Sabrina Orah Mark
The
Lie
The morning after I find the
mustache in mother’s purse,
Brunibar comes to see me. He wants to borrow the
mustache, he explains, for the war. I want to ask him
how he knows, but I do not dare. I wrap the mustache in
a dark blue cloth, along with slices of fish and boiled
milk. Our knees touch. We listen to the accordion players
kiss the backs of each other’s necks on the radio.
Brunibar strokes the raised letters on my wrist, and the
pockets of my apron grow large. I carry him into mother’s
bedroom, where a live soldier is chewing a hole through
the wall. Brunibar unscrews his wooden foot, and I
gently climb inside. “What do you see?”
asks Brunibar.
“Tents!” I shout, through the black socket. In the
distance, mother is already returning from the front. How
do I tell Brunibar the truth without hurting him? “Beautiful
flying tents,”
I whisper. My voice growing farther and
farther away.