Through the bathroom window, I glimpsed a uniform moving about the grounds, a black shape against the midday glare – Dieter’s lean, upright frame, prowling the back of the house. My heart skipped beats at the very sight of him, looking out for us. He turned and I signalled for him to come to the window, his eyes constantly sweeping the landscape.
‘Everything all right?’ he said, gaze still distracted.
‘Yes, Eva’s beginning to push, but the doctors don’t need to know that yet. Can you knock at one, and I’ll send a message to Koenig via you? Hopefully, we’ll be well on the way to seeing the baby by then.’
He nodded a yes and went back to his vigilance.
Eva’s steadfast grit increased with every contraction, and I watched in genuine admiration. Instinctively, she seemed to listen to her body – no longer moaning but waiting for the intense urge and using its energy. Instead of howling wolf-like into the air, as so many women did until they harnessed the power, she pushed deep into her own self and her pelvis, with only a low, sustained grunt. Eyes tightly closed, she willed her baby into the world. With Christa encouraging from the top, Eva rocked back and forward on her knees, and I kept watch from below. I wasn’t expecting to see the baby for at least an hour, just signs it was coming. We kept her going with a steady stream of banter.
‘That’s brilliant, Eva, you are moving your baby.’
‘Is it coming? Are you sure? Can you see anything?’ she panted in desperation.
‘Not yet, but it all looks fine. Keep going. You and your baby are so strong.’
Increasingly agitated from the strain on her buttocks, Eva moved to the toilet, with an undulating soundtrack of strong pushes and squeaks of surprise as the baby entered into new areas of its mother’s anatomy. I was relieved the noises were pitched low and wouldn’t be travelling through the house, alerting friends and foe alike. Unwittingly, Eva was proving a saviour to her own baby and its future.
Back in the bedroom, Eva couldn’t replicate the pushing power she had on the toilet, so Christa and I did our best to engineer a human birthing stool, Christa sitting on the bed and Eva spooning into her, astride her chair-like legs. I stayed in front, watching for signs of the head. Had I not witnessed Christa’s own strength first-hand during Sonia’s labour I might have worried at the strain on her body, but she was more than equal to the task. Pumped on adrenalin, the room was hellbent on having a baby.
At 12.30 p.m. precisely I could tell Eva what she needed to hear.
‘I can see your baby!’ This time, it was me who needed to temper my voice at the tiny, welcome glimpse of a dark, wet head.
Her own head fell back in relief, but only for a second. As the next contraction took hold, she wanted to see more, propelling her energy downwards, every vessel and sinew in her neck proud with the effort. Each push, each contraction nudged the baby just a millimetre forward.
Dieter’s light knock came at one, and I opened the door slightly. ‘Just tell them she’s fully dilated, the heartbeat is normal, and I’ll report again in an hour,’ I whispered.
‘What’s really happening?’ he said, already with the measure of a midwife’s stealth.
‘I can just see the head. Hopefully, we’ll have news soon, so keep close. Any activity out here?’
‘Nothing that I can see. I’ll do another sweep soon and come back. If you need me, leave a coffee mug just outside the door.’
All three of us worked that labour in the next half hour. Having shown itself, the baby was static for a good twenty minutes, despite Eva’s huge efforts; a coin-size piece of the head sat tantalisingly at her opening, while I willed it forward: ‘That’s the one, Eva, that’s the spot, just a little bit more, you can do it. Just one more.’ My own muscles, lungs and ligaments were at full stretch with every contraction, but Eva was tiring and not even spoons of honey could coax more effort.
Just as Eva began another push, I heard it. A crack in the air – short, sharp and familiar, my brain taking seconds to locate the origin. Then another. A motorcycle backfiring, or a gunshot – as we’d heard daily in the camp. Was that the resistance making their move, come to take what they thought had no right to exist? Would there be scuffles and an exchange of bullets, with Dieter at its centre? One ear tuned beyond the window, and the other on Eva, I couldn’t detect raised voices outside or anything disturbing the still air. My battle was concentrated in the room, and I had to trust Dieter would shield us. I heard nothing and focused on little else but the force of energy crackling between the three of us.
