A Thunderous Whisper (3 page)

I stood up and Mathias followed as I started to walk back toward town.

“Besides fairy tales, what other stories do you like?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Adventure, I guess. How ’bout you?”

He kicked a small rock that lay in the middle of the dirt road. “I’m not big into reading or hearing stories. I’d rather watch them.”

“More observing?” I teased.

“Nah.” He waved his hands in the air as if revealing an invisible sign. “I’m talking about films … Hollywood.”

“Movies?”

Mathias nodded. “I get to see them because of my father’s job.”

“Is he
in
the movies?” An unintended excitement found its way into my voice.

“I wish. He’s in charge of the new movie theater in town.”

“Must be pretty rich.” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

“Nah, not even close. He doesn’t own the place; he just gets a theater started for the owners. Then we move to the next city.”

I could see the paved road up ahead. We were now only a few blocks from my apartment. I wondered if he was going to follow me all the way home like a lost puppy.

“Have you seen a movie before?” Mathias asked.

“Um, sure.” I hesitated. “Lots of times.”

Mathias looked at me closely. “Really?”

I guess it was an obvious lie. “No.”

Mathias perked up at my admission. “You want to go? I’m sure I can get you in. Father will make us clean the theater or something, but it’ll be worth it.”

The thought of seeing a movie was exciting. It was a luxury I’d never had or even thought of having. A chance to see a story come to life.

“That sounds good,” I said, trying to be nonchalant.

“Yeah?” he asked, stopping to look at me.

His excitement was contagious. “Yeah,” I answered with a smile.

“Perfect.” He twirled the
makila
in one hand before using it to keep walking. “How about we meet there tomorrow?”

“Um.” I had school, and Mamá expected me to help her sell the sardines in the evening.

“You don’t want to?” Mathias asked.

“No. I mean yes … I want to go, but I have school. Don’t you?”

Mathias shook his head. “Uh-uh. We’re always moving around, and my mother used to be a teacher in Germany, so she teaches me at home.”

“Oh.” Although I didn’t like school very much, it was better than being home all day. I also couldn’t imagine Mamá being anyone’s teacher. The only thing she’d ever taught me was how to remain quiet and make sure no one noticed me. During a war, I figured, that was pretty useful.

“Can’t you miss the afternoon session?” Mathias asked.

“I suppose, but …” School was the least of my worries. Mamá would be the real problem. It’d have to be on a day when she didn’t need me to work. “How about next Monday?”

We’d reached the city’s first streetlamp, and under the glow of the light, I could see Mathias rub his chin. “No, the theater isn’t open on Mondays. You sure you can’t make it tomorrow?” He paused for a moment before continuing. “It’d be perfect because Father is giving a private screening at five and he’ll let us watch from the back if we help with the cleaning before the bigwigs get there.”

I mulled it over. I couldn’t think how I’d manage it, but then again, how often would I have a chance like this? I bit my bottom lip.

“Don’t worry,” Mathias said. “We’ll leave it for another day.” He pointed toward the center of town with his
makila
. “I’m down that way.”

“I’m over there.” I glanced along the row of three-story buildings.

“See you around, then.” He took a few steps toward the shadows of the narrow street, his
makila
making a tapping noise against the cobblestones.

It felt as if this were the end. I wouldn’t see the movie or Mathias again.

“I’ll meet you tomorrow!” I called out, surprised at the force in my own voice.

He spun around.
“¿De veras?”

“Yes, really.”

Mathias slapped the side of his leg. “Perfect!” he exclaimed. “Tomorrow it is. You’re going to love it, princess.” He waved before heading back toward town.

“My name is not Princess!” I called out.

“Oh, right. Sorry. See you tomorrow, Ani.”

No one ever called me Ani either, but if I was going to have a friend, I supposed it really didn’t matter what I was called. That’s when I knew. A friendship, whether I wanted one or not, had been formed.

THREE

I
opened the door to our dark apartment. The green velvet drapes over the window were closed, and the silence in the room confirmed that Mamá had not yet returned from her day of striking deals at the market.

Mondays always seemed to foretell my week. If Mamá sold all her sardines, she’d buy vegetables, eggs, and perhaps a piece of meat. If she didn’t, we’d be eating mostly leftover salted sardines. Usually, it was somewhere in the middle, and we’d at least avoid eating fish for all our meals.

I flicked on the lights, stacked my two schoolbooks on top of the bench, and hung up my sweater. My reflection in the mirror by the door greeted me. I stared at my face as if my mother were the one seeing it.

How was I going to persuade her to let me go to the movies? For as long as I could remember, every day, after school, I’d been expected to work with her selling sardines. She would carry the basketful of sardines on her head, and I’d hold the scale and the brass weights used to weigh the fish.

“Ama, I have some wonderful news!” I said, clasping my hands together the way I’d seen the rich, proper ladies do in church. “I was invited to the movies.”

I wrinkled my nose at the girl in the mirror, making the freckles that formed a bridge toward each cheek bunch together.

Saying something like that would never work. Mamá would be suspicious the moment I used the Basque word for “mother,” even though she always called me
neska
, which was “girl” in Basque. When I was younger, I thought it was a nickname, like Papá calling me
preciosa
, but eventually I realized—“girl” was just a description, nothing more.

My mother was not going to be easy to convince. I thought of another approach.

“Mamá, wait until you hear what happened to me today!” I bounced up and down like a three-year-old.

Ugh!
I shook my head. That would just annoy her. It annoyed me.

“Mamá, can I ask you for a favor?” My voice pleaded, and I tried my best to create pitiful eyes.

I stuck my tongue out at the reflection. Mamá would cut me off the moment I asked for something. She’d be telling me how we couldn’t afford anything and how I was lucky to have shoes, because growing up as an orphan in Bermeo, she was always barefoot. Then she would say how all I did was take and never give back, how children shouldn’t be heard unless spoken to, and on and on.

