Free The Twelve Little Cakes by Dominika Dery

in Little Red Riding Hood ?”
    â€œYes, I think he is,” Oma would agree.
    â€œWell, then he eats grandmothers, too,” I would point out.
    â€œMaybe he does.” Oma would smile. “In which case we had both better get out of here, nicht wahr? ”
    By the time we arrived home, Oma would usually be so tired that all she wanted to do was sit in front of the TV and knit—her favorite activity. In the early weeks of our time together, she asked me if I would like to help, and when I said yes, she wound a ball of wool around my hands, handcuffing me to whatever scarf or sweater she was knitting. Then I had to sit on the floor and watch an incredibly boring arts-and-crafts show until it was time for my nap.
    â€œWhat are you going to read to me today?” I would ask. “Will you read me Prince Bajaja ?”
    â€œThat depends on whether you’ll be quiet,” Oma Habova would answer.
    â€œBut I like talking,” I would cry. “And I like to know what’s going on.”
    â€œIf you listen, you’ll find out,” Oma would say.
    â€œYes, but I like it when you tell me!” I would insist.
    Before Oma came along, I always looked forward to my afternoon nap, because my mother would sit on the edge of my bed and read me stories until I fell asleep. She was very patient and would answer all my questions about the characters in the books, probably because she understood that the best way to put a talkative child to sleep is to let her talk until she’s tired herself out. Oma’s own children must have been very quiet, because she simply couldn’t fathom the idea of talking during nap time. And once she started to read, she would simply increase her volume to drown out my questions, mispronouncing the words in her thick Austrian accent.
    â€œOnce upon a time, there was a handsome ponce,” she would say. “And one day, he rode out to look for a poncess . . .”
    After a few months of being babysat by Oma, I began to notice that there were a lot of old ladies in our street who were even more like The Grandmother than she was. Three of these ladies lived quite close to our house—Mrs. Liskova, Mrs. Noskova, and Mrs. Sokolova. They were very old and kind, and whenever Oma and I walked past their front gardens, they would wave and say hello. They seemed much more relaxed and friendly than Oma, and I secretly imagined they were the three fairy godmothers from Sleeping Beauty. Whenever it was sunny, the ladies could be found working in their gardens, and I would look forward to seeing them weeding their flower beds or sitting on their front steps with peaceful smiles on their faces.
    â€œHello, Mrs. Liskova!” I would call out as we made our way down the street. “How are you today?”
    Mrs. Liskova was a tall and bony woman in her eighties, who lived in a villa near the bend in the road.
    â€œVery well, thank you!” she would reply, shading her eyes with her hand. “I’m just sitting here with my roses, having a bit of a think.”
    â€œWhat are you thinking about?” I would ask.
    â€œDon’t be rude,” Oma Habova would whisper. “It’s none of your business what she’s thinking.”
    â€œI was just remembering the good old days before the war,” Mrs. Liskova would sigh. “There are so many stories I could tell, but nobody has the time to listen these days.”
    â€œI do!” I would exclaim. “I’d love to listen to your stories!”
    â€œAnother day perhaps!” Oma would call out, nudging me with her stick. “We have to be home in time for lunch!”
    â€œNo hurry,” Mrs. Liskova would laugh. “I’m not going anywhere.”
    The house next to Mrs. Liskova’s had a bright green coal shuttle in the garden. It was the home of Mrs. Noskova, a tiny, birdlike lady who walked on crutches but always seemed to be in a good mood.
    â€œHello, Mrs.