Mama and her bank account

Broken windows are covered. Floorboards are patched and doors screwed back on. The road that was ruined by German tanks is shovelled and raked smooth. Boot-shaped bruises turn yellow then fade and disappear. Flowers grow and spread across the ugly German footprints stomped into garden beds. The village looks pretty once more. School stops for the summer and everyone is put to work on the kolkhoz, the village farm. Women and big boys begin harvesting the barley crops in the outer fields. The biggest girls milk the cows, morning and night, and keep the barns clean. Old Nikolay mends ploughs, horse harnesses, pitchforks and scythes in his workshop. Anna Pushinka teaches Yelena and her friends how to get the honey from the beehives that are scattered through the orchards. I am in charge of collecting eggs. My friends Olga and Nina help. Olga and Nina are five, a year younger than me. They are twins and look exactly alike, except Nina’s nose is a little bit crooked from when she fell out of bed and squashed it sideways on the floor. The hens, ducks and geese wander free in the summer, so collecting eggs is like a treasure hunt and takes hours. Catching the hens for their daily hugs takes even longer, but I think it’s important because hugs make everyone happy and happy hens lay bigger eggs. Olga says I’m the best hen-hugger in all of Russia. Nina says I’ll be the best cow-hugger, too, when my arms grow longer. But good hugs have nothing to do with the size of your arms. It’s all to do with the size of your heart. When we are done with the hens, Olga, Nina and I can spend the rest of the day doing whatever we like. We climb the apricot trees, chase squirrels, lie in the meadow marvelling at how hot Ushanka’s black fur becomes in the sunshine, make daisy chains and race little boats of bark in the stream. I teach Olga and Nina the alphabet and we use charcoal to write our letters and our names all over the village – on doors and walls and the freshly cut ends of firewood. In between, I practise my knots. In case the German princemonsters return. I slip into Old Nikolay’s workshop and tie knots in the harnesses hanging on the walls. I wander into gardens where the washing is hung out to dry and tie knots in the laces on pants and smocks. I creep up behind Anna Pushinka and tie knots in her apron strings. I find baling twine in the hay shed and tie my own ankles together. I do such a good job of these last knots that I can’t get them undone. I have to jump all the way to Olga and Nina’s house and ask them to cut me free with their mama’s knife. At the end of each day, Ushanka and I run out into the distant barley fields to meet Mama. This is my favourite part of the day, because Mama always shouts, ‘Little Rabbit!’ and smothers my head with kisses. And as we walk home, we sing. Everyone – women, big boys and me. I love to sing. Almost as much as I love to be kissed by Mama. Sometimes one of the boys, Mikhail, has his balalaika with him. He takes the instrument out from beneath the sheaves of barley piled high on the wagon and plays music. We sing about forests and orchards and people who find their true love. As we walk home, arm in arm, my heart fills with happiness and my belly swells with pride that I am allowed to sing along with the big boys. And I can almost forget about the German prince-monsters and their lies about Russia and their big ugly boots. Almost. But today, when Mikhail reaches for his balalaika, I see other things hiding beneath the barley sheaves. Three of the mamas rush forward and cover them up, but it’s too late. I know they are there. I’ve already seen them. Rifles. Lots of rifles. Mikhail hugs his balalaika to his chest and blushes. ‘So play!’ cries Mama, her voice oddly loud and high. ‘Let’s play Sasha’s favourite song, “The Little Birch Tree”.’ So Mikhail plays and everyone sings about the lovely birch tree with its curly leaves and the branches that will be turned into silver flutes. They sing too quickly, too loudly, and as they sing and walk, they cast nervous sideways glances at me. ‘It’s alright,’ I say, when the song comes to an end. ‘I didn’t see the rifles.’ Mama nods and smiles, and I know it was the right thing to say. But I did see the rifles. And I think about Yelena wanting to get lots of guns and dynamite for the Partisans so they can shoot the Germans and blow them into thousands of tiny pieces, and Mama looking as though she agreed, and I know this is what the mamas and the big boys are doing. As well as harvesting, they are helping the Partisans. Three days later, I wake before dawn and I am all alone. Yelena is always here beside me when I wake. But not this morning. I climb down from our bed above the stove. Mama is filling a cloth sack with bread. She ties it closed with a piece of string and hands it to Yelena. ‘Stay out of sight,’ says Mama. ‘And don’t return until after dark.’ ‘Where’s she going?’ I ask. ‘Nowhere,’ snaps Mama. ‘Then why does she need all that bread?’ I ask. ‘There’s nothing left for us.’ Mama baked four loaves last night and she has stuffed them all into the sack. Yelena opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Mama shoves her out the door and sends her on the way to nowhere. Mama turns and stares at me, her blue, blue cornflower eyes wide with worry. ‘I know,’ I say, flopping down on the bench. ‘I didn’t see any bread.’ Mama sits beside me and takes my hand. ‘And . . .?’ she prods, obviously waiting for more. I puzzle for a while, then say, ‘And I don’t have a sister called Yelena.’ Mama laughs, softly and with a little bit of sadness around the edges. ‘Sweet Little Rabbit! You do have a sister called Yelena.’ ‘I do?’ I ask, now confused. ‘I haven’t seen the rifles or the bread, but I have seen Yelena?’ ‘Yes.’ Mama smiles and the magic makes me smile, too. And I am glad that Yelena is real because I love her very much. ‘Yelena is real,’ Mama explains, ‘but she does not carry sacks of bread into the forest for the Partisans.’ ‘Of course not!’ I shout, slapping my forehead. ‘Because there is no bread!’ Mama laughs loudly now, with not a hint of sadness. She hugs me, pressing me against her warm, loving heart, covering my head with kisses. ‘Clever Little Rabbit,’ she murmurs, and then, in barely a whisper, ‘Your papa would be so proud.’ When I wake the next morning, Yelena is sleeping beside me, her mouth open, her braided hair unravelling. Mama is serving kasha to a strange woman seated at our table. I crawl down from above the stove and slide along the bench beside her. I stare at her pants, her tunic, the rope she is using as a belt and her big boots. She’s dressed like a man! And there’s a rifle leaning against the wall near the door. ‘Hello,’ I say. ‘I’m Sasha.’ The woman doesn’t reply. She just shovels down her kasha. I line my four wooden bears along the table in front of her bowl and say, ‘These are my bears: Big Bear, Medium Bear, Little Bear and Even Littler Bear.’ ‘Hello, Sasha. Hello, bears.’ She smiles but she doesn’t tell me her name. ‘Why are you dressed like a man?’ I ask, tugging at the sleeve of her tunic. ‘Because men’s clothes make it easier to run and climb and crawl and shoot,’ she says. ‘You’re a Partisan!’ I gasp. ‘But she’s not real,’ says Mama, placing a bowl of kasha before me. ‘Is the kasha real?’ I ask. Mama laughs. ‘Yes, Little Rabbit.’ I’m glad the food is real, because I’m hungry. But I’m disappointed that the woman is not real. I was going to ask if I could use her rope-belt to tie her ankles together. For practice. But if she’s not real, then the rope and her ankles aren’t either. The woman finishes her kasha, hangs her rifle over her shoulder, kisses Mama on the cheek then slips out the door. I run to the window to watch her leave, but by the time I get there, she’s gone. Vanished. ‘Because she’s not real,’ I whisper. A week later, Mama and I are working in the garden. We sing as we weed between the flowers and pluck caterpillars from the vegetables. Anna Pushinka is picking strawberries in her garden and wanders over. ‘Taste these,’ she says, holding out the basket. Mama reaches in and takes out a fat strawberry and a tiny piece of folded paper. The strawberry goes into her mouth, the paper into her pocket. ‘What’s on the paper?’ I ask. ‘Paper?’ Anna Pushinka replies with a wave of her hand. ‘Goodness, Sasha! Who has money for paper? These are lean times. We must choose between paper for writing and noodles for our soup. And I always choose noodles.’ She chuckles and I know the paper is yet another thing that is not real. That night, Mama slips the paper to Yelena, but she drops it on the floor. I pick it up for her, and I see that there are tiny words and numbers written all over it. I wish I could read better. I’m desperate to know what it says. Or rather, what it doesn’t say, because it’s not real. Later, when Mama has tucked us into our bed above the stove and Ushanka has wrapped herself around the top of my head, I ask Yelena, ‘What’s on the paper?’ ‘What paper?’ says Yelena. ‘The paper that isn’t real,’ I reply. Yelena stares at me, nibbling her lip, then whispers, ‘A message for the Partisans. Stuff about where the Germans have their headquarters and when their trains are travelling and where they store their ammunition.’ ‘Why?’ ‘So the Partisans can blow them up.’ Yelena grabs my arm. ‘But don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.’ ‘What’s a secret?’ I ask. ‘The message.’ ‘What message?’ I say, my eyes wide. Yelena laughs. ‘Good boy, Sasha.’ My belly swells with pride. I know how to play this game. ‘How are your knots coming along?’ asks Yelena. ‘Good! Yesterday, I crept into the dairy and tied knots in the apron strings of all the girls who were milking and only one of them noticed. Today, I tied Olga’s ankles together with Mama’s embroidery thread and just now, while you were taking a bath, I tied the sleeves of your blouse together in an enormous knot.’ Yelena rolls her eyes, then says, ‘I’ll see if I can find you some rope for practising.’ ‘Practising what?’ I ask. ‘Your knots,’ she says. ‘What knots?’ Yelena, my big sister who is twelve and always serious t