I rolled back my shoulders and lifted my head up high. “Mamá, I’ve been invited to the movies tomorrow afternoon. Isn’t that wonderful?”

The door lock clicked.

Mamá was home.

I hurried toward the kitchen and tried to act busy.

“
¡Neska! ¿Neska?
Where are you?” Mamá draped her wool shawl over the empty hook next to my sweater.

“
Aquí, Mamá
. I’m right here.” I wiped my hands on the back of my gray skirt.

“Don’t just stand there. Come help me with this.” She held out a brown paper bag.

I took a peek inside, happy to see that she hadn’t come back with a basketful of sardines. There were three potatoes, some chickpeas, a few onions, and eggs.

“What? You thought there would be something new in there? Hmph!” She shook her head. “Always like your father, thinking life is going to give you more,” she muttered.

I said nothing, but I secretly loved being compared to Papá … even if she hadn’t meant it as a compliment.

I carried the brown bag into the kitchen and started to take out the week’s worth of rationed groceries, which, a lifetime ago, might have been our food for the night.

“Wash and peel a potato. I’m making a soup with it,” Mamá called from the bathroom.

“Sí, señora,”
I said, slightly disappointed that we’d be having potato broth … again. I knew it was the best way to make a potato last for two days, but it still didn’t soothe my grumbling stomach. I guess the sardines Mamá carried in her basket would have to do.… Not that I had any desire to eat another sardine ever again.

Mamá came into the kitchen and wrapped a white apron
around her long black skirt. “And no complaining about what I was able to bring home. We’re lucky that I didn’t give up being a
sardinera
when I married your father and I can help provide for this family. I don’t want to hear that you’re hungry for a piece of meat or—”

“I never say—”

She slammed the kitchen drawer shut and spun around. “Are you now calling me a liar?”

I shook my head so hard that I could feel my ponytail swing side to side. “No, Mamá. That’s not what I meant.”

“Hmph! It better not be what you meant.” She turned back to the sink and began filling a pot with water. “An ungrateful child … Nothing worse,” she muttered.

Except for the occasional slurping of the soup or the crackling sound of the crusty bread being torn, dinner was silent. I knew it would be futile to ask to go to the movies. Mamá would think it was a waste of time—time that could be better spent earning money through sardine sales. As I cleaned the kitchen after dinner, I debated what to do.

Going to the movies might be selfish on my part—after all, Mamá always worked and never asked for a day off. But I always did what I was told, and rarely complained. Yet all I had to show for it was smelly clothes and zero friends. Plus, Papá would want me to go. And it wouldn’t cost us a thing.… Mamá could make the sales by herself. She always said that having me there for the evening sales was better because people felt sorry for a mother and daughter having
to work so hard, but one day wouldn’t hurt. She’d say I was sick, and that might make people buy even more sardines. Yes, this could work. I just had to be convincing when I spoke.

I walked to the living room, where Mamá sat in one of the two wingback chairs that flanked the radio Papá had managed to get for us a few years back. I remembered sitting next to him, the two of us crowded into a chair made for one, listening to music or shows. Mamá would sit silently across from us doing her knitting or sewing.

I glanced at the empty chair. For the last seven months, by unspoken agreement, neither Mamá nor I had sat in that chair.… Papá was gone, but not forgotten.

Taking my spot on the footstool nearest to the radio, I watched as Mamá sewed a button onto one of her black long-sleeve blouses.

“¿Qué?”
she asked, barely looking up at me.

I took a deep breath. “Um … Mamá, I was, um …”

“Spit it out,
neska
,” she commanded, still concentrating on the button in her hand.

“Um, I was thinking that I shouldn’t go to school tomorrow.”

“Hmm.” She didn’t stop her sewing.

“Or make the rounds with you tomorrow evening …”

She paused and looked up at me. “Not go with me? You know we need every sale. Bad enough that your father still insists that you be at school and not work during the day.” She shook her head. “What is this about?”

She was not going to simply let me go to the movies.

Mamá waited for me to answer, and when I remained silent, she resumed her sewing.

It had to be done. I swallowed hard and said, “I mean, um … I think … I, er … should see the doctor tomorrow.”

Stabbing the needle into the blouse and setting it aside, she stared at me. “The doctor? Why? What’s wrong?”

“Um, my head … and my stomach.” I placed a hand on each. “I haven’t been feeling well since this afternoon, and I’m feeling worse now.”

“Well, you certainly ate like you were feeling fine.” Mamá eyed me carefully.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” I answered.

“Hmph. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just go to bed and you’ll be better in the morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, getting up and walking toward my room, truly feeling sick to my stomach.

“Neska,”
she called out, “you know we don’t have money for a doctor, so if you still feel bad in the morning, stay home and I’ll sell the sardines myself … but only for tomorrow.”

As I closed the door to my room, a smile crept across my face.

FOUR

I
’d never really noticed how time went by slower when there was nothing to do. At first I’d stayed in bed, just in case Mamá came home after taking the train to Bermeo to get fresh sardines. After a while, when I was sure she wasn’t returning, I sat in her chair and listened to the radio. Then I tried looking out the living room window, but our street was empty since most everyone who lived in this neighborhood worked in the factories on the other side of town. Finally, the wall clock showed it was a quarter to four and I could head out to meet Mathias.

Smoothing out the wrinkles in my brown dress, the one I usually wore on Sundays, I checked myself one last time in the mirror. The pretty white collar had yellowed a bit with time, but at least I didn’t look like a
sardinera
. I sniffed my sleeve. I couldn’t tell if it smelled, but I had to hope it wasn’t as bad as my other clothes.