The Secret Sister by Fotini Tsalikoglou, Mary Kritoeff

park. Next to the lake, we sat on a bench. A metal plaque stuck to its back said: “In memory of Tom Singer, beloved husband and father.” At our feet was the lake and its ducks, squirrels were scampering across the grass. It was a sunny day, horse-drawn carriages, joggers, cyclists went by, a saxophone was playing, it was delightful.
    â€œI had your mother when I was almost forty,” she began, as she sat next to me, speaking in a calm and determined tone. “I’d been trying for over ten years, absolutely nothing, ‘It’s not God’s will,’ I’d tell myself. ‘And Frosso up there probably doesn’t want it.’ My daughter was to take her name. The child I would have would be a girl, no question. No doubt in my mind about that. And she would take her name. In ten years, I’d dreamed of my sister three times.
    â€œâ€˜Don’t do this to me,’ she’d said, ‘don’t bring me back to life. I’m fine here.’
    â€œBut once again I didn’t listen to her, Jonathan. Once again, I only thought of myself. Like I had back then, like I have always. With the daughter I’d have, I’d bring her back to life, do you get what I’m saying, Jonathan, tell me, do you get what I’m saying? Not only would she have her name, but she’d also have her beauty and her grace, her eyes, her hair. Oh, Jonathan, you can’t imagine Frosso’s face, yes, she looked exactly like your mother, exactly the same. I’m going to Hell, Jonathan, and if there is no Hell, it’ll be made to exist just for me. I disobeyed my sister a second time, when she left with Menelaos and it was as if my homeland and my home had burned down a second time, because how would my life be without her, without my little Frosso, and yet at the same time jealousy was gnawing at me, here she was, going off to a new land, with a husband, a handsome strong husband, she was off to a new continent, her eyes would see such marvels, she’d be leaving behind this war that was about to break out and everything that would come in its wake, she wouldn’t know the hunger, the savagery, the fear, the bombs exploding next to us, the conquering army in our neighborhood and in our home, she wouldn’t live through the Occupation, and—the time has come for me to reveal it to you, Jonathan, my beloved grandson—as soon as little Frosso left, it was as if this sharp pain made me see everything that would happen to our country, I don’t know how or why, I saw before me death approaching, I’m not afraid of my words, Jonathan, no one about to die is afraid of revelations, and mark my words, I won’t be around for much longer, so anyway, on that first night, when I was left alone in the empty house, I got on my knees to say my prayers, as we always did with little Frosso, ‘God of our homeland, rest the souls of all those who were not fortunate enough to come here with us, Mama and Papa and all those who were lost in the scorched land.’ But my lips, as if of their own accord, whispered something else that night: ‘God of our homeland, make something happen, please, make something—anything—happen, some inconceivable and unrestricted and unlimited something is what I’m asking for. Make something happen so that I leave here and go and live in America, just get me out of here.’ And God answered my prayer, Jonathan, and that’s why I’m going to Hell, unless it was the Devil who heard me, which makes my god the Devil, and what can I say . . . What can I say . . . What more can I say . . . The Devil-God answered my prayer, my little Frosso was out of my life, and as if that wasn’t enough, I won’t just let her be, even when she tells me she’s fine, I want to bring her back, as if then my sins would be blotted out and forgotten, through a young girl, my daughter, whom I will name after her.