Free What World is Left by Monique Polak Page B

tomorrow, there may be meat in tomorrow’s soup.” Her eyes gleam as she speaks.
    Mother hands me a small bar of gray soap and a pile of our filthy clothes. “But it isn’t laundry day,” I protest. Because of the shortage of clean water, we are only permitted to wash clothes every six weeks— and then only up to four kilograms of laundry—which doesn’t amount to much when you consider there are four of us.
    â€œFather sold a sketch to one of the women at the washing fountain. In return, she’s letting us do an extra wash. Go quickly to the fountain and see how much of this you can get done. I’d do it myself, but your father isn’t feeling well.”
    My stomach turns. “He isn’t?”
    Mother pushes me toward the door. “Go,” she says. “He’ll be fine.”
    The bundle Mother has given me is large and hard to carry. I can barely see over it and items of clothing—a tattered undershirt, an old sock—keep falling off. Soon I’m sweaty from trying to keep the bundle together. The insides of my elbows ache.
    Franticek is at the corner. I have no free hand to wipe the sweat off my face, so I try brushing it against the pile of clothes. The stink of sweat burns my nostrils. Now my face will smell too. And I can feel rings of sweatforming under my armpits. If I keep my arms close to my chest, Franticek may not notice.
    I feel ashamed of the soiled clothing I am carrying. What if he sees my underpants? What will he think of me then? If only I had a free hand for him to hold!
    But Franticek laughs. “Imagine my good fortune, running into you,” he says, playing with the piece of black leather he wears around his neck.
    â€œDo you believe in luck?” I ask him, suddenly feeling bolder than usual.
    â€œA little,” he says, casting his dark eyes down to the cobblestone street. “But we make our own luck. That’s why sometimes I wait for you here at night.”
    â€œYou do?” I feel myself blush.
    Franticek follows me to the fountain. At first I refuse his offer to help me wash the dirty laundry, but when he insists, I give him a pair of Theo’s socks. The socks, it seems, have more holes than wool in them. “You’d better have a strong nose,” I warn him.
    When Franticek laughs, his dark eyes light up. As he scrubs the socks, I think how Franticek is not only handsome, but kind.
    â€œAnneke,” he says, “I need to tell you about my feelings for you.”
    I can practically feel my heart skip a beat. Just the way they say it happens in storybooks. Only usually the girl isn’t washing underwear, rubbing the soap so hard the skin on her knuckles breaks. And usually the boy doesn’t go off with someone else into cubbyholes.No, I tell myself, this is wrong. All wrong.
    â€œWhat about your lady friend?” I ask, my voice suddenly growing shrill. “The one with the two children?”
    This time, Franticek blushes. Does he really think I’ve never seen them together?
    â€œI don’t love her,” he says, his dark eyes on mine.
    He doesn’t love her? That only makes things worse! If he doesn’t love her, why does he take her to the cubbyholes? I look Franticek straight in the eye. “I’ve seen the two of you go off together...on Sunday afternoons. And doesn’t she have a husband?” I pick at the skin around my fingernail. I’ve said too much. Now Franticek will know for sure that I’ve been watching him.
    Franticek sucks in his breath and meets my gaze. “What she and I do together,” he says, “are just animal things.”
    â€œAnimal things?” I say as I turn back to my scrubbing. I feel hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Animal things? How can he say something so rude? I’m no animal, I’m a human girl. I won’t let him speak to me like this.
    â€œGo away,” I mutter, without looking up.