Dia for María Ratona was a cat named Mouse. She was small and gray, and had a tiny squeaky meow. She liked to sit in a hole in the shed wall. Ratona lived for a long time. Eight months ago, she died. I'm not sad anymore, but I think about her often. One day, Mamá was setting up Tía Teresa's ofrenda, a special altar, for Day of the Dead. Teresa passed away when I was a baby. "Mamá, can we celebrate pets?" I asked. "This is mostly for family, though I suppose Ratona was part of ours," Mamá said. "We can celebrate her the day before," I suggested. Later, Mamá and I went to the market in Puebla. We got paper banners, sugar skulls, and marigolds. On October 31, my friends came over. Adriana brought her dog, Sal. or Salt. She had a photo of Sal's sister, Pimienta, or Pepper, who died last summer. Gloria had a picture of Raúl the rooster, a pet she had lost. We set up the banners, marigolds. and photos where Ratona used to sit. "Once, Pimienta stole a pound of cheese from our cooler. She got into the trash and ate it later! I have cheese for Pimienta," Adriana said. "My mother makes pumpkin seeds for my great-grandfather's ofrenda. Raúl jumped up and ate them! My mother was so mad. I brought some for Raúl," Gloria said. "If someone had ice cream, Ratona went Squeak! Squeak! until you let her lick the bowl. I have ice cream for Ratona," I said. I gave Adriana and Gloria sugar skulls before they left. I thought about funny little Ratona. On the last day of celebrations, my family walked to the graveyard. Everyone from the area came. There were fireworks and even a band. Tía Teresa's gravestone was piled with flowers, sweet bread, and candles. Mamá smiled to herself. "One day, María, your Tía Teresa heard a tiny squeak coming from the grass. It was a little gray kitten. Teresa named her Ratona," Mamá said. She continued, "When Teresa died, I took Ratona. You loved her right away. You reminded me of Teresa." Everyone was laughing and dancing. I was too young to remember Tía Teresa, but we had both loved Ratona. That made me happy. Mamá took my hand. "I think it's time to dance!" she said.

Carlos's Family Celebration It's Mexican Independence Day! Carlos and Selena are getting ready for a big party. "We can decorate the house," says Carlos. "Let's paint a picture of our family." "Mama was born first. She is the oldest," says Carlos. "Papa was born second," Carlos says. "He is one year younger." "Next is Mateo," says Carlos. "He is Mama and Papa's first child." "After Mateo, you were born," says Selena. "That's right!" says Carlos. I am Mama and Papa's second child." "What about me?" asks Selena. "You were the last to be born," says Carlos. "You are the youngest." "There!" says Carlos. "Our family picture is done!" "Green, white, and red are the colors of the Mexican flag," says Carlos. Carlos and Selena blow up five green balloons. They blow up five white balloons and five red balloons, too. "I'm out of breath!" says Selena. "Let's see,"says Carlos. "We painted a picture first. We blew up balloons second. The third thing we can do is fill the piñata.” Carlos gets the big star piñata from the shelf. Carlos and Selena stuff the piñata with candy. When Selena thinks Carlos isn't looking, she pops a piece of candy into her mouth. Carlos gives her a hug. "You are silly," he says. Mateo hangs the piñata in the apartment's grassy yard. "We need a blindfold," says Carlos. "And a stick to break the piñata, too." Abuela finds a red-checked scarf for Carlos and a long stick for Selena. "The piñata is ready!" says Carlos. "The fourth thing to do is practice dancing, Selena!" Carlos and Selena dress in their party clothes. Then, they dance and spin. Soon, the house fills up with food, family, and music. There are cousins, aunts, uncles, new babies, and new friends. There is Papa, Mama, Mateo, Carlos and Selena, too. "There is one last thing we can do," Carlos says. "And it's the most fun!" "What is it?" asks Selena. "CELEBRATE!" says Carlos.

