Even with the vegetable garden, the pigs, the cow and the chickens, there wasn’t enough food for a family of six, and Mr. Lovas’ job at the church didn’t provide enough to pay the bills. Lilya heard her parents whispering, their faces worn. Her mother added figures on a sheet of paper and shook her head.
Mr. Lovas worked longer and longer hours for the Monsignor, who released paychecks as if they came from his own pocket. Weren’t they terribly privileged to be an ocean away from the refugee camp? From the terrible scourge of Communism? Didn’t they have a roof over their heads? Hmm?
Lilya’s mother begged her husband to ask the Monsignor for a raise. When he approached the cleric, hat in hand, the Monsignor demurred, saying church giving was down. With pursed lips and a wave of his hand he told Mr. Lovas that he would speak to the prominent members of the community.
Several days later the Monsignor approached Mr. Lovas and announced he had a splendid plan. “The answer to your prayers,” he said piously. “There are several parishioners who need help. You can earn additional income by cleaning houses in the evenings.”
A week later Mr. Lovas came home from work looking worried. He and his wife exchanged meaningful glances. They ate dinner in silence. After supper the children were put in their night clothes and told to mind their oldest brother, who would be in charge. They were not to go outside, and they must be in bed by 7:00. Hurriedly kissing the children, the parents left.
The apartment felt very empty. Lilya was too frightened to disobey her oldest brother. She sat in a corner and hugged her doll. Her baby sister was already asleep. Her other brother wanted her to play, but she said, “Go away. I’m busy waiting for Mommy and Poppy.”
Lilya sat silently and listened to the ticking clock. Maybe the oldest brother would turn on the radio. He was three years older than Lilya and was allowed to do that.
Lilya walked into the living room and looked around for the brother who was supposed to be taking care of them. He wasn’t there. She looked in the kitchen, but he wasn’t there, either. She looked in their bedroom and saw her sister sleeping and the younger brother playing with a toy truck.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to go outside, but she had to find her brother. Who was going to mind them?
She opened the front door and looked out. For a minute she couldn’t see anything, but a moment later she spotted a figure on the sidewalk. There was her older brother, sobbing and running up and down and yelling, “Mommy! Poppy! Come home. Please, please come home.”
He shouldn’t be doing that, Lilya thought with alarm. He’s the oldest and he’s supposed to be taking care of us. She hid in the shadow of the doorway and her lips quivered, but she didn’t cry. She knew she was a big girl, and big girls had to be strong. Her parents reminded her almost daily.
She stood frozen in the doorway, clutching her doll tightly. “If a big six-year-old can’t take care of us,” she thought, “who’s going to make sure we’re in bed when Mommy and Poppy come home?”
