The Wartime Sisters by Lynda Cohen Loigman

As soon as the neighborhood girls started their games of hopscotch or jump rope, Millie bolted out the door and ran down the steps to join them. When they were older, Millie would wait by the windows of their apartment, watching for activity on the sidewalk below. “Not everyone is a bookworm like you are,” she said. When Ruth expressed her dismay at her sister’s tantrums, her mother brushed it off. She covered her ears with her short, chubby fingers and held her breath dramatically until Ruth was silent. To six-year-old Ruth’s great disappointment, there was nothing that Millie hated more than being read to.

It was especially conspicuous, Ruth knew, when he lied. “Such a kvestion!” Her father’s accent was more noticeable when he was nervous or excited. “When I was born, did they all say I was beautiful too?” When babies grow up, people lose interest.” He patted her head and told her not to worry. That evening, Ruth complained to her father about the fuss everyone made. But Ruth had a glimmer of what the “finally” meant. Ruth’s mother was too distracted to notice the pitying looks her older daughter received from the downstairs neighbors. Keinehora, Florence!” one of the cousins shouted.

“What do you call the color of those curls? Reddish like that-isn’t there a name for it? And my God, those eyes! Who knew eyes could be so blue. Packed into the small front room, nibbling on kichel and sipping glasses of tea, the visitors stared at the baby like tourists in a museum. When Ruth’s mother felt up to it, she invited a small group of friends and relatives to the apartment. It didn’t take long for Ruth to realize her mistake. She would love books and numbers, and the two of them would be inseparable. She would have straight hair, brown eyes, and a soft, gentle voice. Like most firstborn children, Ruth assumed her younger sibling would be a miniature version of herself. Ruth was three years old when her sister was born.

The Wartime Sisters by Lynda Cohen Loigman