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 about to give birth to a third. I remember everything: my mothers screams, the neighbors gathering and crying, 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 the village too 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 was out west, and no one could 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 and got her consent. Apparently she liked him. My father was young and handsome, thats for suretall, slender, with dark eyes like 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 sting I couldnt explain, but my childs heart sensed something wrong. The house still smelled of Mom. We still wore the dresses she had sewn and washed, and now he was bringing us a new mother. Looking back I understand, but at the time I hated both of them. 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 to us:
Call me mama, 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 mama. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Oh, such a sharp reply from such a small girl! Well then, I wont stay with you.
The teacher left, and my father began to follow, but stopped at the doorway, indecisive. He stood there, head bowed, then turned to us, pulled us into his arms and began to weep hot tears, and we wept with him. Even tiny Pauline in her crib started to whimper. We mourned our mother, while Dad mourned his beloved wife, but our grief outweighed his. Orphans tears sound the same everywhere, and the sorrow for a mother is universal, in any 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 forestry industry and his crew went into the woods. What could we do? 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 headed into the forest.
We were left alone. The neighbor would come, cook, heat the stove, and then leave. She had her own affairs. We spent the whole day at home alonecold, hungry, frightened. The village began to think of a solution. They needed a special woman, someone who could accept our children as her own. Where could such a woman be found?
In conversation we learned that a distant cousin of one of the villagers knew a young woman abandoned by her husband because she could not have children. Perhaps she had once had a child who died, and God had not given her any more; no one really knew. Eventually they found 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 slipped in so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke to footsteps in the housesomeone moving, the clatter of dishes, the scent of pancakes filling the rooms!
My sister and I, curious, peered through a crack. Zina was calmly washing dishes, sweeping the floor. She must have realized we were awake from the noises.
Come on, my little blondies, lets eat!
She called us that, and it puzzled us. We were blond with blue eyes, just like Mom.
Summoning courage, we left our room.
Sit at the table!
We didnt hesitate. We devoured the pancakes and began to feel a growing trust in her.
Call me Aunt Zina.
Later Aunt Zina bathed my sister Vera and me, washed us all, and left. The next day she returned. The house had transformed under her handsclean and tidy as when Mom was alive. Three weeks passed while Dad was still in the forest. Aunt Zina cared for us as best she could, but she never let us become too attached. Vera, only three then, clung to her; I was more skeptical. Aunt Zina was strict, a bit distant. Our mother had been joyful, sang and danced, called Dad Vincent.
What will happen when your father comes back from the woods? How is he?
I tried to praise Dad clumsily, nearly ruining everything.
Hes great! Very sensible! When he drinks, he falls asleep right away!
Aunt Zina frowned instantly.
Does he drink often?
Often! I replied, then kicked a little under the table and added,
No, only on special occasions.
That evening Aunt Zina left reassured, and Dad returned that same night. He looked around, surprised.
I thought you lived in poverty, but you live like princesses.
We told him everything we could. He sat, thoughtful, then said,
Ill go see the new lady of the house. Whats she like?
Shes a real beauty, answered Véronique, she makes pancakes and tells stories.
Thinking back, I cant help but smile. By conventional standards Zina wasnt a beautyshe was thin, short, rather plainbut do children really grasp outer beauty?
Dad laughed, got dressed, and went to see the aunt who lived nearby. The next day he returned with Zina. He had risen early to fetch her, and Zina entered the house very timidly, as if frightened.
I told Véronique,
Lets call her mama, shes kind!
And we shouted together with Vera,
Mama, mama is here!
Dad and Zina fetched Pauline together. For Pauline, Zina became a true mother, caring for her like a treasure. Pauline didnt remember her own mother. Vera had forgotten, and I alone kept Moms memory all my life, just like Dad. Once I caught Dad looking at Moms photograph, murmuring softly:
Why did you leave so early? In leaving, you took all my joy.
I didnt spend much time with Dad and my stepmother. By fourth grade I was sent to a 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 always avoided attachment. Am I ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwife, perhaps not by accident. I cant turn back time to save my mother, but I will protect another mother