Page 35 of The Little Liar

“How will I find everyone?”

Winter arrived, and brought 1944 with it.

As the war raged on, supplies became scarce. There was less to eat. Even bread was expensive. Gizella took on additional sewing and washing. She stitched most of the night, washed clothes in the river during the morning, and made deliveries in the afternoon. Some evenings, when Fannie snuck into the house, she found Gizella sleeping head-down on the sewing table. She looked older than that first day when they met in the woods.

“Let me help,” Fannie offered. “I used to mend clothes with my mother.”

“All right,” Gizella said.

After supper, the two of them spent hours sewing together, Gizella teaching Fannie the finer points of attaching buttons or hemming a dress. This went on for many weeks. One night, Gizella put a garment down and reached over to place her hand atop Fannie’s.

“May I tell you something?”

“Yes?”

“I believe God sent you to me. Before Sandor left to fight, we were hoping to make a baby. He said he wanted a daughter. I asked him, ‘Why not a son?’ He said a son could become a soldier and a soldier could go off and die. He said he wouldn’t want me to worry about losing a child.”

She bit her lip. “Instead, I lost a husband.”

Fannie squeezed her hand.

“What I’m saying,” Gizella whispered, “is that when this war is over, if you want to stay with me, you can.”

Fannie felt a warmth rising inside her, something she hadn’t felt in a long time. At thirteen, she lacked the vocabulary to explain it. But I can tell you what it’s called.

Belonging.

***

The next day, after Gizella left, Fannie decided to do more to help her. There was a great deal of sewing still left unfinished, and she felt worthless hiding in the hay, passing the hours with the same few books Gizella had given her. She was careful to sneak from the coop to the house, crawling along the ground to avoid neighbors spotting her. Once inside, she set to work. She felt refreshed and purposeful, seeing sunshine spill through a window for a change. It was her first sense of normalcy since all the madness began in Salonika.

By midday, having drunk three glasses of water, she needed to use the latrine. She was careful when she slipped outside. But when she returned to the house minutes later, she walked into the sewing room and came face-to-face with a gray-haired woman in a green overcoat and matching hat, holding a bundle of clothing.

The woman’s face registered surprise. Her thick eyebrows raised.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Fannie was so startled at seeing this woman—or anyone, for that matter—that she couldn’t form a response.

“I asked your name,” the woman said.

Fannie swallowed. She couldn’t think straight.

“Gizella...” she whispered.

“You are not Gizella. I know Gizella. Gizella is supposed to have fixed the buttons on these shirts.”

“I meant... I help Gizella.” Then she added, “Csókolom,” the Hungarian greeting for an older woman.

The woman tilted her head back, as if sniffing the air around Fannie.

“What is that accent? You are Bulgarian?”

“No.”

“Your hair. Are you Greek? Where do you come from?”

“I don’t know...”