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I picked her up, surprised at how lightweight she actually was, and motioned for the others to follow.Once at my room, I laid her fragile body on the small twin sized bed. The others found places to rest; Ritzy in the small desk chair, Zachariah curled up on the floor by the large picture window, Eric and Josh on the floor with a deck of cards. I lifted Lolita's head, situating myself under her, and gently cradled her head in my lap.She groaned softly, her eyes fluttering as her pupils dilated and adjusted to to fluorescent lights above. She looked up at me, her hands slipping away from her temples and rested upon my thigh. "Why can't it just be a bad dream?" She asked, quite pathetically.I placed a hand on her forehead and slid it over her hair. "My dear, none of us are truly awake. We are caught in a net of sleep and dreams, which we have unconsciously woven ourselves into."---Lolita kept to herself for the days following. Most days she sat in her room, staring out the large. “That one day east Germany would be free, the Party and the Stasi broken and we could go home.”I ached to comfort her with the knowledge that in twenty-five years that would happen – at least in my world – but all I could do was hug her. I don’t recall the assassination affecting me much in my previous life until I saw the picture of JFK’s small son saluting his father’s coffin as he stood with Jackie at the funeral.We stood huddled over Mutti Frida for a minute or so and then she stood up. “I think we all need a cup of hot chocolate.” She busied herself in the kitchen whilst we sat at the table. In the background, the BBC was playing sombre music.When the hot chocolate was ready, Mutti Frida sighed and chased us back on to the sofa and helped tuck the blankets around us. “Life goes on, children. Read your book.”We sipped our hot chocolate and read more of Under Milkwood, but the zest had gone out of our reading and, eventually, we stopped. We sat there, just listening to the music.
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