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

I became an orphan when I was six. My mother already had two daughters and was giving birth to a third. I can still recall everything: my mothers screams, the neighbors gathering and weeping, and finally her voice fading away
Why didnt anyone call a doctor or take her to a hospital? I never understood that. Was it because the village was remote? Were the roads blocked by snow? I still have no answer, but there must have been a reason. My mother died in childbirth, leaving me, my sister, and the newborn baby, Pauline.
After Moms death, my father was adrift. We had no relatives nearby; everyone was out west, and no one could help him look after us. The neighbors suggested he remarry quickly. Less than a week after Moms funeral, he was already engaged.
People urged him to propose to the schoolteacher, saying she was a kind woman. He went to her, she agreed, apparently charmed by him. My father was young and attractivetall, slim, 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, a bitter feeling rising in my childs heart, though I didnt quite grasp why. 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 him and his fiancée. I have no idea what she thought of us, yet she entered the house arminarm with my father.
Both were a little drunk, and she told us:
Call me mother, and Ill stay.
I turned to my little sister and said:
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 mother. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Oh, such a sharp reply from such a small girl! Very well, I wont stay with you then.
The teacher left, and my father started to follow but stopped at the doorway, indecisive. He stood there, head bowed, then turned to us, embraced us, and began to weep openly. We cried with him. Even baby Pauline in her cradle started wailing. We mourned our mother, while Dad mourned his beloved wife, yet our grief outweighed his. Orphans tears sound the same everywhere, and sorrow for a mother is universal, in every language. It was the first and last time I ever saw my father cry.
He stayed with us for another two weeks because he worked in the forest industry and his crew was away in the woods. There were no other jobs in the village. He arranged with a neighbor, gave her money for 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. Most of the day we were by ourselvescold, hungry, frightened. The village began to think of a solution. They needed a special woman who could treat our children as her own. 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 had once had a child who died, and God gave her no more; nobody really knew. Eventually they found her address, wrote a letter, and, through another aunt, called Zina to come for 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 house, someone moving like Mom, dishes clinking in the kitchen, the scent of crepes filling the air!
My sister and I peered through the doorway. Zina moved calmly: washing dishes, sweeping floors. She realized we were awake from the noises.
Come on, my little blondes, lets eat!
It surprised us that she called us that. 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 crepes and began to feel a budding trust in her.
Call me Aunt Zina.
Later Aunt Zina bathed my sister Vera and me, washed everything for us, and left. The next day she returned. The house had been transformed under her careclean and tidy as when Mom was still alive. Three weeks passed while Dad remained in the forest. Aunt Zina looked after us as best she could, but she never let us become attached. Vera, only three then, was especially drawn to her; I was more wary. Aunt Zina was strict, a little distant. Our mother had been cheerful, sang, danced, and called Dad Vincent.
What will happen when your father comes back from the woods? And what is he like?
I tried to brag about my father, almost ruining everything:
Hes wonderful! Very sensible! When he drinks, he falls asleep right away!
Aunt Zina immediately grew suspicious:
He drinks often?
Often! the little one replied, and I kicked her under the table and added:
No, only on special occasions.
That evening Aunt Zina left feeling reassured, and dad returned from the forest that same night. 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 lady of the house. How is she?
Shes truly beautiful, answered Véronique, and she makes crepes and tells stories.
Thinking back, I cant help but smile. Zina wasnt a beauty by conventional standardsshe was thin, small, rather plainbut do children truly grasp what beauty really is?
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 timidly, as if frightened.
I told Véronique:
Lets call her mother; shes kind!
And we shouted together with Vera:
Mother, mother is here!
Dad and Zina fetched Pauline together. For her, Zina became a real mother, caring for her like a treasure. Pauline could not recall her own mother. Vera had forgotten, and I alone kept Moms memory alive all my life, just as Dad did. Once I caught Dad looking at Moms photograph, murmuring softly:
Why did you leave so early? In leaving, you took all my joy with you.
I didnt spend much longer 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 early, but why? Zina never hurt me with words or deeds; she protected me like her own daughter, yet I always avoided becoming attached. 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