He smiled at us, flipping the adze he held and catching it again. ‘Go on up to the house.’
Mama nodded at me. ‘Wipe your hands on the underside of your apron.’
As we approached the cottage, I could smell baking bread and wood smoke. A broad-shouldered woman stepped through the door into the autumn sunlight, shaking flour from a cloth. She was wearing a white Wendish headdress, the material tight against the nape of her neck. It brought out the blue of her eyes, her high cheekbones, skin browned by sun. She saw us and waved.
‘Frau Eichenwald?’ My mother’s voice was formal.
The woman nodded. ‘Ja.’
‘I am Johanne Nussbaum. This is my daughter. We want to welcome you to Kay.’
The woman’s forehead was high and smooth. She smiled with all her teeth. ‘That’s kind of you. Please, call me Anna Maria.’
Mama nudged me and I stepped forwards, offering the basket of food. She accepted it, looking me up and down. I had expected the new woman to be timorous and appreciative, given what I had heard about the Eichenwalds’ poverty and precarious circumstances, but Anna Maria seemed to be neither of these things. The hem of her dress was short; it did not slip lower than her knees. I glanced at her legs. They were bare, calves muscled.
‘And what’s your name, Fr?ulein?’
‘Johanne. But everyone calls me Hanne.’
‘You may have seen my son, also,’ Mama offered. ‘Matthias.’
There was an awkward silence as we stood, wondering what to say next. I could hear the sunshine ringing like a blow to the ear.
Mama shifted her weight. ‘Well, we won’t interrupt you . . .’
‘No, please, I forget myself.’ Anna Maria beamed. ‘Come inside for some cake. A drink.’
It was cool inside the cottage, a little smoky. I noticed Mama take in the few pieces of furniture in the room, noting what kind of house Anna Maria kept, and was relieved to see that the hearth was swept and all was neat. Our own cottage was humble – little more than a kitchen and two small bedrooms with the loft above and cellar beneath – but Mama ensured we both scrubbed and dusted it with fearful assiduity. She could be contemptuous of women who did not attend to their homes.
Anna Maria set the basket down on a table beneath the window. Several bowls, each covered with a floured cloth, were sitting in the narrow strip of sun that fell through the glass. She motioned for us to sit down and took out three cups.
‘I have a daughter your age,’ Anna Maria said, smiling at me. She set pungent cups of vinegar water on the table, then cut slices of Streuselkuchen from a fresh slab.
‘Is she home?’ Mama asked.
Anna Maria shook her head. ‘Gathering wood.’ She pointed to the fireplace. ‘The pull is not strong. We need a lot of fuel to get it going nice and hot.’
‘I could send my husband over to see to it? The chimney looks like it needs a little mortar.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Anna Maria replied, sitting down with us. ‘Friedrich will fix it.’
I bit into a large slice of Streuselkuchen. It was delicious.
‘Good?’ Anna Maria watched me chew. ‘Have more,’ she said, as soon as I had swallowed. She pushed the plate towards me.
‘What is your daughter’s name?’ asked Mama. She glanced down at the cake crumbs spilling into my lap.
‘Thea,’ Anna Maria said, mouth full. ‘Well, Dorothea. But we call her Thea.’
Thea. I ran the name over my tongue.
‘She’ll be glad to know there are other girls her age to talk with here,’ Anna Maria continued. ‘Perhaps you two will be friends?’
I looked at Mama and swallowed. ‘I don’t have any friends.’
There was silence. Mama stared at the floor. I felt an awful heat creep up my neck.
Anna Maria considered me with warm curiosity. ‘Well. Neither does Thea,’ she said eventually, lifting the cake back to her mouth.
Mama smiled. ‘Well, that is to be expected. You’ve only just arrived here from . . .?’
Anna Maria shook the crumbs from her apron onto the floor. ‘Krosno Odrzańskie.’ She winked at me. It was the first time I heard the Slav in her tongue. ‘Crossen.’
‘And is that where you are from?’
‘I grew up in Schleife. And no. Thea, she’ – the Wend turned to me and sat back in her chair, hands folded over her stomach – ‘well, she dances to her own music. Much like you, Hanne, I think.’
Mama shifted in her chair. ‘We do not believe in dancing here.’