Escape From Vienna

It is a lovely morning in legendary Vienna, Austria, circa 1927. I am about 3-years old. Near my apartment I am toddling along, holding the hand of each of my sisters, Sidi and Vogi, seven and five, respectively. I feel content and protected. We encounter a neighbor lady and as she meets us she mumbles, "poor little girls". I overhear this and try to puzzle it out. Why are we poor? My oldest sister supplies the answer.
Our mother died, just a few months ago. "Oh, I see," I sheepishly answer; the full reality and impact had not entirely reached my little mind. I recall hating the patronizing pity expressed by the neighbor. I felt resentment towards her.
There were six children in our family. I was the youngest and therefore have just shadowy memories of my mother. Everyone said that she was tall, blond, blue eyed and blessed with an even disposition. From looking at pictures, I can see that she was beautiful. I clearly remember her standing in our bedroom and folding, a piece of grey silk cloth. That moment has come back to me repeatedly. She died in her mid-thirties. She was in early pregnancy, had an abortion or miscarriage and during a curettage, toxemia set in. As she already had six children, a seventh
probably seemed overwhelming. The time of her death is vague in my mind. My father was devastated.