.
Her lunch in hand, Maria nearly ran up the stairs again, muttering to herself what she needed to take with her. Her students' papers packed into her worn bag along with a few schillings and coins for the day ahead—a book if she had a few moments to herself—nothing else, really. Just her coat thrown over her shoulders and buttoned up tight to her throat. She half slammed the door to her room and the cluttered life behind her with a wince at the thud of door against frame (she reminded herself that almost everyone else in the house was gone), nearly tripping over her own feet on the flights of stairs to the ground floor and the frigid street outside.
If Salzburg had managed to offer them all a few days of warmer weather over the last two weeks or so, at least in the morning as the sun burnt off the mist and the occasional dusting of snow, the city and mountains had viciously remembered themselves today. In just the few minutes to walk to the bus stop just a block away, her face was already pink with the wind whistling down from the mountains, her coat buttoned all the way to her throat and her arms tight around her waist, fingers tucked in the pockets against the cold.
As she often did, she missed the bus she would have preferred, instead waiting another ten minutes for the next, struggling not to yawn as she wondered if she would have time to buy a coffee before she began to set up her classroom for the day. She shivered in the cold, folding herself into the corner of the bus shelter; she ignored the clutter at her feet, because at least here, she was out of the wind's line of fire, no longer pelted by the gentler gusts of snow.
It was only a few minutes before the brown bus screeched to a halt in front of the shelter, Maria standing back as an elderly woman—hair bundled beneath narrow brimmed black hat, a dark blue jacket clasped around her waist—and a young man hardly older than her mounted the steps. She followed him, placing her coins in the driver's hand before searching for an empty seat. Maybe in a different part of Salzburg where weekend evenings went on well into the morning, most of the seats would be vacant, but in her little neighborhood, the only people who weren't on their way to their jobs were already there. Taking a place beside an elderly man with a cane clutched between his legs and long beard hanging over his chest, Maria yawned again as the engine came to life again. If she wasn't careful, even through the bumps and jostling, the bus might lull her to sleep. Again.
The man beside her tapped her shoulder after the second stop, his hand lingering a little longer than she liked. When she took her seat again, Maria slid over to the side, leaving room for someone else to sit beside her, hopefully someone like her: a girl, young, wandering through the first years of her life. Not like...well, there was no point in thinking about it anymore, it happened more often than she wished it did. There wasn't much more to do than ignore it.
The bus rumbled over the rough stone streets as it always did, occasionally tossing her this way and that, once pushing her against the window and drawing a hiss from deep in her throat at the cold glass. (No chance of an early morning nap now, that was certain.) And at least within the chassis of the bus, the chill was mostly held at bay, though the moment she disembarked, Maria knew it would all be just like when she shivered in the shelter before. Maybe I'll at least have time to buy that coffee.
As so often turned out to be the case, she was wrong. Instead, she scrambled along her route and hoped not to be late again, having to pass the inexpensive coffee shops that dotted the streets this far from the nicer neighborhoods of Salzburg that surrounded the concert halls she could occasionally afford to visit. She pushed her way past women going to the market with their baskets tucked into the crooks of their elbows, men walking ever so slowly to the employment office to see if anything new was available, children too young for school chasing one another—tossing balls and sticks too and fro as, at least sometimes, an older sibling snapped for them to come back. Don't be late, Maria told herself, clutching her worn bag closer. They always tell you that you're late for everything, except for releasing your students on time.
It was a small building rising at the far end of the road, the school where she spent five days a week, and when exams had come at the end of the prior term, even Saturdays and Sunday afternoons; her pile of papers had been pointless to bring home. The walls and windows were a little worn over the course of the years, even the stones before the threshold eroded and bent after decades—perhaps even centuries!—of men and women coming and going, to say nothing of children trodding over the uneven rocks.
Right now, the halls were quiet, no children roaming the corridors and wandering to their classrooms at the start of the day or, at least those who lived nearby, back from lunch at home. Maria was still a little out of breath from her final dash down the street, hardly stopping to say "good morning" to her fellow teachers. Many of them were young women just like her—trying to find their first place in life, struggling to step up and out of the world where they had been raised—though a few of them were almost like her neighbor, years in a classroom behind them, greyed and battered by the decades.
