Under The Singing Elm

A Girl Like Me

Pabianice, Poland, 1932

Miriam had fallen asleep on the couch, which seemed to be an even greater distance from her bedroom now, especially so late in the evening, when the light from the fireplace had turned into a cluster of red embers embedded into the ash covered logs. Snowy frost had covered the window panes that faced her sleeping spot, and where her grandmother had formerly sat reading a long Shakesperian romance novel, there was only now the cold and empty space, decorated with still indented pillows from her fuller figure leaning against them.

Miriam had awoken after a long howl of pain had shot through the house like a racing bullet. It was low, almost animal-like in it's echo. Her mother had been in labor for nearly ten hours, and at the start, Miriam had been hurriedly evacuated from her bedroom to her small spot on the couch that afternoon, which, to a girl of only five, seemed days past.

She called out quietly, her small voice smothered by the sounds of hurried footsteps, chatter, and the loud screams that shocked her from her uneasy slumber. Miriam could not believe that the animal making such heinous and vulgar noises had been her mother. Her buttoned up and pristine mother, who did not shed a single tear when her long sword of a knife had cut through half of her index finger while she was preparing dinner. It had left a trail of blood from the kitchen to the back door, where she had called her husband out from the yard to help her get a bandage on, but not before she scolded him for tracking mud into the house carelessly in his panic. Miriam remembered the way her mother teased her father for going pale in the face as he queasily wrapped the bandage around her finger. But as Miriam eyed the bloody path from the sink to the door, and back to the table, she turned so nauseous herself she almost collapsed right then and there.

Fear had situated itself firmly into Miriam's body, it had been a rock of anxiety, left to stir and crush her insides with every labored and nervous breath. She willed herself to stand from the couch, her hastily buttoned nightgown had practically fallen off as she had been stirring in her sleep, it trailed behind her as if she were a bride, flowing up the stairs and nipping at her bare heels. The darkness of the living room seemed even darker still as she followed the gentle candlelight into her parent's bedroom, where she saw her grandmother scurry past the door with an armful of linens.

Miriam seemed to shrink further and further into the floor beneath her, until she was so small she felt practically unseen, and forgotten. As the seconds turned into minutes she began to reimagine her presence in the home as that of an outsider, or a trespasser. The activities occurring beyond her parent's door seemed to be too much for her young mind to comprehend, and although she couldn't understand most adult things, like the way that cars seemed to drive effortlessly down the street, or the way that her parents could magically summon any person they wished through the wonders of the telephone, this evening seemed more grown up and more serious than anything she had ever witnessed before, so much so that she felt as if she couldn't belong anywhere near to it.

There was another wail, this one more gentle than the last, it had been weak, and Miriam was sure it had been a sure sign of imminent death. Miriam held her breath as she pictured her mother lying there on the bed, frail and grey, unable to cry any longer.

But no, it had not been her mother, because she had heard her laughter, clear as a bell, ringing enthusiastically as the cries from the baby grew louder and more irritated.

"Ezra, go wake up Miriam." Her mother said. She could see her father's long shadow cast over the door as he approached the hallway.

Having heard her name, Miriam entered the room suddenly with a newfound confidence in her stride. She was not sure until this moment, but having heard the baby's cries, perhaps grandmother had pulled it from the linen closet with all of the blankets, or maybe her father had opened the window to let winter carry it inside with a mighty gust of wind. Miriam had not known when or how the baby was set to arrive, but now, as she walked into the dimly lit room that had turned almost cold from the snow falling outside, she was sure that this was how all babies came into the world, safely, with great effort, and grace.

"Is that my baby?" Miriam asked gently, allowing her father to lift her into his arms and bring her close to the squirming figure in her mother's arms.

"It's your sister." Her mother whispered, sitting up uneasily against her pillow, now almost soaking wet with the sweat of her efforts.

"What is she called?" Miriam pressed, struggling against her father's arms as she willed herself to move closer. She finally managed to come loose from his grip, and placed herself on her knees beside her mother. Her sister's face was illuminated by gentle wavering candlelight, and it outlined her beautiful round face and bow tie lips. There had been tufts of black hair peeking from beneath the cotton blanket, and Miriam found herself bringing her face close to that of her sister's to smell her, and fondly stroke the tips of the baby's soft hair against her cupid's bow.

"I think we'll call her Anna from now on. Do you like that name?" Her father asked as he stroked Miriam's back, she had felt the bed gently give way as her father sat beside her, bringing his arm up and over to push the hair from his wife's face.

"Why isn't she named the same as I am?" Miriam asked, looking up to her mother, whose face was now flushed pink.

"Well, you're two different people, silly girl. But you share a last name, and of course you share your mother and I with her. You wouldn't want to be confused with her all the time, right?" Her father explained, bringing his finger underneath her chin to gauge her reaction. He had always been fascinated with the way her mind had worked, jumping from one conclusion to the next, always asking questions, and almost always never being satisfied with his simple answers.

"You're not the same person, you're sisters." Her mother elaborated, taking the glass of water her own mother had prepared for her eagerly. "And you have to promise to be a good big sister and protect her, it's your job to make sure that she doesn't get into any trouble."

Miriam nodded her head in understanding, and without asking, she gripped the sides of the blanket and began to lift the baby from her mother's embrace. Her father had lifted both children so Miriam's back was against the headboard of the bed, and his wife could support Anna's head. He had looked out of the window into the snow, and the pitch black darkness of the city that resided outside. This evening was quiet, and although he knew that soon the world that existed beyond this peaceful bedroom would soon come creeping back in the form of honking cars, bills to be paid, and errands to run, he reveled in the quiet, and the candlelit warmth.