A Child's Wisdom

• Johanna Qualmann, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2008

The office is all brown and beige, with a musty smell as if the window – with its depressing view of ashen skies and unadorned trees - hasn’t been opened in months. The lady behind the desk is all grey and brown too, even though she smiles at us when we enter. Three children standing close together, the smallest – only four, and uncomprehending in the middle, – with Lise on one side and I on the other, silent, unmoving.

The lady beckons for us to sit. The chairs are children’s chairs, a big one for myself, a smaller one for Lise, a smaller one still for Anna. We sit. Lise begins to suck her thumb, a habit from her preschool years that never quite died. Anna reaches out her small hand for mine, and I take it. Hers lies pale and inert in my own.

Then the lady begins to talk. Her voice is calm but cool, detached, and with a flick of a switch the tape of her voice recorder begins to churn mechanically. Everything you say will be used against you in court, my mind whispers. I don’t listen. Outside it has started to rain and grey drops embrace the cold windowpane with delicate fingers. She merely retells the story she thinks she knows. The story I have lived.

And then it comes, the question I knew from the beginning would eventually come. She doesn’t ask outright; perhaps, over the years, people have learned tact – but its meaning is the same.

“Who would you like to live with, Hanna? Where would you like to live?”

I want to live with both my parents. I tell her. She turns to Lise and then to Anna. Lise does not say anything. Anna names mum. At that age one would always want one’s mother.

The discussion, if you would like to call it that for the sake of inclusivity, continues. I don’t say anything else. Where do you want to live? Do you like living in Germany? Do you want to go back to Australia?

I want to live with both my parents. Both my parents. Both.

The words tumble out of my mouth the way a wild horse tries to shake off its rider. I won’t answer anything else, not any of the questions – suggestions – put to me in that hour. Because I don’t know the answers to any of the other questions. I don’t know. I simply don’t know.

And then it’s over. We wait two hours in the hallways of the courthouse. Lise and Anna take out their colouring in books, busy themselves. I read. Time passes with muffled voices echoing through panelled walls. The doors open.

Mum is crying. She drops onto a chair and we gather round. Lise and Anna start to cry as well. Mum’s voice is contorted by tears. She looks up.

“We lost this battle. But we’re not going to give up.”

But with a child’s wisdom, I know it can’t be won. Either way.