Bums in the Attic I want a house on a hill like the ones with the gardens where Papa works. We go on Sundays, Papa's day off. I used to go. I don't anymore. You don't like to go out with us, Papa says. Getting too old? Getting too stuck-up, says Nenny. I don't tell them I am ashamed -all of us staring out the window like the hungry. I am tired of looking at what we can't have. When we win the lottery . . . Mama begins, and then I stop listening. People who live on hills sleep so close to the stars they forget those of us who live too much on earth. They don't look down at all except to be content to live on hills. They 86 Sandra Cisneros have nothing to do with last week's garbage or fear of rats. Night comes. Nothing wakes them but the wind. One day I'll own my own house, but I won't forget who I am or where I came from. Passing bums will ask, Can I come in? I'll offer them the attic, ask them to stay, because I know how it is to be without a house. Some days after dinner, guests and I will sit in front of a fire. Floorboards will squeak upstairs. The attic grum- ble. Rats? they'll ask. Bums, I'll say, and I'll be happy. Minerva is only a little bit older than me but already she has two kids and a husband who left. Her mother raised her kids alone and it looks like her daughters will go that way too. Minerva cries because her luck is unlucky. Every night and every day. And prays. But when the kids are asleep after she's fed them their pancake dinner, she writes poems on little pieces of paper that she folds over and over and holds in her hands a long time, little pieces of paper that smell like a dime. She lets me read her poems. I let her read mine. She is always sad like a house on fire-always something wrong. 84 Sandra Cisneros She has many troubles, but the big one is her husband who left and keeps leaving. One day she is through and lets him know enough is enough. Out the door he goes. Clothes, records, shoes. Out the window and the door locked. But that night he comes back and sends a big rock through the window. Then he is sorry and she opens the door again. Same story. Next week she comes over black and blue and asks what can she do? Minerva. I don't know which way she'll go. There is nothing I can do.

Rent a Llama When Marcos slept, he dreamed. He dreamed of Ecuador. He dreamed of riding among sheep and llamas. When Marcos woke, he worried. Life was so different in America. Would it ever feel like home? Marcos's mother worried, too. She wanted him to be happy. "Marcos, today is your class trip to a ranch," she said one morning. Marcos said, "We used to live on a ranch, Mamá." "An American ranch will be different," she said. "Yes, just like everything else here," Marcos sighed. When Marcos got to school, he saw students excited about the trip. Mr. Perkins chose seat partners for the bus ride. Marcos sat with a boy named Ben. "Have you ever been to a ranch?" asked Ben. "Only in Ecuador," Marcos replied. "I go to this ranch every week to care for Mabel," said Ben. Marcos asked, "Who is Mabel?" "You'll see," said Ben. Soon they arrived at the ranch. The class met Ms. Vega, the owner. "Hello, everyone," said Ms. Vega. "And hi there, Ben," she added. Everyone looked at Ben. How did Ms. Vega know him? "Ben takes care of Mabel, one of our cows," said Ms. Vega. "I am in City to Farm," Ben explained. "It is a club where grownups help city kids learn about farms," he added. Ben continued, "I want to learn about cows, but I live in an apartment." "I can't keep a cow there," he joked. The class laughed. Ben added, "Ms. Vega rents Mabel to me for free, and I care for her." "Let's meet Mabel," said Ms. Vega. Ben led the class into a large barn with many stalls. When Marcos looked around, he got a surprise. In the second stall was a llama. Marcos spoke softly to the animal in Spanish. The llama stretched its long neck toward Marcos as if it understood. Marcos stroked its fur. Ms. Vega watched Marcos. "Do you like Ilamas?" she asked. Marcos nodded. "Sí. I mean, yes," he replied shyly. "My grandfather had llamas in Ecuador," he added. "Расо сame from Ecuador, too," said Ms. Vega. She smiled and asked, "Would you like to help care for him?" "Like Ben takes care of Mabel?" Marcos asked. Ms. Vega said, "Exactly." Marcos's heart sang. Ranches were different herebut llamas were the same!

