When the flinch comes Martin pulls away as if he is the one who has been hurt. Did he say something wrong? Did he somehow insult him? Has some unknown line of Russian politeness been breached without his knowing it? He backs up half a step, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back on his heels, thinking.
Russian or not, no child that he has ever met has reacted like this. The closest thing to it that he can think of is a stray dog that he would see sometimes in Berlin on shopping trips with his mother when he was small. It lived in one of the empty lots in between buildings, another scar left by a war before he was born. It would snarl and shiver if he got too close, but on each trip he would make an excuse to break from mama and leave a small bit of bread or a candy or once a sliver of sausage near where he was certain its lair must have been. Then he would crouch down in the dirt and watch it eat and tell it that his name was Martin. On the third trip, when he brought the sausage, it had actually come close enough to sniff his hand. On the fourth trip there was no dog. Just a pile of lumber and an announcement that more workers' housing would be arriving soon.
The younger boy might not be tempted out of his shell by offering him tidbits, but Martin is still prepared to wait as long as he must to earn something like trust.
"My name is Martin. I do not know where I am either, but I have a house. You can put your coat there and no one will take it. I promise."
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2017-09-24 02:51 am (UTC)Russian or not, no child that he has ever met has reacted like this. The closest thing to it that he can think of is a stray dog that he would see sometimes in Berlin on shopping trips with his mother when he was small. It lived in one of the empty lots in between buildings, another scar left by a war before he was born. It would snarl and shiver if he got too close, but on each trip he would make an excuse to break from mama and leave a small bit of bread or a candy or once a sliver of sausage near where he was certain its lair must have been. Then he would crouch down in the dirt and watch it eat and tell it that his name was Martin. On the third trip, when he brought the sausage, it had actually come close enough to sniff his hand. On the fourth trip there was no dog. Just a pile of lumber and an announcement that more workers' housing would be arriving soon.
The younger boy might not be tempted out of his shell by offering him tidbits, but Martin is still prepared to wait as long as he must to earn something like trust.
"My name is Martin. I do not know where I am either, but I have a house. You can put your coat there and no one will take it. I promise."