January 1943
“Come on, Anna! Take a swing at me!” Udo bounces around on the landing at the top of the stairs. The floorboards squeak and creak beneath the balls of his feet. “I'm not going to hit you!” I snap. “Why not?” He jabs at the air with his fists. “I might hurt you,” I say. “Impossible!” he cries, ducking, weaving, knuckles bunched and ready for action. The boys have been boxing at German Youngsters this week and now Udo thinks he's Max Schmeling, world champion. “Come on. Hit me! Hit me! Hit me!”
“I won't do it!” I retort. “Coward!” he taunts. “You're just scared you'll miss.”
I roll my eyes, then punch.
Udo staggers back, hands pressed to his face. “What'd you do that for?” he shouts. “What sort of friend are you?”
I don't answer. What's the point?
Udo pulls his hands away and gapes at the sight of blood on his fingers. “You've broken my nose!” “Don't be a baby,” I scoff. “It's just a bit of blood.” But then I squint. Have I broken his nose? Does it always sit a bit off-centre like that? Is it flatter than usual?
Our apartment door opens, just a crack. A little voice whispers, “Hello, Udo.” “Eva!” I gasp. “Move away before anyone sees you!” I grab Udo by the front of his coat and drag him inside through the narrowest opening possible. I shut the door, turn the lock and slump back against the wall.
“Udo, Udo, Udo,” sings Eva. Udo swings her into his arms and twirls her about, whispering, “Eva, Eva, Eva.” Their greeting is soft and quiet but full of happiness at seeing one another. The same as always. Udo sets Eva down in the hallway and squats so they're eye to eye. "Your nose is leaking.” Eva reaches out and pokes at the blood that dribbles down to his top lip. “Does it hurt?”
“Nah!” says Udo. “Just a flesh wound.”
I snort. “That's not what you were saying a moment ago.” Eva pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of her smock. Udo cringes, then smiles. He knows what's coming, but lets it happen anyway. Eva purses her lips in concentration and starts to dab away the blood. She tries to be gentle, but her movements are jerkier than she means and the first dab makes Udo jump with pain. Eva's blue eyes widen. “There, there, little Udo,” she coos, even though Udo is a big thirteen-year-old and Eva is only seven, and small for her age. “There, there,” she murmurs and keeps wiping, dabbing, poking, hurting. Not that she realises.
Udo's eyes water and he looks at me pleadingly. I poke my tongue out at him, then run along the hallway to the kitchen.