At least her classroom was a sanctuary for the next half hour or so as she unpacked her student's papers, smoothed her hair back, and looked over the plans for today she had made at the end of last week. More mathematics—her least favorite subject—and history, today mostly concerning Maria Theresa, the only woman who had commanded the empire before its dissolution. But even after waking, showering, wishing she had time to eat breakfast, and not missing a second bus, she was still tired, wishing she had had a little while longer in bed. At least I was warm there, Maria thought as she shivered, refusing to shrug her coat off before she had to. At least it was still clean after a thorough rinsing—
No, she reminded herself, folding it over the back of her chair...and letting out a sigh as she gazed over her desk. Pens here, a couple of pencils there, a dictionary in the far corner, a book from the school's library she was reading to the class...Some days, they even seemed to enjoy it, though they were always quiet when she opened it. At least most of them; when she spoke with the other women at the school or Johanna whenever their paths crossed in the kitchen at home, they all had unpleasant tales of that child who refused to be quiet, refused to be still. "I suppose I'm lucky," Maria muttered, scratching at an itch beneath the long sleeve of her dress, perhaps a seam she had missed as she had sewn it a few months ago when she had just accepted her position. "At least the most they do is whisper to each other when they think I'm not looking."
For that next half hour or so, she tidied her desk and organized her students' common books. It wouldn't be too long until they began clamoring into the room, skipping and shouting as they wandered through the door, at least some of the girls calling, "Good morning, Fräulein Maria." And with the chatter of more than twenty children—alongside the occasional slap between young rivals and a foul word that she rebuked immediately—another day would begin.
Her students were mostly the children of men and women exactly like her neighbors—bakers and drivers and nurses, even some who walked in from the local farms and orchards. If her fellow teachers were to be believed, one or two were the daughters of local prostitutes. She refused to ask them how they knew, only hoping that the little girls in her classroom would find their own path in life that didn't involve...well, she didn't really know anything about any of that, and she didn't want to, either.
So young and unaccustomed to society, just as she had been through her childhood, they were often wild, probably more accustomed to the streets and forests and mountains than a classroom. This morning, the seven and eight year-old boys and girls pummeled her with the same questions as usual today. Would she let them know when the next spelling test was, what book would they be reading next—they were still in the short books of primary school, intended to challenge their reading skills rather than their minds, let alone amuse them—would she let them go for lunch earlier today? (She always answered "no", a reprimand from the headmaster still stinging when the last warm autumn days had taken over from summer.)
As the morning wore on, Maria talked them through another round of basic multiplication tables, some of the older children finally understanding it as an easier way to figure sums. The youngest were still simply reciting the answer back to her, just as she had done so many years ago. Some days, it felt a lifetime lay between her and those young years rather than barely more than a decade. Certainly a life's worth of unhappiness already had—
Don't, she reminded herself, the chalk in her hand scraping against the slate on the wall, a shiver running along her spine as she scribbled the next round of equations, her numbers a mess as always. She paused, wiping away the last number, smudged and rough. You can't help it, and it wasn't as though it all happened just to be cruel. It will all be easier when you let—
Someone was tugging on her dress, a bundle of of little fingers knotted into her skirt, and Maria glanced down, cringing against another scratch on the board. It was one of the tiniest girls in her class, always a little shyer than her classmates, somehow a little thinner and paler than Maria thought she should be beneath the mound of dark braids piled on the top of her head. One of the local farmhands children, perhaps the first in her family sent to school in the hope of a better life. Just like you would, if you ever...No, it didn't matter, not right now.
"Yes, Sonja?"
The little girl peered down at the worn wooden floor with her dark brown eyes, hands clasped behind the back of her frayed grey dress. Embarrassed? Something else? "I don't know, Fräulein Maria."
Maria turned away from the slate—almost stepping into her desk for another bruise as she put down her chalk—and reached for her shoulder, the gentle touch bringing that tiny face face back up. "Don't know what?"
"How is it the same?"
"How is what the same?"
