10 Then
Then
I can still remember the day our lives changed.
I’d been twelve years old. It was early spring, though unseasonably hot in a way that made summer feel like a looming, impatient thing.
I’d been playing in the side yard with Ilse, who’d just turned ten.
Even then she’d been a sensitive child, unlikely to stand up for herself, so I became accustomed to doing it for her.
I never resented Ilse, though in hindsight perhaps I should have.
I watched my parents praise their good little girl, all the while growing wary of their first daughter.
I was a difficult child. Too clever for my own good.
I rarely cried and, regardless, didn’t like to be coddled or consoled.
None of my friendships lasted long, and the chaplains who taught at the public school met with my parents several times.
Keep an eye on that one, I’d heard my third-form teacher tell my father when they’d thought I couldn’t hear.
Your youngest is a good girl, but I worry about the elder.
On that particular day, I’d coerced Ilse into catching grasshoppers with me in our mother’s tiny vegetable garden.
I’d only just begun to realize our family wasn’t exactly well-off, and the plot of land occupied by our single-bedroom house left little space for outdoor activities.
Nevertheless, I always managed to think of something to do, dragging Ilse along whether my sister liked it or not.
My parents had long given up forbidding me from climbing trees or leaving the property, but that day I’d had little desire to do either.
It was too hot to do anything truly fun, so I’d settled for catching bugs.
I liked to cup them in my hands a moment, feeling their little legs against the sensitive skin of my palms, then let them go loose.
I’d been doing just that when two young men showed up at the house.
Ilse had noticed them first, and she’d elbowed me in the side, indicating with her chin.
Both men were dressed in strange, ankle-length robes.
They were probably in their twenties, though they’d seemed much older through the lens of childhood.
I’d abandoned my pursuit of the grasshopper bounding in and out of my mother’s tomato plants, straightening to holler at the duo.
“What do you want?”
Ilse had cowered against me, likely due more to embarrassment than fear, but neither man appeared offended. One was holding a thick book, I saw, and he thumbed the pages as he bared gleaming teeth in our direction.
“Are your parents home?”
I’d shrugged, abruptly disinterested. “Far as I know.”
Then I’d turned back to my elusive grasshopper, paying the men no mind as they approached the front door. Paying them no mind as my parents invited them inside, nor as they departed a good hour or so later.
I should have paid attention though. I should have given more thought to the quiet conversations my mother and father had when they thought we weren’t listening.
Should have realized something was amiss when the men returned not once, but several times more, often with an older fellow in tow.
Perhaps I even ought to have glanced at the book left behind on the dining room table.
Had I been paying attention, I might have been prepared.