The Wolf Ballet || WW2

12. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Twelve

Ophelia woke up in a sweat, rather frightened by the sensation of a gentle, cold, hand. Her blue eyes fluttered, as she tried to control her breathing. The small face of a child loomed over her as she lay on the cushioned couch.

The child had short brown hair, with light brown eyes—she had a sour face, but Ophelia didn't sense the girl was actually in a foul mood. Rather the girl was just focused.

"Was it scary?" The girl spoke, catching Ophelia by surprise.

Did the child know she was having a bad dream?

Before Ophelia could respond, the door opened and closed, and in came Madame Bal. In her usual green shawl and pinned hair. Small strands of grey hair framing each side of her face.

"Zosia, go brush your teeth—now,"

Madame spoke firmly. Ophelia watched as the girl looked up at the serious Polish woman and nodded. "Yes, babcia,"

Ophelia sat up from the couch, looking between her teacher and the fleeing girl.

Babcia meant grandmother, she was Madame Bal's granddaughter. Suddenly the naturally mean face made sense. Ophelia could see that the child took after her father's mother. A petite Madame Bal, the thought alone made Ophelia chuckle.

"Is there something rather silly?" Madame asked setting down a tray carrying a cup and silver pitcher. Lifting the empty class and pouring in a cup of water, she calmly brought it over to Ophelia, whose legs now hung off the couch.

"No, just acting a stooge is all," Ophelia sighed, acting the cup and Brit her lips.

"Ophelia Baudelaire, a stooge? Your father would rather first see cigarette companies discontinue than witness that."

"My father would rather see anything else first in general," Ophelia responded, quite frankly. The amusement no longer dwelling on her face. Madame Bal could sense that Ophelia still held some resentment towards her father. Even the blind could see it.

"Your father loves you," Bal added, sitting down beside her student, "all he's ever done is for your well-being."

"My father loves his country, his home—that's all he's ever truly cared for. I was just a lesser responsibility."

"That's not true Ophelia," Bal sighed.

"It's not?" The French heiress scoffed, "If my father had never sent me away all those years ago, I would have never been struggling to get home now."

"Your father sent you away so that could experience life in your way, living swaddled in Toulouse would have robbed you of any potential. He wanted you to achieve something on your own, and he was right. Everything you've done up to then was all you, Ophelia. No one else was on that stage with you!"

Ophelia struggled to face her teacher, not wishing to cry as she had already cried enough in the middle of this war. Wishing to conjure the words that would prove her teacher wrong—such sayings never came.

"Circumstances are troubling with the war, but that does not change the fact that he showed you favor in setting you free."

Ophelia took a breath, inhaling sharply, as she shut her eyes in an attempt to calm herself. After a moment, with arms crossed, she turned to her teacher, gazing up. Her blue eyes wide and teary, she shook her head, and whispered,

"What is freedom in a place like this?" Her words were direct and clear. Gizela had never heard Ophelia sound so indignant—so privileged.

"If my words are hurtful, I'd rather they wound than deny as the world looks down on us." Ophelia was serious, agitated, and confused—but saying she was free was like saying this war was natural in life. Everything she had experienced up to this point was just life showing her what was freedom. If this was a gift she was given, she didn't want it. There was nothing and no one that she wanted from this war.