We moved into a range of positions – kneeling, a full squat, onto Eva’s left side, and back onto Christa’s human chair – with little progress. I glanced at Dieter’s watch, the hands ticking too fast towards two o’clock. Would this baby need the help of a doctor’s forceps, like a lot of those back to back? Would we run out of time and Eva’s energy? The baby’s heartbeat was holding strong, but it wouldn’t forever. Babies tire eventually and Eva was already exhausted. We needed to pull something out of the bag – and soon.
I spied the neatly folded layette of blankets and clothes ready to dress the baby. Eva’s mother had sent a beautiful, hand-knitted woollen blanket and I could tell she had been touched when the parcel arrived several weeks before, wrapping it around her bump and prancing like a catwalk model. I took the blanket and laid it firmly under Eva, her head lolling now with fatigue.
‘Eva? Eva, look at me.’
Her eyes opened with effort.
‘Do you see this blanket, this blanket for your baby?’ A limp nod. ‘Well, I want you to land your baby into the nest that’s under you, and it will be safe because I’m here and your nest is lined with this special blanket. Now’s the time, Eva, now’s the time to have your baby.’
Even through her fog of exhaustion, she heard the tone of my voice, the nuance of real need. The next contraction was a mighty one, matched by her effort, and I grinned as the baby rounded the curve of the birth canal and sprouted forward, the hair now showing itself to be sandy rather than dark. Eva alternately blew and pushed, forced to continue by the contraction but held back by the ring of fire in her skin at full stretch.
‘Fantastic, Eva! Fantastic!’ It was hard to contain my own excitement. ‘Just a little push and nudge, that’s wonderful, keep it coming.’
Behind Eva, Christa’s face was focused on mine, and I beamed the progress to her.
Once the curve was breached, it moved quickly. The baby’s head crowned, and Eva’s loudest cry came as her skin slipped over the skull bones, the nose and mouth gliding forward as the whole head emerged, looking up and out into the world, still back to back. Christa’s legs were shaking with the weight of supporting, and Eva was on tiptoes with the limbo of a baby part born, shoulders still inside, mother and baby in a half world. We were all hanging on – just. The baby’s face was blue, eyes closed, but normally so, and I had to remind myself it was.
‘Just one more, Eva. Wait for the sensation – one more and then we’ll have your baby.’ My hands were poised to catch, and I glimpsed the time was 1.55 p.m.
The shoulders came a minute later, the body sliding into my hands with gymnastic grace. The cord was loosely around the neck and I unlooped it with one hand and brought the baby up to Eva, who snapped from her dream world at the sight and touch of a wet baby against her skin. Her smile was one of the widest I had ever seen, complete contentment.
‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Boy or girl? Tell me, Anke!’
The body was laid against her and I peeled one leg back to look at the unmistakable genitalia. ‘It’s a boy!’
Poor child, I thought instantly. A girl may have been ignored – not the macho trophy Joseph Goebbels was craving. But in being less of a treasure to the Reich, she may have had a chance. This boy was pure gold – to both Goebbels and the resistance.
‘Is he all right? Why isn’t he crying?’ Eva sounded alarmed, like all parents who thought babies screamed instantly. His wide eyes surveyed the faces in fro
nt of his, and my hand went to his chest, pink with oxygen. I felt his little heart flutter through his ribs.
‘He’s fine, he’s breathing fine,’ I told her. He coughed and squeaked slightly in response.
We landed Eva and the baby into the nest as one and Christa’s relief was instant. Still bathed in adrenalin, she went instantly into action, moving the equipment and getting sheets under Eva, while I checked the blood flow, which showed nothing of concern. We gave her sips of water while she caught her breath, landing kisses on her baby’s head. ‘My baby,’ she almost sang, ‘my gorgeous boy.’
Tightly, I tied cloth strips a few inches apart on the healthy, fat cord and he squeaked again as I severed the complete dependence on his mother. I drew him away to dry and wrap him well, and it was only then that I saw it.
