Page 74 of Shadowfox
Neither did I, not really.
But sometimes, in the silence, I let myself imagine: a street without soldiers, a sky without bombers, a classroom with clean desks and soft pencils, a bakery where the smell of bread didn’t have to be rationed.
A home with doors that locked only from the inside.
I imagined Eszter’s laughter filling a sunlit kitchen, her feet bare on tile floors, her voice clear as bells as she called out for me to come look at something—anything, everything.
I dreamed of freedom—but not mine.
Hers.
It was all so fragile, that dream, a bubble made of the thinnest glass that I knew would shatter if held too tightly. It rested on so many ifs.
If the Americans were real.
If the man I met tonight wasn’t followed.
If the plan worked.
If the borders held.
If the weather cooperated.
If we lived.
The Soviets didn’t forgive betrayal. They didn’t waste time pretending to be fair.
If they suspected . . . if even ahintreached the wrong ears . . . they wouldn’t question her. They wouldn’t send her to a school. They’d put her in the back of a truck and drive her somewhere I couldn’t reach—and I would never see her again.
My stomach twisted so violently I had to steady myself against the mattress. My fingers gripped the edge until my knuckles turned white.
“Not you,Kicsim,” I whispered, looking down at her sleeping face. “They can have everything else, but never you.”
She stirred again, her brow creasing.
I let go of the mattress and reached out, smoothing her hair once more. It calmed her. It always had. Since she was a baby, too small to hold her head up, she had quieted at my touch.
I was her anchor.
And she was the only thing left that made me human.
I stood finally, quietly, and pulled the blanket higher up her chest. She exhaled and curled tighter, her bony arms folded beneath her chin like a cat.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind me.
My heart pounded.
My hands shook.
One more night.
Then everything would change.
God, I prayed silently,help us. Let it change for good.
29
Will