La familia el padre/papa father/dad el hermano brother el hijo son el abuelo grandfather el tío uncle el primo cousin el sobrino nephew el esposo husband el nieto grandson el padrastro stepfather el hermanastro stepbrother la madre/mamá mother/mom la hermana sister la hija daughter la abuela grandmother la tía aunt la prima cousin la sobrina niece la esposa wife la nieta granddaughter la madrastra stepmother la hermanastra stepsister el bisabuelo great-grandfather la bisabuela great-grandmother el tatarabuelo great-great-grandfather la tatarabuela great-great-grandmother el padrino godfather la madrina godmother el ahijado godson la ahijada goddaughter el suegro father-in-law la suegra mother-in-law el cuñado brother-in-law la cuñada sister-in-law el yerno son-in-law la nuera daughter-in-law Mi my mis my nuestro our nuestra our nuestros our nuestras our tu your (informal) tus your (informal) vuestro you all's vuestra you all's vuestros you all's vuestras you all's su (él) his sus (él) his su (ella) her sus (ella) her su (Ud.) your (formal) sus (Ud.) your (formal) su (ellos/ellas) their sus (ellos/ellas) their su (Uds.) you all's (formal) sus (Uds.) you all's (formal) nuestro abuelo our grandfather tu hermano your brother mi casa my house mis casas my houses tus hermanos your brothers sus libros his books Mi, tu, su, nuestro/a/os/as, vuestro/a/os/as must agree with the thing that belongs to you (or me, or him, or her, or them) in number and gender. That means that if the thing that belongs to someone is plural, you must add an "-s" onto the adjective. Nuestro, vuestro must agree in number and in gender with the thing that belongs to us (or to you all). vuestros hijos nuestras hermanas nuestra abuela su hermana his sister mis primos my cousins mis primas my cousins (female) sus padres his parents nuestra hija our daughter tener to have yo tengo I have tú tienes you have él tiene he has ella tiene she has Ud. tiene you (formal singular) have nosotros tenemos we have nosotras tenemos we have vosotros tenéis you all have vosotras tenéis you all have ellos tienen they have ellas tienen they have Uds. tienen you (formal plural) have Nosotros tenemos ocho tíos. We have eight uncles Yo tengo tres hermanos. I have three brothers. Tengo dos hermanas. I have two sisters ¿Cuántos años tienes? How old are you? Tengo dieciocho años. I am 18 years old. Tengo catorce años. I am 14 years old. Yo tengo tres hermanos y una hermana I have three brothers and one sister

Maria's Family Celebration It is Mexican Independence Day! Maria and Luis are getting ready for a big party. "We can decorate the house," says Maria. "Let's paint a picture of our family." "Mama was born first. She is the oldest," says Maria. "Papa was born second," Maria says. "He is one year younger." "Next is Emily," says Maria. "She is Mama and Papa's first child." "After Emily, you were born," says Luis. "That's right!" says Maria. "I am Mama and Papa's second child." "What about me?" asks Luis. "You were the last to be born," says Maria. "You are the youngest." "There!" says Maria. "Our family picture is done!" "Green, white, and red are the colors of the Mexican flag," says Maria. Maria and Luis blow up five green balloons. They blow up five white balloons and five red balloons, too. "I'm out of breath!" says Luis. "Let's see," says Maria. "We painted a picture first. We blew up balloons second. The third thing we can do is fill the piñata." Maria gets the striped fish piñata from the shelf. Maria and Luis stuff the piñata with candy. When Luis thinks Maria isn't looking, he pops a piece of candy into his mouth. Maria gives him a hug. "You are silly," she says. Papa hangs the piñata. "We need a blindfold," says Maria. "We need a stick to break the piñata, toо." Abuela finds a red-checked scarf for Maria and a long stick for Luis. "The piñata is ready!" says Maria. "The fourth thing to do is practice dancing, Luis!" Maria and Luis dress in their party clothes. Then, they dance and spin. Soon, the house fills up with food, family, and music. There are six cousins, two aunts, three uncles, and three grandparents. There is Papa, Mama, Emily, Maria, and Luis, too. "There is one last thing we can do," Maria says. "And it's the most fun!" "What is it?" asks Luis. "CELEBRATE!" says Maria.

Carlos's First Halloween It is Carlos's first Halloween in America. Carlos, Selena, and Mateo put on costumes. They visit friends in their building. Trick or treat, Maria! Do you like our costumes? Thank you for telling us about Halloween. Look, Mrs. Florio made a ghost. Trick or treat, Mrs. Florio! Thank you for the cookies, Mrs. Florio. Ms. White made a pirate! Trick or treat, Ms. White. Thank you for the juice, Ms. White. Look! Mama and Papa put a big black cat on our door. Abuela, you made treats for us, too! Mama! Papa! You scared us! Our first Halloween has been fun!

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