1919–20
Although Mama climbed into Papa’s deathbed and pulled the covers tight, there was no more warmth to be found. I don’t remember the sun coming out once after that. Every day was cool, and I felt as if I were pushing through thick mist. Mama couldn’t push. She never stood up straight again, it seemed to me. She didn’t even prepare food for meals. Aunt Friedka moved into our house and took care of all of us.
Neighbors and friends came to visit each day for shiva, the traditional week of mourning. “We wish you long life,” they murmured. “Long life, wish you long life.”
Mama didn’t seem to hear. She sat in a low chair or on the floor. The visitors’ little children played outside with Nechama. Gradually the children’s chatter and laughter began to penetrate the dim house.
“Nechama! Shhhh!” I ordered furiously from the front doorstep. “Be quiet! How can you play when Papa is dead?”
There was silence for a moment, and then Nechama burst into loud tears. I felt torn. I was glad that Nechama realized she had done wrong, but I hated to see the little face twisted in sobs. Hurrying to my sister, I hugged and kissed her and dried her face with my apron. Then I settled the small children under an old cherry tree and told them all to play very quietly.
But when I went back inside, Mama was staring downward and didn’t seem to be aware of the commotion. A neighbor began to apologize for her children’s part in the games, but Aunt Friedka cut her short. “They’re still young,” she said. “It would be better for Devorah to be out there with them.”
How could she say such a thing? Of course it would be nice to run with the girls again, to be chased by the boys and shriek with laughter, but the time for such childishness was over. I sat down low next to Mama.
Exactly seven days after Papa was buried, visitors stopped coming. And so did the little gifts of food they had brought—two potatoes from one neighbor, a few strawberries and a bowl of milk from another. Aunt Friedka went out to barter for food every morning. She gave Nechama and me the biggest portions, but we felt hungry all the time. So did Aunt Friedka. Only Mama never complained.
Life went on somehow for a few months. Then came news of a pogrom in a Jewish shtetl to the west. Aunt Friedka whispered about it to our neighbors when she thought I wasn’t listening. “I heard some Cossacks rode in and got all the Poles from the surrounding villages filled up with liquor. Strange bedfellows, Cossacks and Poles, but they get on well when it comes to killing Jews. Aagh, may the typhoid find its way to them!”
But the typhoid took a wrong turn. Mama woke up one morning burning with fever.
“Water,” she cried. “My lips are parched, bring me water.”
Aunt Friedka sprang up and examined Mama. I rushed to her, too. I could see small pink spots covering Mama’s thin back and chest.
“Water, Devorah. Quickly!” Aunt Friedka ordered.
I sped to the well and pumped as fast as I could, then stumbled back with the bucket, water spilling over my bare feet.
“I’m coming, Mama. Water’s coming,” I said, panting. That was the first of many trips. Mama drank and drank, clutching the cup with shaking fingers, but the thirst couldn’t be satisfied. Nechama was sent to a neighbor to keep her away from the fever, and Aunt Friedka tried to send me, too.
“No!” I declared. “I’m almost eleven; I’m old enough to look after my mama. I won’t go.”
“All right.” Aunt Friedka gave up, turning back to Mama’s bed. “I can use all the help I can get.”
In the end she really did need me, because the barber said he could not come to help; he was busy.
“Busy!” Aunt Friedka exploded. “That lying coward. Why doesn’t he come straight out and say he’s too scared to come near the typhoid.”
Typhoid. It was the name of the terrible fever everyone feared. They said it could kill all the people in an entire village.
Aunt Friedka continued muttering. “Oh, he can take our money and treat us when we have the toothache or the gout, but when it’s something he could catch, he’s busy, is he? Devorah, build up the wood in that stove.”
After that, Aunt Friedka and I had no time to talk. Mama wanted to drink water constantly; she needed her swollen dry lips moistened every few minutes and a cool damp cloth placed on the pounding pain in her forehead. Her feet were cold; then she was burning and sweating. Then her feet were cold again. The blankets had to be tucked in, removed, replaced. I thought my heart would snap the first time I saw my mama’s legs. They were so thin, so bony and shrunken.
“But I can take care of her,” I whispered to myself. “I want to take care of you, Mama.”
Tears rolled hot and prickly as I ran to and from the well, but I didn’t put down the bucket to wipe them away. I wanted every minute with Mama.
I had only two days. Some of the time Mama slept, but mostly she tossed and turned and moaned for water. She said lots of things that didn’t make sense, and often she seemed to be speaking to her own mama, my grandmother, who was dead. On the second evening, Mama grew quiet, and when I moistened her lips, she gave a weak smile and whispered something very faintly.
“What, Mama?” I asked, bending forward to listen.
The words were soft as a cat’s breath. “You’re a good girl, Devorahleh. Take care of Nechama. Say your prayers every night. Never forget who we are.”
I clung to her hand. “I’ll never forget, Mama. I promise,” I said, sobbing.
Then Mama whispered, “I’m going to Papa now. You stay with Nechama.”
“Don’t go, Mama!” I cried. “Mama! Mama! Don’t leave us.”
Mama’s eyes closed and her breathing became rough. I felt Aunt Friedka’s arms lifting me away, and I sobbed into her chest. There was a rattling sound from the bed. I turned back quickly, terrified of seeing the Angel of Death himself lifting my mother into the air. There was no angel. But my mama was dead.