back to do what he started to do, saw horror too. Like me, he probably
spent the rest of his life trying to chase it away, to push it to the
margins. at night, I believe he was so lost in the darkness that he
almost became it. But he didn’t. He made a choice not to.
He comes back in the morning. I know it is him because he still
reeks of booze, because fear has made me memorize the map of his
face even though I saw it in semidarkness. I hug my knees and
whimper. I sound like an animal. I can’t stop. It’s a keening, droning
noise, part insect. He kneels by the crib. He is weeping. He repeats two
words. I don’t know what they mean, but I remember how they
sound. Forgive me. Forgive me. He hands me a cloth sack. It’s too
heavy for me to lift so he empties it for me, spilling the contents—small
tins of army rations—onto the mattress. He shows me the pictures on
the cans. He points and talks, a crazy maître d’ explaining the menu,
inviting me to choose my next meal. I can’t understand a word he says.
I study the pictures. He pries open a can and feeds me with a spoon.
It’s ham with something sweet, raisins. If my father hadn’t shared his
secret packages of pork, I might not know the taste of it—though
Hungarians would never pair ham with anything sweet. I keep
opening my mouth, receiving another bite. Of course I forgive him. I
am starving, and he brings me food to eat.
* * *He comes back every day. Magda is well enough to Ęirt again, and I
believe at the time that he makes a point of visiting this house because
he enjoys her attention. But day aer day, he barely notices her. He
comes for me. I am what he needs to resolve. Maybe he’s doing
penance for his near assault. Or maybe he needs to prove to himself
that hope and innocence can be resurrected, his, mine, the world’s—
that a broken girl can walk again. e GI—in the six weeks he cares
for me I am too weak and shattered to ever learn to say or spell his