The Story That Cannot Be Told by J. Kasper Kramer

Author:J. Kasper Kramer
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atheneum Books for Young Readers
Published: 2019-08-27T16:00:00+00:00

The First Snow

Mamaie was superstitious of everything, though this hadn’t always been true. When I was sick, she made a fuss if I looked at my nails or turned my face to the wall. She chased stray dogs out of our yard with her broom, screaming like they were devils.

“It’s a full-time job in this house,” she complained, “keeping the bad omens away.”

If ever someone said I was cute—and they didn’t pinch my cheeks and make a puh-puh-puh noise—she would have a conniption, sure I’d been charmed.

“Hasn’t your mother taught you anything?” she’d ask, furiously braiding red string for a bracelet in hopes of protecting me from the evil eye.

I couldn’t blow out candles, and I’d sooner be caught dead than whistling inside. If I brought her a bundle of flowers, she’d only accept them after making sure there was an odd number. If I sat at the corner of the table, she’d panic and scoot me to the center, swearing I’d never be wed. Mamaie always kept a piece of thread in her mouth while she sewed. She got excited when her palm started to itch. On Tuesdays she made sure not to wash her hair.

“And never, never, never, Ileana, look back at the house after you’ve left,” she insisted.

I thought Mamaie’s superstitions were fun, but I had a hard time keeping up with them all. Constantly, in the middle of the simplest things—like wiping water off the floor with a rag under my foot—she’d race in fast as a brush fire, sputtering wild prayers and setting things right. I figured her mind had gone curly, but on the night of the harvest festival I realized the truth.

In the mountains, fall came earlier than it did in the city. School had only been in session for a short time before the first frost of the season dusted the farmlands in crystal. To celebrate the harvest, all the villagers came together on the first of October to share their favorite foods. The morning arrived bright and crisp. The wind whipped and whirled through the valley, drying colorful, wet leaves as they scattered. Men built fires in the center of town, and women were baking by dawn, filling the village with the scent of hot, crusty bread, hand-stuffed sausages, and baked pumpkin.

Sanda was cooking tripe soup with calf stomach, beef hocks, garlic, and vinegar. Mamaie usually made plum dumplings, but since I didn’t like plums, she agreed to fry up some dough to fill with sweet cheese and top with powdered sugar. It was amazing how much the villagers could do with so little. Because it was Sunday and I didn’t have school, I helped in the kitchen and tended to chores, but the sense of community made me want to contribute in some more meaningful way. After digging around near my schoolbag, I found where I’d hidden my chunk of chocolate when I arrived. I brought it to Mamaie and unwrapped it. Some of the edges had whitened, but otherwise it was still perfect.

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