“Let her rest,” the old woman instructed. “She needs to gather her strength in between contractions—before it gets bad.” I stared at her in disbelief. I had assumed this was the bad part. I could not imagine it getting any worse.

But it did get worse. The pattern continued, each burst of pushing and pain seemingly longer and more intense than the last. In between, Mama lay resting, barely conscious. An hour passed, then another. The contractions grew closer together and Mama’s agony intensified.

After one particularly awful bout, Bubbe examined Mama, then straightened, her expression grim. “You should go,” she said, trying to shoo me away suddenly.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

Bubbe shook her head. “She’s lost a lot of blood. If the baby doesn’t come soon...” She did not finish the thought.

Terror ripped through me like a knife. “No!” Mama lay still now, her eyes closed. I felt under her nose to make sure she was still breathing. Then I placed my head close to hers and took her hand. “You can do this, Mama. Please. We need you.” I was speaking for myself and my brother or sister who had not yet been born.

Mama seemed to draw strength from my voice. She opened her eyes and began to push again. This time she let out a wail so loud it was surely heard on the street above. Her nails dug hard into my palm, drawing blood, but still I held fast. I would not leave her.

The baby came into the world determinedly with a loud cry that gave no doubt as to its health. As the wail cut defiantly through the sewer, a dark look crossed Bubbe’s face. “Give the baby to me,” Mama said, her voice hoarse. Bubbe passed the baby to Mama, who put the baby’s head to her breast in an attempt to silence the squall. Her milk had not come in yet, though, and the baby’s face turned purple with frustration. Mama drew the baby close to her breast, nearly suffocating the child to muffle its cries.

“A girl,” the old woman pronounced. I wondered if my mother would have preferred a son to remind her of Papa. I hurried to our things to fetch the baby blanket we had brought with us when we fled. Even though it had been soaked in the flood like everything else we owned, it was still white with two blue stripes at each end. I passed it to Mama.

Mama’s head tilted back suddenly and her arms slackened, nearly dropping the baby. The old woman moved with surprising speed to catch her. “Hold her,” she ordered, passing the baby to me without warning. I had never held a baby before and my hands fumbled awkwardly around the strange, squiggling bundle.

“Mama!” I called, too loudly. “What’s happening?” Bubbe did not answer, but concentrated on reviving her. I held my breath. Mama was the last piece of my world. I could not lose her.

A second later, Mama’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked for several seconds before focusing on me holding my little sister. She smiled faintly.