Strains of American jazz still frolicked in the air, but softer than before. Every now and then she detected footsteps in the hall outside her door. Somehow Anika had gotten Petar off the bed and onto a blanket on the floor. Helene shifted to her side on the cot and reached for the baby, stroking her fingers through his fine hair. When Petar spied his mother, his face brightened. Helene pulled him up beside her and held him tight, kissing his soft cheek. “I’m hungry,” Anika said as she climbed on the bed. “I have some bread.” Helene lay the baby on the cot and picked up her satchel. She rummaged through it and pulled out bread wrapped in wax paper. “I’m tired of that.” “I know.” Helene tore off a piece and handed it to her, then took a bite herself. “But this is all we have.” Anika played with her bread, squishing it between her fingers. “Can we go to store?” “Nein. We have to stay here till tomorrow.” “I have to go potty.” “I’ll take you in a minute.
