seventeen

I was dreaming again. This time I could see my river imprisoned in its cement banks, gray and bleak. Great chunks of ice smashed into the stone bridge, jostling each other, squeaking and screaming, almost as if they were alive.

I knew I was dreaming and was angry that I wasn’t imagining a summer river, with barges drifting along in the sunshine and sailors waving their ribboned hats at me.

I awoke to Maria crying in her crib again. Why didn’t I hear the sound of Barbara’s footsteps or her soft voice soothing her?

I lay there trying to clear my mind; it was as filled with cobwebs as the wooden steps in the cathedral tower. My eyes wanted to close, but I knew there was something I had to remember.

Just on the edge of my mind.

Slipping away like a chunk of ice in the center of the river.

I felt my head nod and realized: I lay on the couch, no covers, still dressed. I ran my fingers over the buttons, the top one open, my belt loosened. And then I was on my feet in an instant, stumbling over my shoes on the rug, running down the hall into Barbara’s bedroom.

I glanced at Barbara in her bed, tossing and turning. Her hair almost covered her face, her head moved from side to side, her hands plucked at the blanket. She was muttering something under her breath.

But Maria first, Maria screaming in the crib, her red face a mass of raised pustules, her eyes and mouth swollen, her tiny fingers scratching at her cheeks and then her arms. I glanced at the red ribbons on the bars of the crib. How right the Uncle had been. They were useless.

I lifted Maria, wrapping the blanket around her, and sank down on the floor, rocking her back and forth. “Oh, poor baby, poor baby,” I crooned.

I couldn’t believe I had slept, couldn’t believe I had closed my eyes.

“Dina,” Maria was saying through her tears. “Dee-na.” The first time she had said my name. Her first word, I was sure of it. I was filled with love for her.

“Bottle,” Barbara was saying.

“I know,” I said. “Don’t worry, I’m here.”

“Give her . . . ,” Barbara said again.

“Yes.” I nodded, but I wasn’t thinking of Barbara’s words but of Johann’s: Most people who go to the hospital die.

I glanced at the small window over the bed. Light shone through; it was daytime.

Never mind wanting to sleep. My legs felt weak as I thought of the wagon that would roll down the street in just a short while, the medical emblem on the side, the two health workers going from house to house, checking to see if anyone had the disease.

Smallpox. A word that seemed like nothing, but such a terrible sickness. If only I could pick up Barbara and Maria and take them somewhere, hide them.

There was no way to do that.

This morning, they’d take Barbara and Maria, and we’d never see either of them again.

How could I ever tell the Uncle?

Never mind the Uncle. I loved Barbara, with her sweet face and soft ways. I loved Maria, with her tantrums, and her block throwing, and her smile.

I put Maria back into the crib and went into the kitchen for the bottle. The tube down the center was coated with old milk. I worked at it, running some of the water that was left through it over and over, and in back of me I heard the water dripping into the pan under the icebox. If I didn’t empty it soon, it would flood the kitchen floor.

All the time I was thinking about what I could do about the health department men.

I could show them a spotless apartment. Show them a spotless Maria, a spotless Barbara. For a moment I told myself it was too much, and what difference would it make? The men would take them both anyway.

Beg them, came a voice in my mind. The Uncle’s voice: Say please. I practiced it in my head, and then aloud as I gave Maria the bottle.

“Pliz,” I said as I ripped up soft clean cloths and wrapped them around Maria’s hands so she couldn’t scar her face with scratching.

“Pliz,” I said as I washed her face and changed her diaper cloths, tucked knitted booties over her feet, and buttoned a clean white gown around her.

Pliz: a begging word.

And in back of me, Barbara called out, sensing that I was there even in her fever: “Hide the baby, Dina. Hide the baby.”

I went into the kitchen and scrubbed the floor, put the milk back into the icebox, swept the hall, and changed my dress.

Pliz.