Six-Year-Old-Orphan: Mother of Two Daughters Expecting a Third Child

I became an orphan when I was six. My mother already had two daughters and was in the midst of delivering a third. I remember everything: my mothers screams, the neighbors gathering, their sobs, and the moment my mothers voice faded away
Why didnt anyone call a doctor or take her to a hospital? I never understood that. Was the village too remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died giving birth, leaving me, my sister, and the newborn, Pauline.
After Moms death, my father was lost. We had no relatives nearby; everyone else was out west, and no one was available to help him look after us. The neighbors urged him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Moms funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he propose to the schoolteacher, saying she was a kind woman. He went to her, got her consent, and she seemed to like him. My father was young and handsometall, slender, with dark eyes that reminded one of a gypsys, eyes you could get lost in.
That evening, my father arrived with his fiancée to introduce her.
Ive brought you a new mother!
I was furious, feeling a bitter confusion that I couldnt explain, yet my childs heart sensed something was wrong. The house still smelled of Mom. We still wore the dresses she had sewn and washed, and now he was presenting a new mother. Looking back I understand, but at the time I despised both of them. I have no idea what she thought of us, but she walked in arminarm with my father.
Both were a little drunk, and she said to us:
Call me mom, and Ill stay.
I told my little sister:
She isnt our mother. Our mother is dead. Dont call her that!
My sister burst into tears, and I, the older one, stepped forward.
No, we wont call you mom. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Oh, such a sharp reply for such a small girl! Then I wont stay with you.
The teacher left, and my father started to follow her but stopped at the doorway, indecisive. He stood frozen, head bowed, then turned to us, hugged us, and began to weep loudly. We cried with him. Even baby Pauline in her cradle started to whimper. We mourned our mother; Dad mourned his beloved wife, but our grief was deeper than his. Orphans tears sound the same everywhere, and the sorrow for a mother is universal, no matter the language. It was the first and last time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us for another two weeks because his job was in the forest industry, and his crew went out into the woods. There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged with a neighbor, gave her money for our food, entrusted Pauline to another neighbor, and then left for the forest.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come, cook, tend the stove, and then leave. She had her own affairs. Most of the day we were by ourselves in the housecold, hungry, and scared. The villagers began to think of a solution. They needed a special woman, someone who could treat our children as her own. Where could they find such a person?
In conversation we learned that a distant cousin of one villager knew a young woman who had been abandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children. Perhaps she had once had a child who died, and God never gave her another; nobody knew for sure. At last they got her address, wrote a letter, and through another aunt, Zina, they called her to us.
Dad was still in the woods when Zina arrived early one morning. She entered so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving, dishes clinking, the scent of pancakes drifting through the rooms!
My sister and I, curious, peered through a crack. Zina was calmly washing dishes, sweeping the floor. She realized we were awake from the noises.
Come on, my little blondes, lets eat!
She called us that, and we were indeed blond with blue eyes, just like Mom.
Summoning courage, we left our room.
Sit down at the table!
We didnt hesitate. We devoured the pancakes and began to feel a budding trust in this woman.
Call me Aunt Zina.
Later Aunt Zina bathed me and my sister Véra, cleaned everything for us, and left. She returned the next day. The house had been transformed by her handsclean and tidy, as it had been when Mom was alive. Three weeks passed, Dad still up in the woods. Aunt Zina cared for us as best she could, but she never let us become attached to her. Véra, only three then, clung to her; I remained wary. Aunt Zina was strict, a little distant. Our mother had been joyous, sang, danced, and called Dad Vincent.
What will happen when your father returns from the forest? How is he?
I tried to praise Dad clumsily, almost ruining everything.
Hes wonderful! Very sensible! When he drinks, he falls asleep right away!
Aunt Zina immediately grew suspicious.
Does he drink often?
Often! I answered, tapping him under the table, then added,
No, only on special occasions.
That evening Aunt Zina left reassured, and Dad came back from the woods that night. As he entered, he looked around, surprised.
I thought you lived in poverty, but youre living like princesses.
We told him everything we could. He sat, thoughtful, then said,
Ill go see the new mistress of the house. How is she?
Shes truly beautiful, Véra replied, and she makes pancakes and tells stories.
Thinking back, I cant help but smile. By conventional standards Zina wasnt a beauty; she was thin, short, and rather plain. Do children really grasp a persons beauty?
Dad laughed, got dressed, and went to visit the aunt who lived nearby. The next day he returned with Zina. He had risen early to fetch her, and she entered the house shyly, as if frightened.
I said to Véra,
Lets call her mom, shes kind!
And we shouted together with Véra:
Mom, mom is here!
Dad and Zina fetched Pauline together. For the baby, Zina became a real mother, caring for her like a treasure. Pauline didnt remember her own mother. Véra had forgotten, and I alone kept Moms memory alive all my life, just as Dad did. Once I caught Dad looking at Moms photograph, whispering softly:
Why did you leave so early? In leaving, you took all my joy with you.
I didnt spend much more time with Dad and my stepmother. In fourth grade I was sent to boarding school because our village had no secondary school. After seventh grade I entered a technical institute. I always wanted to leave home earlywhy? Zina never hurt me with words or deeds; she protected me like her own daughter, yet I kept my distance. Am I ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwife, perhaps not by chance. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I will protect another mother