An Orphan at Six: Mother of Two Daughters Expecting a Third Child

I was six years old when I became an orphan. My mother, already mother to two girls, was giving birth to a third. I remember everything: my mothers screams, the neighbors gathering and weeping, and then my mothers voice fading away
Why didnt anyone call a doctor or take my mother to a hospital? I never understood that. Was it because the village was remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still dont know, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving me, my sister, and the newborn, Pauline.
After Moms death, my father was lost. We had no relatives nearby; everyone else lived out west, and no one was there to help him look after us. The neighbors advised him to remarry quickly. Less than a week after Moms funeral, he was already engaged.
People suggested he ask the schoolteacher to marry him, saying she was a kind woman. He went to her, and she accepted. Apparently, she liked him. My father was young and handsometall, thin, with jetblack eyes that could swallow you whole.
That evening, my father arrived with his fiancée to introduce her.
Heres your new mother! he announced.
I was furious, tasting bitterness I couldnt explain, but my childs heart sensed something was wrong. The whole house still smelled of Mom. We still wore the dresses she had sewn and laundered, and now he was bringing us a new mother. In hindsight I understand, but at the time I hated both him and his fiancée. I have no idea what she imagined about us, but she walked into the house arminarm with my father.
Both were a little drunk, and she said,
Call me mother and Ill stay.
I told my little sister,
This isnt our mother. Ours is dead. Dont call her that!
My sister burst into tears, and I, the older one, stepped forward.
No, we wont call you mother. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Ah, such a sharp reply for a little girl! Then I wont stay with you, she retorted.
The teacher left, and my father began to follow, but stopped at the threshold, uncertain. He stood there, head bowed, then turned to us, pulled us into his arms, and began to weep openly. We cried with him. Even baby Pauline in her cradle started to whimper. We mourned our mother, while Dad mourned his beloved wife, yet our grief felt deeper than his. Orphans tears sound the same everywhere, and the sorrow for a mother is universal in every language. It was the first and only time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us for two more weeks because he worked in the forest industry, and his crew was out in the woods. There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged with a neighbor, gave her money for our food, left Pauline with another neighbor, and went back to the forest.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come, cook, heat the oven, and then leave. She had her own affairs. So we spent whole days alone at homecold, hungry, scared. The villagers began to look for a solution. They needed a special woman who could treat us as her own children. Where could such a person be found?
In conversation we learned that a distant cousin of one villager knew a young woman abandoned by her husband because she could not have children. Perhaps she once had a child who died, and God never gave her another; nobody knew for sure. Eventually they found her address, wrote a letter, and, through another aunt named Zina, invited her to us.
Dad was still in the woods when Zina arrived early one morning. She slipped in so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving, dishes clinking in the kitchen, the scent of pancakes drifting through the rooms!
My sister and I peeked through a crack. Zina was calmly washing dishes, sweeping the floor. She realized we were awake from the noises.
Come on, my little blondies, lets eat! she called.
It struck us that she called us that; we were indeed blond with blue eyes, just like Mom.
Gathering courage, we left our room.
Sit at the table! she instructed.
We obeyed, devoured the pancakes, and began to feel a growing trust in her.
Call me Aunt Zina, she said.
The next day Aunt Zina bathed my sister Vera and me, washed everything for us, and left. She returned the following morning. The house had been transformed under her careclean and tidy as when Mom was alive. Three weeks passed while Dad was still in the forest. Aunt Zina did her best for us, but she never let us become too attached. Vera, only three then, clung to her; I remained more wary. Aunt Zina was strict and a bit distant. Our mother had been joyful, loved to sing and dance, and called Dad Vincent.
What will happen when your father returns from the woods? And how is he? I asked, trying clumsily to praise him.
Hes wonderful! Very gentle! When he drinks, he falls asleep right away! I blurted.
Aunt Zina frowned.
He drinks often?
Yes I replied, kicking my foot under the table, but only on special occasions.
That evening Aunt Zina left reassured, and Dad came back that same night. Looking around, he said,
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 lady of the house. How is she?
Shes beautiful, Vera answered, she makes pancakes and tells stories.
Thinking back, I cant help smiling. By standards, Zina wasnt a beautyshe was thin, short, rather plain. Do children really grasp true beauty?
Dad laughed, 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 Zina entered the house shyly, as if afraid of something.
I said to Vera,
Lets call her mother; shes kind!
And we shouted together with Vera,
Mother, mother is here!
Dad and Zina fetched Pauline together. For Pauline, Zina became a real mother, caring for her like a treasure. Pauline didnt remember her own mother. Vera had forgotten, and I alone kept Moms memory alive, as did Dad. Once I caught Dad looking at Moms photograph, whispering,
Why did you leave so early? You took all my joy with you.
I didnt spend much longer with Dad and my stepmother. In fourth grade I was sent to a boarding school because our village had no high 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 as her own child, yet I kept my distance. Am I ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwife, perhaps not by accident. I cant turn back time to save my own mother, but I will protect another mother