Her tiny hands were shaking, now one of them scratching at her trapped braids—knotted almost the same way Maria had her own pinned back—the other twisting in her skirt as she took a deep breath. "Six and three, two and nine? Or four and five and two and ten?"
Mathematics, she thought, a sudden tension in her chest relieved. Nothing else, not that that's my place anyway. "Oh, it's all very simple."
"You said that before, but all those numbers. They aren't the same."
"You understand how to add them together. You've always done well on those exams."
"But this isn't that."
"So let's see how it actually is," Maria said, offering Sonja a hand to pull her closer to the slate.
The last weeks since school had resumed after the Christmas holidays had mostly focused on multiplication tables, rising higher the the ones she had taught them before the break. Though perhaps with the missed days last week, the lessons of the last month had been a little useless, the anticipation of Christmas a little too much for her children to learn much. Maria couldn't blame her students; she had been the same, especially the years when her father was home for the holidays— Don't think about then, she told herself, reaching for the chalk.
In one of the least dusty corners of the board—time for a proper wipe down with soapy water, she knew—Maria wrote two rounds of numbers: 6+6+6+ and 9+9. "What would the answer to those be?" she asked, turning Sonja to the slate, trying not to think how thin the girl's shoulders felt under her hands.
She heard a quiet voice murmuring, running the numbers little by little, the basic addition tables from in the year before rising. "6 and 6 is 12, 8 would make it 20. You taught us to add little numbers to 10s and then take the little numbers away until we knew, so 18.*"
"And the next?"
"That's easy, Fräulein Maria. The 0 doesn't change, and 1+1 is 2. 18."
"Just so. And adding 6 and 6 and 6, how many sixes was that?"
"Three."
"9 and 9?"
"Two."
Beneath each of the addition questions, Maria rewrote the same sum as multiplication, then below each, she wrote another: 10+10 and 5+5+5+5. "You know two 10s are twenty, so if you see 2x10, you know it's 20, yes?"
The little girl nodded. "Yes."
Maria touched each of the 5s on the board one by one, counting Sonja through them, until she realized the sum there was 20 as well, 10+10 easily replaced by 4x5. "So if you see this"—she pointed to the first multiplication equation she had written—"for the moment, think of what 6+6+6 is. Or 9+9, and so on. And in a little while, you'll just think of what 6x3 is, and you won't have to worry about adding them one by one."
A smile crinkled beneath Sonja's dark eyes. "You're smart, Fräulein!"
"Do you want to know something?" Maria asked softly, almost like she was telling her a desperate secret.
"What?"
"But don't tell any of your classmates."
"I won't!" Sonja said loudly, her face flushing as she remembered herself. "I won't," she said again, quieter now.
"I struggled with mathematics when I was your age. I still ask one of my...friends for help so that I can help all of you." It was certainly true; most often when she encountered Johanna, whether in the boarding house's common kitchen or wandering through the halls, she often had a maths question for her. "Is there any easier way to understand division?" "Why are the 7s multiplication tables so hard to remember?" "Do children ever calm down on their own or do they have to run all of their energy out?" With no siblings as she grew—no cousins to speak of, either—Maria was sometimes astonished how little she knew about children. A few months with seven and eight year-olds wasn't enough to change all those years…
Don't worry about it, she thought, Sonja disappearing into the mess of desks on the girls' side of the classroom, almost giving her another smile as she pulled her math work closer to her, probably about to smear her penciled work with the base of her hand as so many of them did. Her little classroom was brighter for a moment, that little girl's smile warming her own heart. It's so simple when you're so young. At least so long...No. The happiness was already fading.
The day continued on like every other: releasing most of the children to run home to their parents for lunch, eating her own open-faced sandwich with those who lived too far away to make the trip home and back, with a quick silent prayer over her own, happy she had an apple to accompany it and quell the grumblings in her stomach. Really, she did need to be better about visiting the greengrocer's; her stomach always knew when she had missed it. You really don't have any other choice.
It all began again when the other jumble of students returned, refreshed by a quick meal and chattering more than usual as the end of the day approached. German lessons were difficult as usual, most of them forgetting the basics of sentences and words, instead preferring the sort of language even she had had to forget in her first years of high school. Her foster mother had tolerated some of it, alongside her primary school teachers—perhaps they were just happy she had only ended up on the roof of the school twice—but no one was patient with a teenager in high school.
