Still no Way Home

After my little prayer to the Jesus I had learned about in school the year before, I felt less frightened than before. I looked around, searching the dark street on that fateful evening in Wiesbaden. 

Shoppers rushed by. A tall man slowed and watched us from under the brim of his hat, then stopped.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. “Where are your parents?”

“We are lost,” I said.

Josefa cried again.

“Where do you live?” the man asked.

“I don’t know,” I said and swallowed my tears. “We just got here. We live in our caravan home.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“I think it’s that way,” I said and pointed forward.
           The man looked in the direction I pointed and shook his head.

“I can’t help you,” he said.