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taught Paul how to feed me, to change nappies, bathe me,
and the nurses were good to me. They rocked me in their
arms, tickled my tummy and nuzzled my belly rolls so
they’d remember my baby scent. I was visited by our
flatmates Max and Irene, who bent over me with respectful
distance and argued about who I’d look like. Paul already
knew, but he kept it to himself. Later I’d spend hours in
front of the mirror trying to imagine what my mother
looked like, taking all the bits I didn’t get from my father
and fitting them together. Freckles and red hair for
example. Dark skin. Otherwise ... Well, I’d have to wait.
There were no photos. There would be no memory, no
stories.
“From here she looks like Aza”, Max said and immediately
regretted having mentioned her name.
“But if you look a bit from the right, she looks totally like
you.”
Irene said, “Hey Paul, so crazy, right?”
Then they were silent for a while.
“Who’ll look after her now?”
When my grandparents came, Grandma immediately
offered to take me to Mathildesberg, a village seven