Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Hendrick brushed Frau Schmidt’s hand from his arm. “And what do you suppose I should do?”

  Frau Schmidt sighed. “We’ve attempted to console her. We’ve catered to her every whim, and it’s accomplished little. I think she needs to see your force. To know this is a serious matter. Katrine needs to understand if she continues on this path, she will lose the child for good.”

  “What do you mean, if? The child is mine, and I will claim him from the moment of his birth.”

  “Yes, but Katrine doesn’t know that. Let her think she still has a chance to make it right. Let her believe it is so. As the proverb goes, ‘It’s the whole, not the detail, that matters.’ And the whole of your situation is that you will walk out of here with a healthy, strong child in your arms.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  After being found digging around in the garden with a shovel and pick late one night, Anneliese was taken away and never heard from again. Katrine wanted to think she’d been sent home now that her child was born, but she knew better than to ask.

  As the time neared for her delivery, she secluded herself from the other girls and staff more and more. And after three days of refusing to leave her room, she heard a knock on her door.

  “Go away,” she called, flipping the blanket over her head. “I’m not hungry.” She heard the door open.

  “Katrine?”

  Hendrick.

  She pushed back the covers and was on her feet in seconds, despite the bulkiness of her frame. With two quick steps, she was in his arms, their child pressed between them.

  “Hendrick. Thank goodness. You have to take me away from here. I can’t take it anymore. You wouldn’t believe what happens within these walls, even if I were to tell you.”

  “Katrine, calm down. Please. You’re endangering my child—and yourself—behaving this way.” He pulled back and took her by the hand. “Come, sit. We need to have a talk.”

  She followed him to the bed and sat upon the rumpled sheets. Katrine ran her fingers through her hair. When she sought Hendrick’s gaze she realized he was staring at her round stomach and full breasts.

  “It’s our child.” She rubbed her stomach. “Look how much the baby has grown.”

  “Which is exactly why I’m here. The time is getting close, and there are things we need to discuss.”

  She looked into his face, expecting to see the adoring man she knew. Instead his features were hard. There was no love in his gaze.

  “Hendrick, is something the matter?” She scooted close and placed her head on his shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  “Katrine, please stop.” He pulled his shoulder back. “Now is not the time. I’ve heard there is a problem. You must take care. You must give your full work to this baby’s health. Otherwise, we need to make a plan for the baby once he is born.”

  “A plan? We have a plan. You promised to find a flat for us in the city.” She swallowed hard, fear building in her unlike anything she’d ever known. “You are getting a flat for us to live in, aren’t you?”

  “I have no better way than just to say it. I’ve heard from the nurses you have been found mentally unstable. Unfit to care for a child.”

  The blood in Katrine’s veins seemed to run cold. She stood, wrapping her arms tightly around her. “They say I am the unstable one? Do you know what they do around here? How they breed girls like cows? How they dispose of imperfect children?”

  Hendrick stood, grabbing her arm. “That is exactly what I’m talking about. You must stop these horrible rumors.” His grip tightened on her arm.

  Katrine jerked away. “Stop. You’re hurting me. Hendrick, I love you. Why don’t you believe me?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but I have no choice. You have forced my decision. You have done well in caring for our child before his birth. And I will assume responsibility after.”

  “You’re taking my baby away?”

  “Surely, you don’t think I would trust my child to a young woman with no home, no family, and no future? Especially one in your mental condition.”

  “Hendrick, look at me. It’s Katrine. You love me. You’ve told me over and over. It’s just this place. If you take me home, I’ll be fine. I promise I will.”

  He turned away, refusing to meet her gaze.

  “All I want is to be safe. I know you are a good man. I know you will fulfill your promise to take care of me.”

  He strode to the window, and she followed. “Did you hear me? Look at me. And tell me what you see.”

  He turned, his gaze cold. “A beautiful woman. One I chose specifically to be the mother of my child. You think it’s by accident you became pregnant? It was my plan all along. To gain honor, position, I need to be seen as the perfect officer. And to do that I must have children. Lots of children.”

  He approached and placed both hands on her shoulders. “When I saw you that day on the trolley, I knew you’d give me a child that would be the envy of everyone. Your beauty couldn’t be ignored.”

  “Then … you really didn’t love me. You were just using me?”

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders. “Well, I have to admit it was an enjoyable process. But really … you were of no consequence in my planning.”

  Katrine felt her knees give, and she sank to the floor. “You don’t want him,” she said almost in a whisper. “To think I felt safe with you. After all, if I could fool you, I could fool anyone.”

  Hendrick looked at her in confusion. “What are you saying?”

  “This baby.” She sat up straighter from her position on the floor, unable to keep from blurting out what she knew she should not say. “You will not want this baby once you know the truth.” She dared to look directly into his eyes. “His grandfather, my father, was the great Samuel Lodz, a teacher in the Jewish Quarter of Prague. My family lost their home. We were forced to wear yellow stars. I was given a pink slip—”

  “Stop it, woman! Cease these lies.”

  Katrine knew she’d be taken away now, just like Anneliese. She’d be taken to the camps after all … but even that was better than this place, with this man.

