"Leslie What - Clinging to a Thread" - читать интересную книгу автора (What Leslie)

have had the time. I was born to her only five years after her liberation from a
concentration camp in Latvia. She was nineteen by the end of the War, already an
old woman.

We do not get along well. Ruth does not like my husband, Jerry, and when
David was born, her attitude grew even colder. She never wanted to hold the boy,
never offered to watch him, or take him out to show off to her friends. It has been a
source of conflict between us. I covered for her once and bought David a present
when she forgot his birthday. I did this to keep peace within the family. We are such
a small family тАФ just me, Ruth, Sarah, and now David тАФ that itтАЩs important we
maintain our ties, no matter what.

But it is often difficult to be around my mother, and that night, I could not
wait for Ruth to leave. She stayed on and on, despite my subtle hints that I had other
things to do.

тАЬIf something happened to me, if there was a fire or a robbery,тАЭ Ruth said
quietly, тАЬI couldnтАЩt bear to lose what little I was able to save.тАЭ She handed me the
cardboard box and I lifted open the flaps to look inside.

тАЬLinen,тАЭ I said, unimpressed at first. тАЬThank you.тАЭ At the top was a yellowed
pillowcase with a butterfly and floral pattern finely stitched in silk thread. The fabric
was cold from being stored in RuthтАЩs unheated basement. тАЬWho did this belong
to?тАЭ I asked, curious.

тАЬIt was my sisterтАЩs,тАЭ Ruth said, and her voice broke. She looked down at her
lap and smoothed the wrinkles from her skin. тАЬAll these things belonged to my
family before the War. They are yours to keep now.тАЭ At that, she stood to leave.
тАЬThis is all I have to remember. I leave it to you to divide with Sarah, when youтАЩre
ready. Please, take good care of these things for me.тАЭ

When she had gone, I pulled the box into my bedroom where I sat on the
floor and stared at it, no longer curious, but afraid. Twice I reached to explore it;
twice I let my hands fall to my side. Finally, I managed to have a look inside, and like
a kid pawing through a treasure chest, I pulled out the bedding and tablecloths into a
pile around me. I sat, surrounded by fine linens and cottons with a sweet, musty
smell woven through the fibers alongside the weft. The pillowcase caught my
attention once more, and I brought it close enough to caress with my cheek,
marveling at the fabric and how soft it felt against my skin.

I was named Lena, after RuthтАЩs little sister, who was killed at the age of five. I
saw her picture once, when I went into my parentsтАЩ room after a bad dream. Ruth
stood beside the dresser, talking aloud in her sing-song voice that I knew was her
other language. I crept behind her and saw the silver framed picture of a little girl.
When she noticed me, Ruth snatched the picture away to hide inside her drawer.

To me, Lena was little more than that one photographтАФ a statue the size of a
doll, with a Dutch boy haircut, and very dark eyes. But then, with the cold
pillowcase resting against my cheek, I could only think of how LenaтАЩs face had once
pressed against the fabric. I closed my eyes and drifted to a state of near sleep when