The statue still stands in the square. Most of the buildings surrounding it have been bombed out, but the statue remains, pocked by bullets and shrapnel. The immortalized victor still holds his sword high above his head, although the blade is gone and the rearing horse he straddles is missing a foreleg. Some conqueror from some other time, celebrating his brutal victory in some other war than today’s. Slightly in front of him and to the left, where his horse would land should it ever finish rearing, lies a large crater, the result of an off-kilter missile attack three days ago. On the edge of that crater rests a small doll, still connected to both arms and legs, though its head has gone missing. And next to that doll is a girl.
She’s no older than six but looks malnourished, so I could be wrong. Her dress is torn and used to be white, but that was long ago, long before this time. Now, it only has some light gray patches left between brown and black to serve as a reminder of what it once was. Her eyes still glow a brilliant blue, though, blazing in contrast to her dirt-stained skin and filthy brown blonde hair. And those eyes look at me, a combination of hollow and full.
It’s just the two of us. My colleagues are off somewhere busier, and this section of the city has already been looted and emptied of everything except stray dogs and this small girl. I don’t know what brought me here, why I ended up in this abandoned square in a war zone. “Never walk alone,” they say. “Always check your 6.” And yet, here I am, dozens of blocks away from my hotel.
“Family?” I ask. “Parente?”
She doesn’t reply but doesn’t look away, either. Instead, she takes the doll in her hand, then pulls it to her chest. I squat next to her.
“Are you lost?”
She just looks at me, clutching her headless doll and refusing to break eye contact.
I got lost once as a child. I was in a city with my parents and got distracted by something on the sidewalk. When I looked up, they were gone. I ran, screaming and desperately looking for them with tears running down my cheeks. But all I saw were strangers as I spun in circle after circle, my despair and panic growing simultaneously until I collapsed on the curb. The next thing I remembered was feeling my father’s hands lifting me up and placing me against himself while my mother cried and kissed me over and over in anger and love.
So, with that memory in mind, I stand, reach my hands down, and lift the girl, resting her on my hip. I walk the mile or so to the Red Cross shelter, where her parents wait for her, embracing her with glee and delight, for their daughter has returned. I leave with a smile, happy to know she’s safe.
But if I told you that, it would be a lie. That’s the way I recreated the memory, with me as the knight in shining armor swooping in to save the day. And at times, other times, that would have been true, but not now, and not with this story.
Here’s the truth. I did squat next to her, and she did clutch the doll to her chest. I stayed there for I don’t know how long, and she never stopped staring at me and never said a word. No one showed up, and no loving parent appeared. Then I got up and walked out of the square. Five blocks later, I turned around and sprinted back, running in circles like a desperate father searching for a lost child, but by then, she was gone. I had run through gunfire to save people but walked away from an innocent. I cannot tell you why.
I have not been back for decades, so I do not know if the statue still stands. But I still wake from deep sleep to her blue eyes staring at me. Every child in a playground reminds me of her. I see her in my daughter. And I do not have words to describe the emotion I carry with me daily. What good would it do anyway? What could a priest tell me that could change the decision I made? And how can one soothe this guilt? With more lies, like Surely her family found her, or She was just out for a stroll?
And that’s something I’ve never told anyone. You are the first.