  “I was given a pink slip to be deported to a relocation camp like all the other Jews!”

  Hendrick’s hand swung at Katrine and struck her face before she could block it. Her head jerked back under its force. Pain coursed through her jaw and tongue, yet she continued. “But I fooled them. I walked away from my fate. And I fooled you. You think you used me, but it was I who used you. After all, who would question the purity of a woman loved and honored by a Nazi officer?”

  Katrine didn’t see his hands grabbing her until her body was sliding across the room under a powerful force. She hit the wall, and a pain shot through her abdomen.

  She curled into a ball, sobs racking her body. “I’ve been dead from the moment I met you. Maybe that’s why I embraced you so—an officer of death. My rescuers took me, hid me, but couldn’t save me. And now maybe it’s just time my body catches up with my heart.”

  “Enough!”

  Her tears flowed freely now. From pain. Fear. And from the release that only comes with the agonizing truth.

  She felt a kick to her side, a pain greater than she’d ever experienced, and she huddled to protect her child, wrapping her arms around her stomach.

  “You don’t want this child!” she shouted. “And your country will not want you—an officer defiled!”

  Another kick, to her back this time. A scream tore through Katrine’s body. She felt a gush of warm water, and she knew the time had come. With the water, another pain shooting through her loins.

  Hendrick must have realized it too, for his frantic movements ceased. And she imagined for a moment that perhaps he’d changed his mind—that someplace deep inside him an ounce of compassion was found. But when she heard the click of a magazine being loaded into the gun, she realized that was a lie too.

  She sucked in a breath—trembling, hurting, waiting—and praying for the end to come qu
ickly. What had been planned for her from the beginning would now take place. She’d walked away from her people, but not her sentence. Katrine tasted blood seeping from her tongue. The tongue that lied for the last time. The blood she had mixed with that of the enemy, dishonoring the memory of her family. Father God, forgive me.

  “Do it,” she sobbed. “Send me to my family. I want them. My father. My mother. All I want is my family….”

  Suddenly the door swung open, and heavy footsteps hurried toward her.

  Katrine opened her eyes to see Hendrick slipping the gun inside his uniform jacket as Frau Meier hurried to her side.

  “What is wrong? Did you fall? It is not yet time.”

  Katrine couldn’t speak. She rocked back and forth where she lay, the pain shooting through her, tearing the child away from her body and attempting to expel him onto the floor.

  There was commotion then, as Frau Meier called for help. Before she knew it, Katrine found herself in a white and stainless birthing room—the jab of a needle sticking into her leg, giving her an injection to ease the pain and help her relax.

  If the nurses around her saw the bloody lip or noted the bruises already forming on her pale skin, they said nothing. Instead they worked around her, poking her, prodding her as if she wasn’t a person at all.

  The room grew black, but Katrine fought for consciousness. She had to see him, if only for a moment. More than anything she wanted to see her child.

  She opened her heavy lids and lifted her head. Frau Meier’s face came into view.

  “Hold on. You can do this. You’re from healthy stock. Do not give up.”

  She screamed as another contraction seared her stomach. Hendrick walked into the room and strode up to her, grasping her hand. Katrine tried to pull it away, but she was too weak.

  “You cannot be here. This girl is in trouble.” The other nurse’s voice was frantic. She pushed on her stomach with a force so strong Katrine thought she was going to pass out.

  “Katrine, you need to push now,” the nurse cried.

  Behind them Sister Clarence hurried into the room.

  “Rebecca. My name is Rebecca Lodz. My fa—!”

  Hendrick squeezed her hand tighter. “Do not listen. She is ill. She has lost her mind.”

  Frau Meier’s face hovered over her. Her voice rose with astonishment. “She is a Jew?”

  “Silence, woman! This is my child you speak of.”

  Another sharp pain hit, and Katrine screamed once more.

  Hendrick stalked out and a moment later returned with two guards.

  “Push, Katrine, push!” someone shouted.

  Then she felt the baby slide from her body.

  “It’s a boy!”

  “We’re losing her.”

  Sister Clarence’s face drew near. Tears ran down her cheek. “Your work is done, Rebecca. Go to your people.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  By age sixteen, Mary was the best gopher the newsroom had ever seen. She made great coffee, ran memos up and down staircases—which was faster than waiting for the slow elevator—and even brought back lunch orders.

  By eighteen she was writing regularly, but had come upon the chance quite by accident one especially busy afternoon. Most of the guys were out covering their beats. A few were pounding out stories, attempting to make deadline, when the phone from the city news desk rang.

  “Hey, Mary Christmas, you mind getting that for me?” Paul had been calling her Mary Christmas ever since she’d baked cookies for them for the holidays.

  Without hesitation Mary answered the line. The reporter on the other end rattled off facts about a big warehouse fire in the shipping yards. She jotted down the notes and then hung up the phone.

  Later, Mary claimed she’d decided to type out the notes because her handwriting was too difficult to read. But she also admitted the keys did feel good under her fingers. She’d been practicing for months to get faster—retyping old stories and sometimes even rewriting them just for fun.

