She looked as though she wanted to scold me further. But her face contorted with pain and she fell sideways into me. “The baby is coming.”

I helped Mama into our bed. I saw then that her legs were wet, not with the sewer water, but something else, dark and thick. Blood. I had heard about babies being born dozens of times in the ghetto and I was pretty sure there should not be blood, or at least not so much. I looked around desperately for Bubbe, but she had disappeared. Before the war, there was a hospital near our apartment where Mama might have gone to deliver a child. In the ghetto, neighbors who were doctors or midwives came to the aid of women who were in labor. Here, we did not even have a clean sheet or towels. I wished my father, or at least Pawel, was here to tell me what to do. I looked in the direction of Saul and Pan Rosenberg, but they would be no use.

At last, Bubbe reappeared in the chamber. Though she was grumpy and usually angry at me, she was my only hope. Without my asking, she walked over and rolled up her sleeves. “There’s blood,” I said, my voice nearly breaking.

Bubbe nodded curtly in acknowledgment, but did not explain what that might mean. “Lay her down,” she ordered. “Quickly!” she barked when I did not obey. “We need to elevate her legs, get them above her heart to slow the bleeding. Do you want to lose her or not?” A cold chill ran through me. I had heard of women dying in childbirth, yet it had not occurred to me until just now that having this baby could kill Mama.

I touched my mother’s shoulder. “Mama, lie down, please.”

Still doubled over, she shook me off. “The baby. It’s too soon.”

The old woman shooed her son and grandson from the chamber for privacy, then returned with our lone jug of drinking water and a towel that was not nearly as clean as it should have been. “I assisted the midwife in our neighborhood a few times,” the old woman said, guiding Mama gently into a lying position. “I can do this. You stay by her head and hold her hand.” I did not know whether her experience would be enough. But there was no other choice.

Mama let out a wail that ricocheted through the chamber. “Shh!” the old woman admonished. I knew that childbirth was painful. I had heard it through the thin walls of the ghetto, the screams and wails that came with bringing a new life into the world. Here, though, Mama could not cry without giving us away to the Germans above. The old woman found a piece of wood and placed it between Mama’s teeth. Mama bit down on it hard, her face going red, then pale.

A moment later, Mama lay back, seemingly exhausted. “Are you all right?” I asked, leaning close and blotting her forehead with a cloth.