My grandmother´s tale
What a bitter irony! February 1950, and for the first time since the end of that terrible war, the whole family is gathered together—only for it to be at Father’s funeral.
Through a veil of tears, I watch my daughter. Back straight, she steps slowly toward the open grave. Even now, when sorrow should mellow her frozen expression, not a single muscle twitches on her face of ice. Only the sharp, abrupt movement with which she hurls the white rose into the pit, and the tears streaming down her cheeks, betray the storm raging behind her composure. Her other hand rests over her swollen belly, cradling and shielding the child that will soon be born.
That gesture drags me back to the spring of 1917. I had run out of places to search for food. It broke my spirit to beg my family in the village for help.
“You considered yourself superior, choosing to abandon your backwater village for life in the rich city.” they threw in my face. “You should have stayed put. Too little, too late. Money can’t be eaten! Leave and don’t come back!”
Not a single rotten potato, nor a scrap of stale bread crust. I cried through the entire two-and-a-half-hour walk home, carrying a child nearly ready to enter the world. I wished for death right then and there. It is a miracle I didn’t miscarry on the shoulder of that road. I rested my freezing hands on my swollen belly. Still moving, I sighed, weary to my bones. Two months later Käthe arrived—a tiny, pale little worm without even the strength to cry. Another daughter. Another mouth to feed. My dry breasts had no milk to offer. The doctor wouldn’t even accept payment when, six months later, he diagnosed her with rickets.
Yet how breathtaking that child, with her mismatched eyes, became! The caterpillar had transformed into a butterfly. Her sisters quickly learned she was as delicate as thin ice and handled her with care—their ice princess. And look at her now: proud, elegant, gorgeous – and as cold as the spring in which she was born.
