The Passport

THE MILK

When Amalie was seven years old, Rudi pulled her through the maize. He pulled her to the end of the garden. “The maize is a forest,” he said. Rudi took Amalie into the barn. He said: “The barn is a castle.”

There was an empty wine-barrel in the barn. Rudi and Amalie crawled into the wine-barrel. “The barrel is your bed,” said Rudi. He put dry burs on Amalie’s hair. “You have a crown of thorns,” he said. “You are enchanted. I love you. You must suffer.”

Rudi’s pockets were full of shards of coloured glass. He laid the shards around the edge of the barrel. The shards gleamed. Amalie sat down on the floor of the barrel. Rudi knelt in front of her. He pushed up her dress. “I’m drinking milk from you,” said Rudi. He sucked Amalie’s nipples. Amalie closed her eyes. Rudi bit into the small, brown knots.

Amalie’s nipples were swollen. Amalie cried. Rudi went through the end of the garden and into the fields. Amalie ran into the house.

The burs stuck in her hair. They were tangled up. Windisch’s wife cut the knots out with her scissors. She washed Amalie’s nipples with camomile tea. “You mustn’t play with him again,” she said. “The skinner’s son is crazy. He has a deep hole in his head from all the stuffed animals.”

Windisch shook his head. “Amalie will bring disgrace down on us,” he said.