The relief washed over her when the clock finally struck in the corridor, children in a flurry of trousers and skirts rushing from their desks to the hallway, eager for home and the afternoon—or at least freedom that the bell gave them. Well, you were the same, Maria reminded herself, taking a deep breath as the last boy, even thinner than Sonja, escaped through the door. At least this old, they shouldn't have to worry about—
Maria bit down on her lip as the pounding started beneath her ribs: the tightness twisting in her belly, the nausea rising in her throat, the shivers roiling up her spine...I've tried not to think about it for so long. Her next breaths were deeper, harsher as she struggled against heaving in her chest, her palms snagging on the edge of her desk as...everything stopped for a moment and the past swallowed her up again.
"You're such a pretty girl, Maria. That long hair and tiny waist, it would drive any man mad." His hand dancing across his shoulders, fingers tarrying on her cheek or pinching her hips—her heart pounding as he refused to let her turn away—those brown eyes glittering and almost hungry...The shudders burning beneath that touch were almost too much to bear even all these years later. She'd never forget the sleepless nights, waiting to hear any rustling at her bedroom door, wondering if the faint light from the living room that spilled down the hallway would cross the threshold. Every now and then it did, and she pulled herself in tighter, her face buried in her sheets and quilts, hoping she wouldn't feel a few fingers on the back of her neck as she had the first time it opened in the middle of the night, rousing her with a gasp. With no lock to close herself away from everyone in her own tiny space, those last few weeks living with him and his wife, she'd dragged her bedding from the mattress, cocooning herself in it alongside her pillow as she curled herself in front of the door. Maybe at least she would be enough to hold it closed, or enough to make it a noisy task, pushing it open against the weight of even her slightly underfed frame. Once or twice, the door handle rattled—and her stomach tightened as she drew her arms and legs even closer. But he never seemed to manage anything more, apart from glowering at her the next day, delivering a lingering slap across her backside when his wife wouldn't see.
And as she reeled from the pain, occasionally struggling not to cry out: "So very pretty, darling. A pity you won't let me tell you." Everything was cold even as a fresh burst of sweat burst down her back and she finally saw her white knuckles clutching her worn desktop. He isn't anywhere near here, Maria reminded herself. You haven't seen him for years—you'll probably never see him again—you don't want to see him again. He knows that much, and haven't you left all that behind? You're in Salzburg, not Vienna.
Just breathe, Maria reminded herself. A deep breath like you would always do when you shut yourself in your bedroom when you knew he was about. One—then another—another—and her pulse was already slowing, her stomach calming. And just remember everything you thought about whenever you heard footsteps in the hallway all those years ago. The packages she sometimes received from her father when he was away, even the brown paper wrapping something she couldn't quite let go for weeks, the neighborhood cats and their kittens wandering through the back garden as she read her books in the sunlight, the rain clinging to the tree leaves and overgrown rose bushes after a gentle shower on a spring afternoon. See? She glanced about the empty corners of the room, wondering if there was anything else to collect. It isn't so very bad from here, and now.
There wasn't too much to do, closing her classroom for the day: tidying her notebooks and pens for tomorrow, checking to see that one of the boys hadn't left a handful of worms at his desk (again), collecting the papers to correct over the evening, taking some notes for the following day. There wasn't much more after that, just tucking the papers into her bag, shrugging her old coat over her shoulders, and turning out the light before she closed the door, leaving everything behind for a little while.
The same bus that had brought her to school in the morning took her back home, a little more crowded, a little bumpier and faster along the road and through the lingering snowfall, lighter than when she had woken. Perhaps the driver was just as happy as she was to be home and leave the work day behind? But despite the snow she knew would bite at her face, Maria clamored down the short steps to the street below a little earlier than she normally would, a visit to the greengrocer's no longer able to be delayed. It always seemed to be a Monday task, she realized as she pulled the heavy door open, the bell at the top chiming for the shopkeeper. It wasn't very much this afternoon, not that there were too many choices in the middle of winter. A few apples, a handful of potatoes already sprouting some eyes, two onions, a jar of apricot jam she couldn't quite resist, a plain white cheese she could barely afford but today it was at least cheaper than the sausages beside it...Just like most days she fit in the shopping. At least the potatoes weren't damp today, ready to soak the newest round of papers she intended to mark as the evening wore on.
