Hiding 1946-47

INGEBORG GUBLER CASEY

Mama leans over the sink, her white fingers flashing, her silver bracelets chiming. A long red curl falls away from the apple. Smiling, she ties a bib around my neck.
“This has got to stop. Look at her.” Eveli, my eight-year-old sister, storms into the kitchen. “Four years old and still in a high chair!”
My cheeks turn hot. I look down at my feet. She’s right. I’m too big for a high chair. I play the baby for Mama, but I long to be like Eveli—strong, smart and brave. She is my teacher. She shows me what I need to know—how to tie my shoes and how to find exciting places, like the marsh.
The marsh, two blocks from our house, feels like another world, wild and free. No adult eyes and no rules bind me there. When we go to the marsh, we wade into the creek and pick armfuls of bright green watercress for Mama. Mama loves cress for her salads, but when we come home, she is too busy sewing to notice. She is embroidering flowers on the sundresses she has made for us out of muslin. She doesn’t use a pattern, she just sews little red and blue tulips and daisies along the hemlines of our dresses. “This is going to look beautiful on you, Biby.” She smiles at me. I go limp as she pulls the dress over my head. She looks happy fussing over me. She holds up Eveli’s dress.
Eveli makes a face. “Why can’t I wear blue jeans?”
“Nye, Eveli. Why do you want to wear those ugly things?” Mama tries to slip the dress over Eveli’s head, but she darts away.
“I don’t want to wear that stupid dress. None of the other kids wear dresses.”
“Don’t listen to those stupid kids. They don’t know anything.” Mama is getting mad.
“Please just wear the dress.” I pray it silently over and over. I dare not say it out loud. Eveli is so stubborn and so is Mama, but when Mama gets upset, she stays upset all day. How can wearing blue jeans be more important than making Mama happy?

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