Silver Wattle by Belinda Alexandra Page A

and Klara excelled in her lessons with paní Milotova. But by the end of summer, Mother’s pains returned more severely than before. She was bedridden for days at a time. Then the unthinkable happened. I was on my way home from Aunt Josephine’s when I turned the corner to the square and saw Klara sitting on the front steps of our house. She was leaning with her head against the stone balustrade.
    ‘Klara!’ I cried, running up to her. ‘Mother will have a fit if she sees you sitting out here like an urchin!’
    Klara lifted her face and the terror in her eyes sent me reeling backwards.
    ‘Mother,’ she said, pointing to the second-floor window. The curtains were drawn. A sickening feeling rose in my stomach.
    ‘What’s happened?’ I asked. My chest constricted so tightly I could barely get the words out.
    Klara trembled. ‘Mother collapsed soon after you left. Milosh said Doctor Soucek was hopeless and called another doctor to see her. Doctor Hoffmann examined Mother and said her appendix is on the verge of bursting. He didn’t want to risk taking her to the hospital. He is operating on her now. There is a nurse with him, and Paní Milotova is helping too.’
    The ground shifted beneath my feet. The pinks, yellows and greens of the houses of the square melted together. When I had left, Mother was sitting in the morning room, writing letters. I was running late so I blew her a kiss before heading towards the door. She called me back and when I peered into the room, she smiled and said, ‘I love you.’
    I grasped Klara’s hand. ‘Come inside,’ I said.
    The eerie quiet of the house was a contrast to the hammering of my heart. Paní Milotova rushed out of the kitchen carrying a saucepan of boiled water. She wore a white kitchen apron that was smeared with blood. I nearly fainted.
    ‘Pray for your mother,’ she said, before running up the stairs.
    I guided Klara to the parlour and sank to my knees. Klara threw herself down beside me. My head was swimming too much to pray but Klara closed her eyes and pleaded with God for Mother’s life, offering up everything dear to her if he would save her. She even promised to give up music if that was the sacrifice God wanted.
    Half an hour later, Milosh trudged down the stairs. His shoulders were slumped and his eyes were bloodshot. Without his arrogant air he was almost unrecognisable.
    ‘Your mother is gravely ill,’ he told us, just as the priest arrived. ‘The doctor will try to save her.’ He led the priest upstairs but did not ask us to follow.
    Klara and I clung to the sliver of hope that Mother would survive the operation as fervently as we clung to each other while we awaited further news. There was a knock at the door and Marie hurried to answer it. I cried out when I saw Aunt Josephine standing in the hall.
    ‘Marie sent for me,’ she said, throwing her arms around us. ‘Has anyone made you supper?’
    ‘I can’t eat,’ wept Klara.
    ‘I’m not hungry, Aunt Josephine,’ I said.
    Aunt Josephine embraced us again. Her face was ashen and the lines around her mouth seemed to have deepened since I saw her only a few hours ago. She was distressed. But instead of obeying an impulse to rush upstairs and find out what was happening, she did exactly what Mother would have asked her to do: she took care of us.
    After making us drink some tea and eat two shortbread biscuits each ‘for strength’, Aunt Josephine returned us to the parlour. ‘Let’s pray,’ she said. My mind calmed in her presence. Aunt Josephine’s prayer was a more peaceful appeal than the desperate petitions Klara and I had made. She shunned the church as hypocritical and followed her own path. ‘I’m spiritual but I’m not religious,’ she always said. Now, she thanked God for the beautiful person my mother was and prayed he would watch over her and her daughters. It occurred to me that she spoke to God as one does a friend, although her voice broke on the ‘Amen’.
    A short while