She liked to play in the ruins. True, they were forbidden.
``Its dangerous,'' her mother said, ``something could fall.'' But surely anything that could fall had fallen. The bombed houses made perfect playgrounds.
The boys with guns and metal detectors had already come through and taken all they could unearth that might have any value. Now there was nothing but rubble and secretive bathrooms flung open to display walls painted in the color schemes of their last residents.
She thought it was a toy ring at first. It lay in the dusty mortar looking so ordinary. She picked it up and put it on. It slipped around on her thin finger, and she forgot about it for a while. When she looked at the ring again she saw that it was a diamond.
Sometimes she kept it in her secret little box of treasures, but mostly she had it in her pocket. Sometimes she wore it, but she was so afraid of losing it.
When the owners of the destroyed houses returned they stood in the ruins of their former homes. They looked at the exposed interior walls and they had nowhere to go. No place to turn. Her mother stood silently and watched her one time neighbors.
``They were on the wrong side,'' she said, and went back to peeling potatoes.
They were gone by dark. Escorted by the peace keepers. Even they could see there was no possibility for a safe return.
The girl thought of the woman standing in the rubble, stooping to pick up some rain soaked paper. Part of a book perhaps, then dropping the paper and turning wearily toward the Jeep.
She told her mother about the ring.
``It belongs to that woman. I must return it. She needs it.''
``Do as you wish,'' her mother said.
The woman never returned.
One day the girl gave the ring to a peace keeper.
``Please give this to the woman who lived here.''
The peace keeper took the ring and raised his eyebrows.
``Sure,'' he said. He put the ring in his pocket and patted his pocket.
``Sure,'' he said.