A Very Sick Child in the Third Room We had two rooms in our so-called house near the cemetery. One was used as a living-sleeping quarters and the other we fixed up as a kitchen. Behind this room was a third tiny room, formerly probably used as a pantry. A beggar woman and her sick child lived there. There was never any contact between us. Mother strictly forbade us to enter their room or even to go near them. The child was consumptive! The tone of voice that she used in uttering the terrible word was enough to frighten one forever.
In the summer, I would watch through the window as the mother carried the child outdoors. The little girl looked like a skeleton. Her bones could almost be seen through her skin and her head was huge, out of proportion to her tiny body. She could not walk and would whimper constantly.
The mother went begging part of the day and brought back something for the child to eat. She spoke continuously to her in endearing words: “Ess, kindele, mein leben, mein welt, solst nor sein gesunt.” (Eat my child, my life, my world, you should only be healthy.) And she'd repeat heart-rendingly: “Ess, Kindele, mein leben, mein welt, solst nor sein bei mir.” (Eat, my child, you should only stay with me.) It was so sad, we would cover our ears to drown out the tragic litany.
The child died a short while after and the mother carried on at such a pitch that it became impossible to remain in the house. We went to stay with a friend for a few days. Even upon our return, we would hear the mother talking to the child as if she were alive.
Editor's Notes: consumptive: typically, but not necessarily, afflicted with pulmonary tuberculosis.
