How I got my hands on this journal is a long story, and how I learned to write is an even longer one. It's not normal for a 'street rat' such as me to be literate, for what does literacy have to do with street life? Do you need to able to read or write to beg and steal? To breath in the sickening stench that is the essence of human suffering? Mama once told me I write well, "but Mama" I pointed out, "You can't read it". She only smiled and said, "I know it's good". I hate the city. I would rather walk a million miles on grass then a yard on the slimy, grimy streets of the city, littered with rotting carcasses. I gave up on begging a while ago, people just stopped giving when I turned about 7. I still send Anka out to beg. For somehow, by the grace God, people still give to her. I have yet to tell Anka where I get the
money to feed us. I suppose she thinks I still beg, I don't have to the
heart to tell her where I really get it. Besides, if I tell her I know exactly what she'll say, she'll say, "Mama told us never to steal." I cannot take anymore mention of Mama, Mama may not have wanted us to steal, but would she rather we starve? When it begins to get dark I have to find a place for Anka and me to sleep. Usually I find an attic or cellar somewhere, a place for us to slide into, close our eyes, and pretend we are princesses in warm, soft beds. Anka sometimes says, "I wonder where Aleksy is?" I hate it when she asks that, how hard is it for a 4-year-old to understand the concepts of sickness and death. I am 8 now, old enough to support myself and my younger sister, whether I like it or not. Sometimes when I cannot sleep, I try to remember the last time Anka smiled. I try to remember what it was like to smile and laugh, when was the last time
I smiled? These thoughts always come back to Mama, and I cannot afford to dwell in the past when I have such a brutal
present to worry about.
