LITMIR.BIZ

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neckline, seemingly squeezing out a well-filled strudel and giving it an exceedingly flaky crust.

      And though her hair – piled high upon her head in the pompadour style – glistens with streaks of white and silver, this only serves to blind me, causing my eyes to seek sanctuary in the brittle, grey dullness of her hands. Those rough hands she has just laid upon me. Hands that thirstily drink in the sun that seeps through every crack and flake, rendering the fault lines ever darker and deeper.

      A carriage passes by on the street outside. Horseshoe on cobble. Its clack-clacking disturbing the dust motes in the shaft of light. I follow snakeskin scales as they fall away from the backs of Frau Wittger’s hands, crumbling away, swirling, eddying upwards, before vanishing into the kindly, forgiving shade. I pull my gaze back to the hands. They drain the light, sucking it in behind every crease and fold, its energy magnifying as it goes. Skin knots and ridged-nail trunks on gnarled tree-bark hands.

      I blink. Refocus. My kaleidoscope stare makes out yellow spots beneath dead-dull thick claws.

      I have come to have her prepare me. I imagine the scraping of desiccated fingertips, traces of Frau Wittger, on the surface of my skin.

      She stands, bringing her hands by her sides, slowly moving towards the coolness of the dressing table upon which are displayed an attractive array of pots and potions in all sizes and colours. Tissues. Books of papier poudré. Sable hairbrushes and bright-coloured ribbons. Timely and pleasing distractions all, upon which to rest my eyes after the trauma caused them by Frau Wittger’s hands.

      As if she knows what I’m thinking she positions herself with her back to the window and presents her hands for my inspection. No longer grotesque out of the sunlight, they just look pale and small. And possibly a little dry.

      She sets about her tricks.

      She opens a tub, plunging her fingers into the glistening white peaks contained within. Wringing, kneading, rubbing, patting, she works cream into the crevasses and creases of her hands. White. Translucently melting. Vanished. And not just the cream. Like a magician she raises the palms of her hands and wriggles her fingers. All, all gone. The creases are softer, the skin now smoother. The flaky, brittleness now plump and moist. She takes a tissue and blots the residue before offering the back of her hand for my delectation. Not sure what to do I kiss it. I have heard my sister Katya say that that is what ladies do – give out their hands to be kissed. That’s why I do so.

      She laughs.

      ‘No need to kiss the likes of me, silly girl. Just smell it.’

      My nostrils breathe in Frau Wittger’s floral-scented skin.

      ‘There. Geranium oil.’

      I smile in surprise then wonder at its delicate fragrance.

      ‘Now touch. Touch my hand, girl.’

      I touch her hand, unable to stop myself turning it in awe. I caress its dewy softness as she glides the back of her other hand lightly across my cheek. What sort of magic is this? Then ‘Clap!’ she puts her hands together dramatically before whipping them away, back now turned to me.

      This most elaborate of hand moisturizing rituals is still not finished. I hear another lid removed. An unctuous squelch. Fingers in jam. Not a minute later she has rubbed in and buffed up the jellylike stuff on her nails. She removes the excess with a tissue, which she leaves scrunched up on the side.

      ‘There.’ She holds her hands up once again, walking back into the sunlight. Pink nails. A healthy sheen. Soft, generous, plumped-up skin. The metamorphosis is complete. I have witnessed a miracle.

      She turns her attention to me. It is my turn to be transformed from a pale and blotchy thirteen-year-old girl with messy red hair to an ideal of female perfection.

      ‘You’re tired. Shows in your face.’ Tut. ‘This is going to take me ages.’ Tut, tut! ‘Now if only I could slap on some proper colour …’ Tut, tut, tut! I scan the table, responsive to her words, searching for bright and bold. I am excited and afraid. Will she give me red lips? Strong eyes? Vivid cheeks? Will I look like an actress? Dear God, let her not make me look like a prostitute.

      With brushes and powders and lotions and potions she massages, creams, and daubs me for the next hour.

      She talks me through her materials. Pots of colour. ‘Pinks for the cheeks and lips. Browns and yellows for the eyes.’ Books of papier poudré: ‘face powder for a matt and natural complexion’. Lemon juice: ‘a tonic for the skin. And to lighten it. It can tingle.’ Cream: ‘to both soften and massage in. Gets the blood circulating for a nice, healthy glow. And if it doesn’t then there’s always a stronger rouge. But I will avoid that if I can.’ Petroleum jelly: ‘to make the lips juicy and the nails’, wiggling hers once more to demonstrate the point, ‘lustrous’. Materials spread out on the dressing table, the artist sets to work, her only tools her fingers, one small brush, and some blotting paper.

      She begins with the lemon juice. Fingers sweep deftly across my face. Then cream, her now soft and firm hands massaging upwards and out. ‘Up the neck – two, three. Circle round the nose – two, three. Up the side of the face – two, three. Up the forehead – two, three. ‘Supposed to help a girl’s face defy gravity – not that you need it yet.’

      I look up at her and I smile. It feels heavenly. Not the cream. But to feel the warmth of her hands, to be touched with such care.

      She goes over to the dressing table and looks at the pots of eye colour. My eyes are tight shut. My nose flares involuntarily to keep fine powder dust out as she dabs soft brown on my lids, followed by face powder held between sheets of a pretty little book, on its cover a white silhouette of a woman against a black background.

      I hear her move back. Say ‘Yes.’ No tuts.

      ‘Now for just a tiny pinch of rouge. Tiny, tiny, tiny.’ Her fingers massage peony pink into my cheeks using small circular movements as I breathe with pleasure.

      She picks up the mirror to show me two shiny pink apples. To me they are the prettiest of cheeks in the loveliest of pinks. She sees my joy.

      ‘No, love. No.’ She laughs. ‘Madness perhaps, because you look lovely, but this look says, well, let’s just say, sweetheart, that a look like this can get you into trouble. Attract the wrong sort of attention. This look says danger.’ She looks into my eyes with sadness. She is not smiling. ‘Besides, it’s not the fashion.’ I look at my reflection again. It’s enchanting. But having already received the wrong sort of attention I am in no hurry to court it again. Pink rose blush takes its place, giving the final look a delicate sugar coating.

      I take care not to wrinkle, sneeze, or in any way disturb the work Frau Wittger has created. She is beaming as she holds up the mirror.

      ‘You need just a little something on your lips.’ She fusses, adding peony pink then rubbing it off to leave a delicate stain. ‘Now you can’t get that colour biting them.’ She laughs, her head pulling back and causing her Apfelstrudel neck creases to disappear momentarily.

      ‘Nearly done.’

      With tiny pieces of blotting paper it’s as if she’s wiping away everything she’s done. Yet she’s so gentle, so careful. I’ve not felt so safe for such a long while. Not since before father stopped teaching.

      ‘Now to make this God-given red hair dazzle.’ Her voice is so happy, her touch so enthusiastic, as she plunges her fingers playfully though my lawless hair, that even I start to believe that this is possible. To change the curse that has been my unruly red hair into a blessing. Can that be? I hope that she’ll pin it up, turn me into a Gibson girl. Instead she pulls out two black satin ribbons. I shudder. I hold my tongue and let her tie my hair in childish bunches.

      ‘It’s me who’s the real bloody artist,’ she says proudly.

      She offers me the pretty silver-handled mirror so that I can fully appreciate her finished work before opening the door. All three sisters tumble in. Though there’s no sign of Mama.

      ‘She’s

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