be here shortly, that she is sick of the cold weather and long winter. She says this to the window in front of her, and I am not sure if she is talking to us.
She brings the wood inside, checks the fire and windows, then goes to her room. She does not come back out again.
Greta looks at Femke’s doorway curiously, then looks at me. I pinch my lips tightly together like Femke, cross my eyes, and put my hands on my hips. Greta giggles. I have to tell her to be quiet. I do not want Femke to come back out.
When I go to our room, Mama is not moving. She is in the bed that I chose but I decide not to wake her. Greta and I open our suitcases and find our pajamas.
The floor is cold on our feet and we climb into bed, and suddenly I am glad that Greta is next to me because she is warm. I lie facing the wall and she snuggles into my back.
Mama takes us to the paddocks at the rear of the property, where there is a barn. Mama says that we have acres of land and six cows and that Femke milks the cows and sells the milk in vats to the villages, factory owners, and to other places in the city, like restaurants and shops.
In the barn there are lots of chickens too and three pigs and several piglets making snorting noises, like Greta does when she sleeps. Greta chases after one of the piglets but it is too wiggly and fast to catch, and I laugh and so does Mama. She is happier today and says that she has had the best sleep she’s had in a long time. She says that she is glad to be home.
Today Femke shows Greta and me how to milk a cow. Mama has taken the truck to the markets to buy food and supplies for the farm. The milk makes a tinny sound when it hits the bucket. Greta’s hands work the udder well and much milk comes out. I squeeze at each of the teats but only drops come out.
“You don’t pinch the poor cow,” says Femke. “Look at your sister, who is working out the milk gently. The cow doesn’t even know that Greta’s taking any.”
It is the first time that Greta has done something better than me.
Femke asks me to load a vat of milk onto the back of the truck, which she has parked near the barn. The vat is so heavy that I can hardly lift it, but I pretend it is no trouble. Femke picks one up and she doesn’t struggle or groan at all.
Today it is Christmas. Well, it isn’t really Christmas. Mama has decided that since we didn’t have a “proper” Christmas last year in Berlin, that we will celebrate it today.
Femke doesn’t like the idea. She says that Mama was always the crazy one, with all the fanciful ideas.
I can’t imagine Mama crazy. She is always so calm.
“It isn’t right,” says Femke. “It will give the children strange ideas.”
Femke takes me outside and says that she is going to show me how to chop the head off a chicken. Mama and Greta are inside cleaning and dusting. Mama says that the place has been let go, that the curtains haven’t changed in thirty years. She wants to paint the walls in our room, the only ones that are plastered, and to sew new curtains for the kitchen and sitting room. She has wheeled out the old sewing machine and has bought some fabric.
Femke picks up a chicken, which is squawking and flapping its wings angrily at her. The noise is so bad it makes me feel restless.
Femke lays the chicken on a table in the barn and chops it at the neck. Blood pours from the hole at the top of its body. The headless body then flutters itself upright and leaps off the table, falls sideways, and rights itself again before running around in circles. I put my hands over my face, and Femke laughs at my reaction. She tells me to catch it but I refuse to move.
“Stop being so childish,” she says. But I am a child, I want to say.
She chases the chicken and puts it into a sack. I can still see it fluttering inside the bag, and take a step backwards, fearful that this dead creature will escape.
I have eaten chicken plenty of times but I am shocked that the food Mama serves begins like
She brings the wood inside, checks the fire and windows, then goes to her room. She does not come back out again.
Greta looks at Femke’s doorway curiously, then looks at me. I pinch my lips tightly together like Femke, cross my eyes, and put my hands on my hips. Greta giggles. I have to tell her to be quiet. I do not want Femke to come back out.
When I go to our room, Mama is not moving. She is in the bed that I chose but I decide not to wake her. Greta and I open our suitcases and find our pajamas.
The floor is cold on our feet and we climb into bed, and suddenly I am glad that Greta is next to me because she is warm. I lie facing the wall and she snuggles into my back.
Mama takes us to the paddocks at the rear of the property, where there is a barn. Mama says that we have acres of land and six cows and that Femke milks the cows and sells the milk in vats to the villages, factory owners, and to other places in the city, like restaurants and shops.
In the barn there are lots of chickens too and three pigs and several piglets making snorting noises, like Greta does when she sleeps. Greta chases after one of the piglets but it is too wiggly and fast to catch, and I laugh and so does Mama. She is happier today and says that she has had the best sleep she’s had in a long time. She says that she is glad to be home.
Today Femke shows Greta and me how to milk a cow. Mama has taken the truck to the markets to buy food and supplies for the farm. The milk makes a tinny sound when it hits the bucket. Greta’s hands work the udder well and much milk comes out. I squeeze at each of the teats but only drops come out.
“You don’t pinch the poor cow,” says Femke. “Look at your sister, who is working out the milk gently. The cow doesn’t even know that Greta’s taking any.”
It is the first time that Greta has done something better than me.
Femke asks me to load a vat of milk onto the back of the truck, which she has parked near the barn. The vat is so heavy that I can hardly lift it, but I pretend it is no trouble. Femke picks one up and she doesn’t struggle or groan at all.
Today it is Christmas. Well, it isn’t really Christmas. Mama has decided that since we didn’t have a “proper” Christmas last year in Berlin, that we will celebrate it today.
Femke doesn’t like the idea. She says that Mama was always the crazy one, with all the fanciful ideas.
I can’t imagine Mama crazy. She is always so calm.
“It isn’t right,” says Femke. “It will give the children strange ideas.”
Femke takes me outside and says that she is going to show me how to chop the head off a chicken. Mama and Greta are inside cleaning and dusting. Mama says that the place has been let go, that the curtains haven’t changed in thirty years. She wants to paint the walls in our room, the only ones that are plastered, and to sew new curtains for the kitchen and sitting room. She has wheeled out the old sewing machine and has bought some fabric.
Femke picks up a chicken, which is squawking and flapping its wings angrily at her. The noise is so bad it makes me feel restless.
Femke lays the chicken on a table in the barn and chops it at the neck. Blood pours from the hole at the top of its body. The headless body then flutters itself upright and leaps off the table, falls sideways, and rights itself again before running around in circles. I put my hands over my face, and Femke laughs at my reaction. She tells me to catch it but I refuse to move.
“Stop being so childish,” she says. But I am a child, I want to say.
She chases the chicken and puts it into a sack. I can still see it fluttering inside the bag, and take a step backwards, fearful that this dead creature will escape.
I have eaten chicken plenty of times but I am shocked that the food Mama serves begins like
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