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Authors: Gemma Liviero
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“How do you think chicken got to your fancy plate in Berlin?”
When the headless chicken is no longer moving, Femke removes it from the bag and shows me how to pluck the feathers. I take the chicken outside so that Femke can’t see my look of disgust as I finish the job. After the last feather has been removed, I go and tell Femke and she carries the carcass back towards the house.
When we return, we see that Mama has brought in a baby pine tree and is placing glass and paper decorations of gold, pink, and green on its branches. She has a box full of shiny decorations, some made by Femke and her when they were children. The box is old and splitting at the base. Femke says it has not been opened since Mama left. Tonight, we are having baked chicken, zucchini and onion fried in lard, and preserved fruit with creamed cheese. I am a little disappointed by this menu, especially in view of my mother’s idea of making this a special Christmas occasion.
Mama is more talkative at this meal and she speaks in Polish to Femke so that we cannot understand. I hear my father’s name mentioned, and Femke looks over her spoon at me as she puts it in her mouth.
After dinner, Mama pulls out two parcels wrapped in brown paper with silver ribbon for Greta and me.
“Merry Christmas!” she says excitedly.
Mine is a notebook with a leather cover. Inside, the pages are blank. I am disappointed that there is only one present, though I don’t show this. Greta opens hers and she has a silver locket on a chain. Mama helps her put it on.
“Riki,” she says. “You have to write about your experiences.”
I don’t tell her that I don’t want to write.
“And I have something for you too,” says Mama, passing another present to Femke.
Femke looks surprised and embarrassed. “What is this for?”
“It is a thank-you for having us here with you. I am very grateful.”
“It’s your house too,” Femke says, not so spitefully this time. She touches her neck and turns away. “Well, I’ve got nothing to give you.”
Mama doesn’t mind. She has always said that she prefers to give presents rather than receive them.
Femke opens her wrapping and there is a box of lavender-scented soaps.
“Thank you,” says Femke.
Mama plays some Christmas tunes on the piano and we all sing along, even my aunt. Then Femke and Mama sip vodka. Femke is more talkative as well tonight, and they talk about when they were children and how hard their father made them work, and about how Femke was the brightest of the two but it was Mama who went away to study music at the Warsaw Conservatory.
“Where are all the photos of us?” I say. At our apartment, Mama had many photos displayed of me and Greta and Papa but, apart from the one of Oma and Opa on top of the piano, there are none here at all.
“Yes, where are the photos that I sent you?” says Mama. She gets up and searches through the drawers in the side cabinet until she finds what she is looking for.
“Tsk,” she says to Femke. “You could have put them out.”
There is one photo of me standing, wearing breeches that go down to my knees, the waistband high above my waist. My expression is fierce. I remember that I didn’t want the photo taken. There is also a close-up photo of Greta; she is looking upwards, towards heaven, her face glowing like an angel’s.
There are photos of Mama and Papa on their wedding day. Papa has smooth black hair combed over to one side, and a pointed chin. He has a long nose that reaches the top of his lips, which are wide and narrow. His skin looks very dark against Mama’s, and his eyes look black—but I know they are blue. They are the darkest blue I have ever seen.
I miss Papa and tell Mama so. She hugs me and says that she does too.
“When is he coming?”
“I’m not sure.”
After that, Mama does not want to talk anymore and tells us that it is time for bed. She is the first to climb into bed and turns to face the wall. She has gone
“How do you think chicken got to your fancy plate in Berlin?”
When the headless chicken is no longer moving, Femke removes it from the bag and shows me how to pluck the feathers. I take the chicken outside so that Femke can’t see my look of disgust as I finish the job. After the last feather has been removed, I go and tell Femke and she carries the carcass back towards the house.
When we return, we see that Mama has brought in a baby pine tree and is placing glass and paper decorations of gold, pink, and green on its branches. She has a box full of shiny decorations, some made by Femke and her when they were children. The box is old and splitting at the base. Femke says it has not been opened since Mama left. Tonight, we are having baked chicken, zucchini and onion fried in lard, and preserved fruit with creamed cheese. I am a little disappointed by this menu, especially in view of my mother’s idea of making this a special Christmas occasion.
Mama is more talkative at this meal and she speaks in Polish to Femke so that we cannot understand. I hear my father’s name mentioned, and Femke looks over her spoon at me as she puts it in her mouth.
After dinner, Mama pulls out two parcels wrapped in brown paper with silver ribbon for Greta and me.
“Merry Christmas!” she says excitedly.
Mine is a notebook with a leather cover. Inside, the pages are blank. I am disappointed that there is only one present, though I don’t show this. Greta opens hers and she has a silver locket on a chain. Mama helps her put it on.
“Riki,” she says. “You have to write about your experiences.”
I don’t tell her that I don’t want to write.
“And I have something for you too,” says Mama, passing another present to Femke.
Femke looks surprised and embarrassed. “What is this for?”
“It is a thank-you for having us here with you. I am very grateful.”
“It’s your house too,” Femke says, not so spitefully this time. She touches her neck and turns away. “Well, I’ve got nothing to give you.”
Mama doesn’t mind. She has always said that she prefers to give presents rather than receive them.
Femke opens her wrapping and there is a box of lavender-scented soaps.
“Thank you,” says Femke.
Mama plays some Christmas tunes on the piano and we all sing along, even my aunt. Then Femke and Mama sip vodka. Femke is more talkative as well tonight, and they talk about when they were children and how hard their father made them work, and about how Femke was the brightest of the two but it was Mama who went away to study music at the Warsaw Conservatory.
“Where are all the photos of us?” I say. At our apartment, Mama had many photos displayed of me and Greta and Papa but, apart from the one of Oma and Opa on top of the piano, there are none here at all.
“Yes, where are the photos that I sent you?” says Mama. She gets up and searches through the drawers in the side cabinet until she finds what she is looking for.
“Tsk,” she says to Femke. “You could have put them out.”
There is one photo of me standing, wearing breeches that go down to my knees, the waistband high above my waist. My expression is fierce. I remember that I didn’t want the photo taken. There is also a close-up photo of Greta; she is looking upwards, towards heaven, her face glowing like an angel’s.
There are photos of Mama and Papa on their wedding day. Papa has smooth black hair combed over to one side, and a pointed chin. He has a long nose that reaches the top of his lips, which are wide and narrow. His skin looks very dark against Mama’s, and his eyes look black—but I know they are blue. They are the darkest blue I have ever seen.
I miss Papa and tell Mama so. She hugs me and says that she does too.
“When is he coming?”
“I’m not sure.”
After that, Mama does not want to talk anymore and tells us that it is time for bed. She is the first to climb into bed and turns to face the wall. She has gone
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