Father catches Eloise by the arm before she crowds our guest. “This is Eloise, our daughter,” Father introduces her with a chuckle.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Rosalie says, pinching her cheeks into a smile.
“I’m happy to show Rosalie to her room,” Eloise repeats. “That way Stefan won’t be late for work.”
Eloise is always excited for visitors, hopeful to make new friends, especially since we no longer go to school. Maybe she senses the youthfulness in this young woman too. “That’s kind of you, my dear little sister, but I’m happy to help her upstairs with her bags.”
“I’m ten. I’m sure I can help her find her room.”
“Children, please don’t squabble,” Mama says, pinching her fingers around her forehead.Children.Of course.Perfect.“Stefan can show her to her room before he leaves.”
I catch the quick sight of Father rolling his eyes as he lifts his coat from the corner rack, then takes his hat. “I’ll see you at the factory, son,” he says to me just as he resets his focus on Rosalie. Pinning his hat to his chest, he gives her a quick nod. “I’m grateful for you, and your father. My wife, Miriam, will make sure you’re taken care of while I’m at work.”
Rosalie flaps her hand at him with a charmed smile. “That won’t be necessary, Mister Silberg. I’m here to take care of your wife. I’ll be just fine.”
“A gift from God,” Father says, patting me on the back before making his way over to Mama and Eloise for a goodbye.
I’ve never met a woman so startlingly confident. Not in my father’s factory, the markets, or even in the back row in the synagogue where girls quietly steal glances during services. She probably doesn’t sneak glances. I bet she takes a good hard look then turns away when she’s seen enough.
As if I’m no more than a doorman holding bags, I head for the stairwell. “I’ll show you to your room,” I tell her.
Her heels offset the click of mine as I tread up the curving steps into the living quarters. Our silence speaks over the echo of our footsteps as we make our way down the hallway to the third door on the right. “When your father mentioned a son and daughter, I imagined you were?—”
“Eloise’s age?” I reply before she can finish her statement.
“I suppose,” she says, a small grin toying at her mouth. “You’re a bit tall for ten, though.”
“I’m seventeen—for the record.” The words come out as if I’m in a competition with her, one where I’m showing off my age like a spoiled child.
“I guess since we’re sharing ages, I’m sixteen,” she says. “So, I understand your position here because my papa still treats me like a young girl sometimes too.”
“Sixteen? And you’re a midwife…How?—”
“When babies are coming, they don’t ask how old I am,” she says, shrugging past me into the room, grabbing her suitcase from my hand.
She lowers it onto the bed then removes her shawl, folding it with purpose as I place the black bag beside her belongings. My hands clench and unclench, unsure what to do next while she moves around the room to set her shawl down on the foot bench. And I can’t seem to look away long enough to act as though I’m not watching her every move.
“What about the mothers? Do they ask?” I poke at her, not to get a reaction but to find out more.
“I’ve delivered thirteen babies on my own,” she says, taking the black bag off the bed and moving it to the floor in the corner of the room. “The first was my neighbor’s daughter. I was fourteen. The baby was still and blue, not breathing. But he lived.”
Age suddenly seems insignificant. “How did you know what to do?”
“Books, mostly.”
“Your parents must be very proud of you,” I reply.
She shakes her head and curls a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Avoids eye contact. “It isn’t about pride. It’s about saving lives. Everyone deserves a chance to live before they die. Don’t you agree?”
“Without a question,” I answer, as if she pulled those words right out of me. There’s nothing else to say. “Well, I’ll let you settle in.”
She glances at me—the moment so brief I might have missed it if I had turned away too soon. Another small smile—no, this one’s a smirk. “And I’m sure you don’t want to be late for work, Stefan.”
Work, yes. My father will be waiting, knowing exactly why I’m later than he’s expecting.
I still need to go to the print shop, supplier, and—God, I’m hopeless.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I say, gripping the threshold of the bedroom door. “If you need anything…” I step out of the room and close the door. I don’t think she’ll be asking for much.