  Ten minutes later when deadline arrived, she handed her notes to Paul.

  “Here, sir. Something just called in. I’m not sure there’s time to work on it … but maybe the editor in chief will get you a few more minutes.”

  Paul scanned her notes, his hunched form straightening in his chair as his eyes scanned the page.

  “This is the one just called in?”

  “Yes. You asked me to take it. I’m sorry, but I thought if I typed it, it would be easier to read.”

  “I see. Let me just call and check a few things.”

  Paul hurried to the phone, talking to someone for a few minutes. Then he resumed his seat, slid her “story” into the typewriter, added a few words, and pulled it from the rollers.

  Mary rose. “Um, Mr. Bramley, sir. Were my notes useful?”

  “Notes? You’re kidding, right? Sweetheart, you’ve written your first story.” He turned the stack of papers so she could see hers. Under the headline Warehouse Fire Destroys Famed Shipping Yard, he’d typed her name: MARY KELLEY, ASSOCIATED PRESS.

  He opened the door and strode away as if it were an everyday occurrence to have her story submitted in the stack.

  Mary hadn’t been able to sleep all night, and the next day she hurried to the office an hour early just to get a first glimpse of the morning paper.

  A copy waited for her next to one of the typewriters, already opened to page three. Mary let out a whoop. Then she noticed a note scribbled in the margin. Too melodramatic. Next time don’t editorialize the facts.

  Mary read the two lines twenty times, feeling nearly twenty different emotions. It was her father who’d written those words. She recognized his handwriting. Finally, acknowledgment. Finally, a note from the man who paid little attention to her presence. Who passed her in the halls with no more than a nod and a smile. Elation, disappointment, anxiety … in the end she settled on hopeful determination, focusing solely on two words: “Next time.”

  Mary opened the newspaper on her desk in front of her and flipped to the second page, which held her article. The phone receiver was tucked tight under her chin. Paul was on the line, and she knew she should keep it short—emergency communication only. Yet she had to know.

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “Fine, Mary, thanks for asking. Good to hear your voice too.”

  “C’mon, Paul. You know I don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Yeah, I suppose. Well, your story about the Marines moving into Antwerp harbor? That was pretty amazing. I mean, I thought Did Mary really write that?”

  Mary laughed. “Stop it, you.”

  “Plus, the buzz on the street is that your stories are the all-time favorites.”

  “Whose all-time favorites?”

  “Our readers, Mare. And some artist has done this fantastic pen-and-ink drawing of you in your combat suit, and I’ve seen copies hung all over town. I have to admit you look pretty cute, sweetheart.”

  “That’s America’s Sweetheart, to you.” Mary smiled and leaned her head into the phone.

  “Oh, sorry, America’s Sweetheart. Did you know the BBC’s even silly for you? Even the English can’t get enough of you, Mary.”

  “Yeah, but you’re ignoring the question. What did he say?”

  The line was silent, except for a thick buzzing, and Mary was afraid she’d lost the connection.

  “Paul?”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Hey, listen,” she said. “I don’t need a glowing report here, but a half-decent compliment will do. I mean, he must have liked it, because most of my words made it to the page.”

  “Well … he threw a fit he didn’t get it in time to wield his red pen.”

  “What?” Mary’s smile faded.

  “He says that you should have broadened your focus. Y’know, beyond just the experience of the individual men. You should’ve included more information on the importance of the harbor. Big-picture stuff. You know how he likes that.”

  “I
know. But this story didn’t call for—”

  “He feels your weakness is you’re not going after big enough stories, just interviewing the average joes.”

  “My weakness?” Mary’s voice trembled. She was beginning to draw attention from other reporters in the room. “My weakness is that some people don’t let me do my job. It’s hard enough for me—a dang female—to get clearance onto the bases and the harbors, which are relatively safe. What does he want? For me to sneak onto the front lines?”

  The line was starting to break up, but Mary strained to listen.

  “I don’t understand it either,” Paul said. “You’ve put out far better stories than Manahan, Ryan, or a lot of the guys. Stop torturing yourself. Think about it; you’re continually making A-2. You’re the talk of the town, and, hey, your old friend here likes your stuff. It makes me wonder, though. Are you in this for the love of journalism or the love of a father?”

  “Paul, you’re not being fair here.”

  “Just a minute; I wasn’t through.”

  More static was making it hard to distinguish his words.

  “You know Donald’s always had a higher standard for his own writing. I think …”

  “Paul? You there?” She pressed the phone tighter to her ear. “Paul?”

  The line was dead. Mary set the phone in its cradle, then rested her forehead on the cool surface of her desk.

  What did Paul think? That Donald’s standard wasn’t obtainable? That he would never be satisfied? Or …

  Mary headed to the front door for some fresh air and privacy, but halfway there she stopped, leaned against the hallway wall, and slid down, hunching over her mud-covered boots. Maybe she too was judged at this higher standard because of who she was. And if word ever leaked that journalism’s most eligible bachelor and Pulitzer Prize–winning writer had a daughter, wouldn’t they judge him by who she was too? But few people knew, and so far they hadn’t told. Which meant, it would only be she who revealed it to the world.