My Eponymous Great Granddaughter

They said she was my eponymous great granddaughter. A succession of words, supposedly a succession of meaningful terms. Like my life. Only there wasn’t any meaning to all that had happened to me. So far.

They said it was not the end for me. They said I had many years ahead. I knew there were many years behind. This kitchen bench had witnessed eight children growing. There should’ve been nine though. These children had become parents too, only in other houses. And then it’d all started over again, spreading our blood into this world. I didn’t bother with the overall number. I knew the individuals.

This particular girl sitting on the bench that day we noticed right from her birth had the same eyes than my mother. When I looked at her, the hardness of this soft, light blue tone hit me again. It also reminded me the colour of my breast milk, when I’d had to express it for my first premature boy, Alexander. It had been as poor as my diet. So, I’d often walked along the main road at six and fetch milk at the farm. When that hadn’t been enough, I’d added flour to the bottle. This girl looking at me was a mystery. She couldn’t drink any milk. At all. Milk!

When I was double her age, hiding with my family and three others for several months in a basement during WWII, the bottles of milk had come less often and had been as precious as news from the outside: who’d died overnight, who’d been injured, how many of which animals were still hidden in the small barn. We’d lost count of time, but not of whom had received how much food and drink. It’d driven my mother mad, the way she’d had to force the white liquid down my throat. My body had refused to nurture, refused to grow.

At first, the opportunity didn’t strike me. I looked in dismay, wondering how the mother, how any mother, could leave her offspring behind. I was left alone with the child. My granddaughter was probably outside in the orchard, arranging a cushion on a garden chair, chatting freely with the rest of the family, the smell of coffee mingling with fruit fragrances.

On second thoughts, this situation implied a kind of trust deeper than any other. I was left to look after what was most precious to this mother. The girl caught my gaze and threw a smile such as only a three-year-old can display. “Granny!” Then, she placed her two wide open hands onto the table in front of her and propelled herself up. Something inside my chest tightened at the sight and made me move towards the table, standing opposite her. We stared at each other for a little while, uncertain of what would come next, when the outcome was so predictable. She raised one knee, then the other and in a blink was proudly standing on all fours on top the kitchen table.

Another child, a bit younger, a long time ago, had been on top a table, while I’d been mending clothes with the women in the basement. They’d first decided which piece to rip open. A long debate had sealed the fate of a colourless T-shirt the Heinrich family was taking turns to wear while their own clothes were being washed. I hadn’t been allowed to sew yet. My job was to rip each thread from the other in the old scrap. We’d settled around the only table, where we’d cooked and cleaned babies alike, for which we’d had only one chair. These small activities had given us a purpose, something to focus on during the long days and nights spent waiting in the relative darkness of the place.

The Baumann mother had been young. She’d left her son Henri crying for a long time before realising he’d been soiled through and through. When she’d undressed him, the smell had unleashed cries of protest from the otherwise quiet community. Everyone had looked away and moved to the other side. She’d been back and forth to the tap in the cellar several times before the Heinrich mother had said she should not leave her son on top the table like that. Shrugging, she’d gone again and come back just on time to see, from the door, Henri’s head bang onto the floor. The couple of silent seconds which had followed had been more terrifying than the daily bombings or the quietness in between. Then Henri had started crying and wouldn’t stop. For days. And nights. Until all his breath had left him. We were locked in there with a dying baby and there had been nothing we could’ve done.

It had been a long time ago. Yet I faltered at the sight of my great granddaughter on top my own table. I stumbled forward to catch the girl’s arms, across the table, which such a grip as to make her howl. Blinking, I realised how awkward a sight we’d make for any member of the family showing up now. My grip still firm around the child’s limb, the table painfully edging across my middle, I instinctively turned my eyes toward the open window. Eighty-four and what I dreaded most was what people would say. The child wriggled hard, slipping back and away despite all my efforts. I exerted my muscles on my back and abs much beyond what I thought being able of, until I could no more. Landing back where she’d started, onto the bench, the girl finally got her freedom, but wouldn’t subside her wailing.

This was when it struck me. This was my opportunity for making the child finally taste the life-saver and get some strength into her bones. Quickly, I grabbed the box of biscuits. Presented with the delicacies all members of the family, any ages, fought over, the girl drew in her breath, effectively putting an end to the noise. One minute later, her face was looking like a guinea pig who’d have stuffed too much food in its cheeks, her hands were brandishing two chocolate brownies on the left and one large meringue on the right, while her eyes, locked onto the box, were searching for what would be her next pick after all that. The meringue didn’t contain any butter, but the chocolate brownies did, and cream. All the other sorts of biscuits in that tin contained as much cow’s milk as they could hold, so I would be sure everyone eating them would have their share of the healthy nutrients.

Hypnotised, another memory hit me, one of having eventually found my appetite when sent with a train full of other children to the mountains, on German costs as a war reparation. There, I’d been fed so much cheese I would never eat any afterwards again. There, I’d engulfed, every morning, as much fresh milk as I could drink, cream on pie, and butter on toasts. And that had been only breakfast. My stomach had suddenly turned bottomless. Here, the little girl smiled a crumby smile and tried to say something incomprehensible.

“Good, isn’t it? Go on, Darling, Granny knows what’s good for you.”

There, in that mountain, my body had grown and grown until every inch of every joint had ached, day in, day out, until my bones had felt like burning inside. Here, in my kitchen, the little girl opened her mouth wide, letting a mixture of mashed biscuits drop onto the table.

“Oops! That won’t do. Keep it clean or they’ll be after me.”

And indeed, their steps could be heard downstairs, doors opening, laughters growing louder. I grabbed the guilty box and hid it away. Next second, the crumbs were scooped from the table. As my descendants poured into the kitchen, several biscuits were still brandished left and right by my great granddaughter, but that didn’t matter. What I’d imagined impossible started coming out. My first thought was that the girl still had too much food in her mouth. But it wouldn’t stop. The mother rushed to grab the basin in the sink. When she slid it under her daughter’s chin, the vomit already piled there spread onto the table. The resulting sour smell made again the present community all cover their mouths and noses, with moans of disgusts.

“Mum! Really!”

“What have you done?”

“You know she’s intolerant to cow’s milk, don’t you?”

The usual pattern of scolding, reproaching and mothering from my three eldest children was unavoidable. Now they were over sixty this pattern seemed so anchored it could only amplify.

I didn’t care. What I couldn’t bare, was the reaction of the mother, my fifth child’s daughter. She didn’t say anything, her eyes spoke enough. For just a few seconds, her gaze rested on me, understanding – yes, understanding! - and yet unable to accept the fact I’d had to give it a try. That simple intelligent stare, made me fully aware of my ignorance. Despite my age, despite my status as head of a large family still growing, I would have to digest this new item. Modify my mind, my discussions with the villagers. Sometimes, cow’s milk was not a life saver but quite the reverse. Nobody would believe me. Or could they? Was I the dumb one? How came there was never to be one stage in life when nothing could disturb the security of so painfully acquired knowledge?