40
A Real World on Top of the Mountain
His right hand was missing. It had been tucked out of sight in the few minutes since the birth, close into Eva’s body. Left free, I could see the limb finished smoothly at the wrist – no deformity of fingers or hand, just nothing there at all. I checked both feet and toes – all other fifteen digits, ears and eyes appeared normal, with no evidence of a syndrome or handicap. Thankfully, he had far more of Eva’s look than his father’s. In his complete innocence, he cooed as I checked him over but he didn’t cry. Just minutes old, he seemed to sense a large howl might alert everyone around us to his presence.
Quickly, I wrapped him tightly and handed him back to Eva, who clearly hadn’t noticed – yet. She wallowed in her ecstasy while I beckoned Christa into the bathroom. She caught my look instantly.
‘The baby has no right hand,’ I said.
‘What? What do you mean? He looks perfect.’
‘He is, in every other way, but there is no hand – nothing. We need to break it to Eva gently, and keep the others away for now, give her time to adjust. I want to deliver the placenta first before we unwrap him and show her.’
She nodded, and we went back to our tasks.
Again, sheer fortune blessed us more times than I can count that day, with the placenta coming away cleanly. Eva beamed at me, a woman whose fragments of insecurity had knitted together at that intense moment of motherhood. And here was I, about to unravel it.
As Christa and I moved to unwrap the baby, a knock pulled me up sharply. I’d lost track of time and it was after two o’clock. Dieter’s face appeared in the crack of the door.
‘What can I tell the doctors?’ he whispered. ‘They’re getting very agitated.’
I slipped outside the door and faced him, catching his cologne.
‘We’ve had the baby but …’
‘But what? Is everything OK?’
‘He’s alive and well, but he’s missing a hand.’
‘What do you mean? How is that possible?’
‘It’s rare – I’ve only seen it once before. It can be simply genetic—’ at the word his frown deepened ‘—but can also happen where a band forms in the womb and just cuts off blood supply as the baby is forming. It’s pure chance. He’s perfect in every other way.’
‘But not completely perfect.’ Dieter spelled out what I had dared not contemplate. His eyes narrowed, signalling deep thought. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘I need time to break it to Eva before the others descend. It’s likely they’ll want to do testing, and after that … I don’t know.’ I thought quickly. ‘Tell them we’re still pushing, the baby is fine and it’s moving but that we might need help with forceps in a little while – don’t tell them how long. That way they’ll be busy preparing and not pacing. Come back as soon as you can.’
We locked fingers again and squeezed; I swear I felt his pulse flutter on my skin.
Back in the room, Eva was on her bed, babbling with hormones of post-birth, and the baby had attached himself to her breast, suckling with real vigour. She looked down in complete adoration.
‘I think I’ll call him Edel – I’ve always liked that name. It’s very strong, don’t you think? Oh, everyone will be so pleased – a boy. He will, I’m sure he will.’
She stopped short of saying ‘Adolf’ or ‘The Führer’ but it went over my head. I was too busy forming the next piece of script.
‘Eva, the baby is lovely, and he’s perfect in so many ways … but—’
‘But what?’ She snapped a parent’s instant defence.
The baby was feeding on her right breast and I peeled back the blanket to reveal the stunted limb. She gasped and put her hand to her mouth, eyes creasing and sprouting instant tears. Aside from no baby at all, this was clearly her worst fear. I tried filling the air with words, explaining how it might have happened, that he looked perfect otherwise …
‘He’s perfect to me, but not to them, is he? Not to …’ and she really did stop herself saying his name. The name of the baby’s father. The man who needed to accept him as heir to his name, and the Reich. As a proud parent. Like Dieter, Eva had lived in the Nazi inner circle longer than I – they understood the narrow boundaries of tolerance. The saturation of joy in the room dissipated to bleed complete despair. She moved her finger over the baby’s smooth stump, dropping tears onto his wispy hair, while he sucked happily on his mother.
