He was
laughing. He lifted the little girl up again and placed her on his bike carrier,
said something else, and got on the bike himself. Anna didn’t understand any of
his words, but his voice sounded different than it did at school. Somebody had
lit a flame between the sentences, warmed them with a bright, crackling fire.
Maybe, she thought, he was speaking a different language. Polish. If Polish
burned so brightly, she would learn it. Don’t fool yourself, Anna, Gitta said
from inside her head. You’d probably learn Serbo-Croatian if it helped you talk
to Tannatek.
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