Dobryd by Ann Charney Read Free Book Online Page A

six years old, as I was by then, and lived nearby. They had always played with other children and they accepted our new friendship quite casually. I, however, found myself in a constant state of excitation when I was with them. I could not grasp how they understood each other so well, or how they knew what each expected of the other. Yet, very quickly, I was behaving with similar ease with them. I became familiar with the language of children, and passed from observer to participant.
    It was understood between us that our friendship had to exist outside our homes and unknown to our families. We only sensed the hatred and the painful memories so prevalent in the minds of adults around us. We realized, however, that in our joy in each other we possessed something uncommon to the times, and we treasured it.
    We seldom visited one another’s homes. We knew very little about one another’s lives outside of our play group. Our families left us alone, thankful that we managed to stay out of their hair. In our post-war world, the distinctions between conquerors, refugees and vanquished were blurred in the common struggle to keep one’s body fed and covered and one’s bed warm. Beyond that there was little energy left over. We children were mostly ignored and forgotten.
    Our games were played in the ruins of the buildings around us, or in the streets, where the barricades of the city’s last defence became our hideout. Holding each other’s hands and helping each other over obstacles, we explored the nearby ruins. Almost all civilians lived by scavenging, and the ruins had already been well-picked for anything that could be used or sold. Yet we managed to find objects either overlooked or unwanted by previous scavengers. We treasured these and hid them in secret places. Occasionally we would bring out our finds with great caution and reverence, as we had seen the peasants bring out a treasured relic on feast days.
    Amongst our prizes there were some photographs. The people in them were strangers and they posed in happy groups at long-past family celebrations. We were especially interested in the children in these pictures, the clothes they wore, the way their hair was combed, the toys they sometimes held. We invented names for them and thought of them as our friends.
    One photograph in particular intrigued me. It showed a beautiful, elaborate merry-go-round, its arrested movement while children sat astride them, holding on to their harnesses or their necks. None ornamented horses caught in different positions of of us had ever been to an amusement park. Nor did we know what a merry-go-round was. But we needed no explanations. The expressions on the faces of the children in the photograph assured us we were looking at something which caused great pleasure. Through the photograph we somehow felt as if we were sharing this pleasure. We treasured it and took turns making up stories about what it portrayed.
    The adults in the photographs intrigued us as well. They were the visual echoes of a past we would never know. So little of it had imprinted itself on us that we could look at these photographs without nostalgia, but with the curiosity of small savages confronted with mysterious artifacts.
    In time we became quite possessive about the people in the photographs. They were no longer anonymous faces. We gave them names, and a sense of familiarity grew out of our longings. Each one of us lived in a household that represented the broken remnants of ordinary family life. The missing members were constantly evoked for us by the adults, and we lived with their faceless, ghost-like presences. In our photographs we found characters to people our ghost-ridden homes. Soon we disputed among ourselves about these smiling images, each claiming them for his or her family tree.
    A piece of flimsy white material found in the rubble of a nearby building became another of our special treasures. We did not know where it came from.