The sun was already disappearing as she walked the last several blocks, her arms folded across her chest, her cheeks probably red again with the wind and her fingers raw in the cold. Just as when she'd left for her classroom hours ago. She'd forgotten her gloves this morning, a mistake she wouldn't make tomorrow. Or the next day, at least until the cold broke; some of her fellow teachers had been murmuring that it might begin tomorrow, that this was as long as it usually lasted. I hope so, Maria thought, sniffling as her nose began to run. If this is what it's always like, I might not last another winter here.
But at least she was back home, stamping her shoes to shake the worst of the snow from the soles before she turned the handle to the boarding house, pressing her shoulder against the side as she always did, the door nearly impossible to open some days. And when it slammed closed behind her, the cold—and the memories—were shut out, and she was...safe. Sealed away from it all. Alone.
Maria left her last purchases in her section of the larder in the kitchen, happily seeing another bag of pastries from one of the bakeries where a neighbor she didn't know worked, left on the work surface for them all to share. She couldn't help peeking as her stomach grumbled and the smell of butter and chocolate pulled her in, reminding her how long ago her small lunch was. Would they be as good as the chocolate croissants another neighbor had brought through the snow and ice at the end of last week? Her mouth already watered as she pulled one from the paper sack and nestled it into her little cupboard space for breakfast tomorrow and tucked the croissant from the morning into her bag. At least it was something to fill the little gnawing hole in her stomach until she put together a proper dinner.
She scampered up the stairs, almost running into another of her neighbors, a woman only a few years older leaving for a hospital night shift rather than arriving home for the rest of the day. Tucking herself into her room and twisting the lock tight before falling back against the door, Maria let out a breath. Some days, her students drained her with their endless questions and protests. And now, she had the evening to spend even more time with them: their papers, their handwriting, their thoughts...Their maths, she thought with a little smile, Sonja in her grey dress with her long braids pinned back on her head. At least she came and asked.
Maria slipped her shoes off, setting them beside the door on the small square of cheap carpet she had bought at the market a few weeks ago when winter had surged into her small world. At least there, the last clumps of snow could melt without warping the wood below, though the few feet of flooring around the door clearly knew years of snow and ice.
As ever, whenever her coat was wet, she hung it from her wardrobe door, the easiest place to let it dry as the night wore on. Her dress, at least, was relatively untouched by the snow and the icy patches that had bloomed on the street. "I do usually remember, Mother," she murmured, opening her bag for her papers to mark. The damp patches would be fine until she was ready to shower ahead of changing into her nightclothes and climbing into bed. (For the moment, she ignored the croissant even as the memories of butter still called to her. She rarely had pastries this often, so she might as well make it last, well into tonight and tomorrow morning.)
Across her desk, she sorted her students' papers by subject: their latest multiplication exams, the German lesson from this afternoon, their handwriting practice that she always set them to before the bell rang to release them for the day. Perhaps I should ask Johanna for more advice, she thought, striking through an alarming number of equations they had copied down from the slate earlier that day. How is it always the 7s? German grammar was similar, more articles and incorrect plurals crossed out than she liked, some pages almost more red than pencil. At least their handwriting practice was easier to judge: were the loops correctly placed, their umlauts over the correct vowels, the proper words capitalized? "I suppose that's easier," she murmured. "Everyday, unlike maths."