Christa and I drew away to let Eva absorb the news, and we hugged each other tightly, partly in relief the birth was over, but also in fear at what might come next. The abnormality was not our doing – it was no one’s fault – and couldn’t have been predicted, but the Nazi regime was never tolerant of excuses. There would be consequences.
For the minute, though, mother and baby took priority.
‘He’s beautiful,’ I said to Eva, fingering his locks. Battered and bruised, skinny or robust – all babies were bewitching to their mothers and it needed acknowledging.
‘He is,’ she said, stroking his head. ‘But you and I know he can’t stay.’
Her words hovered like a dense fog between us.
‘What do you mean?’ I snapped my eyes to hers.
She sniffed. ‘I’m not so naive as to think the doctors won’t want to look at him, poke and prod at him. Whatever the reason, they will see it as genetic, as defective.’ The word made her shudder. ‘And then what will happen to him? At best he’ll be an embarrassment, at worst … I don’t like to think.’
‘But he’s a baby, an innocent, surely—’ Despite what I’d seen with my own eyes, I couldn’t believe that this baby would be cast aside.
‘Anke, you don’t know how they are!’ She was shaking her head in despair. ‘The Führer, he’s sickened by handicap. It’s what he fears most. If his son is revealed, it will weaken him, his dream. I could cope with losing him, but for the baby to be ghosted away, to be investigated, prodded … by them … I couldn’t, I just couldn’t bear it.’
Silence hung like a stench, until I could stand it no longer: ‘Eva, what do you want to do?’
Her shop-girl smile became the steely mask of a mother’s newly grown will. ‘I want you to take him away, to safety. To live.’
My heart dived – it was Dinah and her plea all over again, separating a mother from her baby.
‘Eva, do you know what you’re saying? You may never see him again. Are you sure?’
‘No, but it has to be done. For him. I know it does.’ She gave a weak smile and squeezed my hand. ‘Please. Help me one more time, Anke. Help my baby.’
She was right, of course. I had seen officers coming and going at the Berghof, some with injuries sustained in war, limping badly, false limbs and lost eyes, but I didn’t doubt they had all been perfect Aryan specimens on entering the battlefield. Handicaps through valour were acceptable, even afforded kudos. But a weak birth line was seen as just that – weakness. Only Joseph Goebbels, with his pronounced limp, seemed to be the exception. The Führer’s child had to be strong and complete.
The knowledge ignited my mind to a perpetual motion. How would we get a baby down a mountain, out into the plains below and under a cloak
of safety, in a country at war, in broad daylight? And quickly? It seemed impossible.
I moved away from Eva to think – a few steps and the room spun, so wildly I caught the wall for support, sour bile rising in my throat as the colours of the rug became a swirl of confusion. Through the fog, I saw only one image: Papa laid out on his deathbed, pale face and long, wispy beard, looking peaceful, but nothing other than dead. Dead not through war, not under an Allied bomb, but at the hands of his own countrymen, the country he loved with a passion. Those same compatriots I was surrounded by now.
In that second, gripping the doorframe, I thought: why would I do this? Why would I risk everything I had been holding on to by a thread for someone who colluded with – slept with – the architect of my own sorrows? Whose own hands might be tainted black with death? I could say no. I could leave Eva to deal with the consequences of her own making. She wouldn’t be under threat, would she? An enforced exile, perhaps, no longer the honoured princess, but not mistreated. Not dead like Papa, imprisoned in the same way as Mama.
My heart muscle wrestled, enough to make me clutch at my chest, and then at my mouth, to stop the nausea bearing fruit. I forced myself to look over at Eva, smiling and sobbing in unison as she drank in precious moments with her baby – the one she had just given life to, and was preparing to pluck from her breast. As his little, bereft limb bobbed, she kissed it so gently that my heart was crushed again. Her innocence may have been in question, her choices morally wrong, but his weren’t. He didn’t ask for this, had no say in his parentage. He should not have to pay for their judgements or crimes. I was sure of little else, but his virtue right then was a certainty.
The German Midwife: A new historical romance for 2019 from the USA Today best seller. Page 25
