Free The Girl in the Torch by Robert Sharenow Page A

afraid to look at his angry face again, until he placed something on the table in front of her. She glanced up and was surprised to see a small tin pot covered with a lid. He continued searching in the drawer until he found a spoon, wiped it on his shirt, and laid it next to the pot.
    â€œGo on,” the watchman said, nodding toward the table.
    She stared at the pot and spoon, unsure what to do.
    â€œEat,” he commanded.
    He lifted the cover. A warm and mysterious smell hit her nose. The pot held a pile of browned rice mixed with a white stew of some kind, with pieces of chicken, celery, onion, cabbage, and some sort of sprouts, all mixed together.
    â€œWell, dig in.” He nodded toward the food.
    Sarah lifted the spoon and took a small bite. It had been so longsince her last cooked meal. And while not hot, the food was warm and it exploded in her mouth with a burst of flavor that made her eyes close with pleasure. Despite her fear, a small smile escaped her lips as the food traveled down her throat and into her empty stomach. The giant nodded.
    â€œMrs. Lee isn’t the best landlady in the world, but she makes a good chop suey.”
    The giant stuffed and lit a pipe and curiously watched her hungrily devour the entire contents of the pot. When she had scraped up the last grain of rice, she laid the spoon down and looked at the giant.
    â€œThank you,” she said.
    He nodded.
    â€œNow, are you going to tell me who you are?”
    She stared back at him, unsure of what she should share or not.
    â€œCome on, out with it. I’m not gonna hurt you, Androcles.”
    â€œWhat is Androcles?” she asked.
    He raised an eyebrow and slowly restuffed his pipe. “Androcles was a Greek slave. One day he found an injured lion with a thorn in his paw and pulled out the thorn. Years later, Androcles was thrown into the arena with a lion. Turned out to be the same lion, and he remembered Androcles and refused to hurt him. You get it?”
    She stared at him, confused.
    â€œLook,” he said, “I don’t remember much about the other night, but I know you helped me. And I’m not gonna forget that. I wantto help you. But you have to tell me who you are and how you got here. Where are your parents?”
    â€œMy parents?”
    â€œYes, your mother and father. Where’s your mother?”
    She hesitated and then said the word.
    â€œDead.”
    â€œAnd your father?”
    â€œHe’s dead too.”
    â€œYou’re an orphan.” He raised his eyebrows with interest.
    Sarah nodded.
    â€œHmmm,” he grunted.
    He took a long drag on his pipe.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    Sarah just looked at him.
    He pointed at his chest and said, “Maryk.” Then he pointed at her. “And you are . . . ?”
    The girl stared into Maryk’s dark eyes, which now seemed softer. It had been more than a week since she had heard or said her own name, and the word felt strange coming out of her mouth.
    â€œSarah.”

The Niece
    M ARYK SHARED HIS CONTAINER of coffee with Sarah as she told him her story. She had never tasted coffee before, and at first the bitterness shocked her; but soon its warmth spread through her body, helping to thaw her cold fingers and toes.
    Maryk sat and listened while smoking his pipe. He didn’t ask many questions as she spoke, but nodded, encouraging her to continue.
    Days of silence had created a pent-up need for Sarah to talk. So she told him everything, from her life in the village, to the attack that killed her father, to the promise of the Lady and the tantalizing poem on the postcard. She even recited part of the poem from memory.
    â€œâ€˜Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.’”
    â€œPowerful words.” He nodded.
    Eventually, she described her daring leap from the ship and her swim to shore.
    â€œIt’s a miracle you survived,” Maryk said with a trace of