It was a very quiet, rainy afternoon in the local supermarket. The muted, somewhat comfortless buzzing of the large cooling display cases and the rhythmic, monotonous beeping of the cash registers filled the large space. I was standing in line, half asleep, leaning on my shopping cart and recessed into my own, everyday thoughts about work and deadlines. The fluorescent lighting shed a chilly glow over the products, and time seemed to creep slowly.
Until my look suddenly shook on a little girl who was standing in line for two people. She was 10 years old at most. Her coat was actually a little too thin for the time of year. In her small, sleazy hands she stuck a beautifully decorated little birthday cake firmly. She held the plastic box so gently and with awe, as if it were the most precious property in the whole world.
When it was her turn, she carefully moved the cake to the cashier. But when the total amount appeared on the screen and she put her handful of crumpled banknotes and ringing coin money on the counter, the cashier shook her head with a sympathetic look. She was short of money.
I saw the sheer disappointment falling over her face like a heavy shadow. Her shoulder went down. Yet she didn't cry, she didn't argue and she didn't make theatrical drama, as many other children might do. She just nodded an impressive, mature resignation. She slowly moved the pie back, whispered a soft, politely thank you very much to the cashier and took a step aside to clear the way for the next customer.
Without even a fraction of a second to think about it, I stepped out of line. I pulled out my ATM card and ticked the terminal to supplement the missing amount ...
It definitely didn't feel like a heroic act; It was simply an instinctive reaction. It felt like the only right thing to do at the time. When I took the cake and shoved it in her little hands along with the receipt, she slowly looked up to me. Her big, glittering eyes were wide open with sheer wonder and intense gratitude.
Then she did something that surprised me completely. She took a step closer and put her arms firmly around my waist in an unexpected, intimate embrace. With a tiny, slightly trembling voice she whispered to my coat: The cake is for my mom. She's very sick and she feels so sad. I just wanted to do something nice for her today.
There was an unprecedented, pure primal power in her soft words. It was a heaviness and a deep empathy that you rarely belong to a child of that age.
She let go of me, whispered one last time thank you, and then rushed out of the store, into the cold evening air, even before I had the chance to ask her what her name was or wish her strength.
While I was taking care of the rest of my messages, the meeting kept happening in my head. I couldn't get rid of the thought of how much quiet courage, love and determination was hidden in such a little girl...
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When I was standing by my car ten minutes later, and I touched my coat pocket to get my car keys, my fingers felt something unusual. It was a small, sloppy folded piece of paper that had not been in it before that day. She must have slipped the lightning fast into my pocket during that unexpected embrace.
Curious and with a beating heart I folded the paper open. Inside was a short, heartbreaking message written in a net, but childish handwriting:
Thank you for helping me. I really didn't know what to do anymore.
Right below those two sentences was a simple, pen-drawn sketch. It was a picture of a birthday cake with exactly one burning candle in the middle. It wasn't just the text of the note that touched me so deeply, but especially the fact that in the midst of all her own worries and panic she had the presence of spirit to write this note, just in case someone would help her.