Maria spent at least two hours over her students' assignments before hunger drove her to the croissant that had been teasing her since she found the bag in the kitchen. She pulled the layers apart, catching the crumbs between her fingers as she broke off pieces of pastry, letting it melt on her tongue one small piece at a time as it dulled the gnawing in her stomach. Not quite as good as the ones that had appeared just before the Christmas holidays, but still so light and buttery, already leaving her to anticipate pastry laced with chocolate the next morning. Maybe someday they'll bring home apricot pastries, just like Mother sometimes found—
Her fingers froze, the last of the croissant falling onto her desk, a few flakes landing on the paper at the top of the stack, a greasy mark blooming where it landed. Why am I thinking about all of it today? she wondered, snatching the last bites back and almost gulping them down. It was all so long ago, so far away, another world she'd left far behind. "Maybe it's a reminder," Maria muttered as she slapped the crumbs from her fingers, standing and stretching for a moment. With a quick trip to the washroom, she rinsed the traces of butter from her fingers before she splashed a handful of colder water across her face, shivering as it cooled on her skin. "You know you owe her a letter."
But I don't want to write to her. Not today. One little moment was all she required to spark all the memories, so vivid and sharp she almost remembered the breath across her neck the first time when she was hardly a teenager. You must have known what he would be like, I'm sure your daughter must have told you something about their lives. She shook her head, the pins around her braid loosening with the hours that had passed since she wove them in. Don't, she told herself. You still have work to do before dinner.
Still ignoring the stack of blank paper on the very farthest corner of her desk, Maria continued with her students' work: a few remedial subtraction tests for the youngest boys and girls, a quiz on a new children's book for the eldest. What will you all become when you're grown up? she wondered. What will your futures be? I still don't quite know mine.
The last dregs of the day's snow was still swirling outside when she finally pushed exams and assignments aside and reached for a blank page, her fingers almost white on her pen. Why can't I decide what to do? I know I have to eventually.
Mother,
I apologize, I know it's been some time since I've written to you. But with the end of last term—my first term teaching—and Christmas—
No, Maria told herself, scratching her pen through everything she'd written before she crumpled the paper into a ball and dropped it in the rubbish bin. You didn't do a thing for Christmas other than attend midnight mass. You know you just don't enjoy sending her letters. She ought to be more grateful she knew as she reached for another sheet of paper. But somehow, even though she owed a roof over her head to the woman's kindness, she couldn't quite shake the resentment. No matter how she prayed—confessed whenever she found herself in the cubicle opposite her priest—it never quite changed. You sent me to him. But a letter now and then was the least she could do.
Mother,
I hope you are well and that Vienna isn't quite as chilly as Salzburg is now. I'm teaching at a small school right on the edge of the city, and there was so much snow last week, we weren't even in session. My students were quite happy for the time off, even though we just returned from the Christmas holidays. Were yours the way I remember?
She dashed her pen through those few sentences again, scribbling "Mother" beneath the mess; she could always write it out again when she was happy with it. This time, she made it through a paragraph and a half before she crossed it all out, writing out "Mother" once more. Another couple of sentences...and again before she finally crushed the page in her fist and dropped it into the bin. Not tonight. I won't mean a word I say and I owe her better than that.
One by one, Maria found the pins holding back her braid, a little mountain forming beside the papers she still needed to mark as her plait finally tumbled down past her shoulder. After the last few hours, they could wait. She wound her hands through her hair, untwining the strands that just kept growing longer and longer. "Oh, someday soon," she muttered, running into a knot that had escaped her so early in the morning. For the next few minutes, she brushed it out, working from the bottom to the top until she did it all again, twisting a new plait that fell back over her chest as her stomach rumbled. It really was becoming a little too much, she knew as she pressed a palm to her belly against the first rumbles of hunger.
There was still enough time for a quick meal before the quiet of nighttime fell over the house. No one complained too much over one another's comings and goings; so many of them must have learned over the years what she had learned in the last few months. How to be alone. But it might be nice, Maria thought, tightening her arms around her stomach, if it wasn't that way someday. And not just wondering who is the next person you'll run into. Or who...She shuddered again. Stop.
* This is my father's preferred way to do arithmetic in his head and how he taught me when I was about this age: lazy math. The man has a bachelor's and master's in physics, one of the smartest people I know. No shame in doing it this way.
A/N: Before anyone is upset over the history I've begun outlining for Maria...I know very well the feelings I wrote for her, even if the context is different. (Good?) Plus, wicked and miserable past. And after I'd finished writing most of that arc, I remembered that Julie Andrews had a relatable experience as a young person. It changes you, and yes, sometimes you just remember those moments.