by Sarah Lark
“Stop it!”
She bit her lip. No, she couldn’t scold the child. It wasn’t his fault that his mother hated him.
Ida’s contractions began on a rainy day in late autumn, while Ottfried and Gibson were still up north. She had just begun to weave her pretty, colorful wool into fabric on a primitive loom when pain shot through her body. Ida’s first reaction was fear. She had repressed it during her entire pregnancy, but now the image of her dying mother flashed before her eyes. She thought of the tiny baby whom she had kept alive so painstakingly, only to have it follow its mother into death a few months later.
Ida stood with difficulty and mopped up the puddle of water at her feet. She didn’t know what was happening—older women from Raben Steinfeld had taken care of her mother then. Thirteen-year-old Ida had only heard screaming and had been sent back and forth to fetch water and towels. Finally, they’d let her into the room to say goodbye to her mother. The memory was pure terror, and now it seized Ida with full force.
“I don’t want to do it!” she stammered as Cat came in. Ida swayed under the pain of another contraction.
Cat rushed to her side. “There’s no choice now,” she said gently. “The child is coming, and you must help, or it’s going to take longer and be even more painful. Get up now, we’ll get you undressed. A nightgown should be more comfortable. Or you could stay naked—that’s how the Maori women give birth.”
Ida looked stricken at the thought. “I should be in bed,” she whispered. “Maybe the pain will stop if I lie down.”
Cat shook her head. “It certainly won’t, and lying down now would be all wrong. Look, Ida, the child wants to come out where it came in, do you understand? That will be easier if you stand or kneel, or keep upright, at least. It will go faster if you keep moving. Let’s walk around a little.”
For the next two hours, Cat led her reluctant friend around the house and through the yard, with constant pauses as Ida doubled over and sank to the ground. She whimpered, hugged her belly, and tried to suppress the contractions. Ida was fighting the child, and Cat was fighting Ida’s desperation. Otherwise, it would have been an easy birth. Cat could feel that the baby was in the right position and was ready to be born. Cat massaged Ida’s belly the way she had learned from Te Ronga. She made her some tea to calm her and ease the pain, but Ida simply sobbed into her mug and pushed it away.
“I don’t want to do this, I don’t want to do it!” she cried.
At one point, Cat lost her patience. “This is not pleasing to God!” she shouted.
But not even that helped. On the contrary. Ida, half-wild with pain and fear, did what she hadn’t even dared to do when her mother was dying: she cursed God. After she was done, she lay in Cat’s arms in pure exhaustion, shaking with pain.
“God is punishing me!” she wept. “He’s punishing me!”
When the child slid into the world after six seemingly endless hours, Cat was as exhausted as if she’d given birth herself. Toward the end, she had forced Ida to her knees on the kitchen floor and held her tight, and only then had Ida accepted that she had to help the child by pushing. The baby girl had fallen rather ungently onto the packed earth, and had immediately and loudly screamed in protest about the way she was being treated.
Cat was torn between laughing and crying when she lifted the baby up and carefully examined her for injuries. But there was nothing wrong with her apart from the understandable indignation in the small, red, scrunched-up face.
“Welcome to the world,” Cat whispered, cutting the umbilical cord and wiping the baby with a towel. She wasn’t very big, but she appeared to be healthy. “Ida, look, you have a daughter! Born into the arms of Papatuanuku. Ida, it’s good luck when a child is born directly on the earth.”
Ida had rolled into a ball on the floor when the birth pains finally ceased and didn’t move.
“Ida!” Cat shook her. “At least look at her. She’s beautiful. And so strong. Stop crying, little one, and say hello to your mother.”
When Ida finally unrolled, she did it slowly, and more from a feeling of duty than of curiosity or even love. Of course, she had to look at her daughter and hold her in her arms. But shouldn’t that be happening in a clean bed after she’d been washed and dressed in a new nightgown? Even her mother had been cleaned up for her funeral. She was just lying here now, dirty and bloody on the naked earth, holding this smeared little creature she’d never even wanted.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” Cat asked desperately.
Ida nodded dutifully. “Very, very beautiful,” she murmured. “But I can’t, right now . . . Can I lie down?”
Cat swaddled the little one in a sheet and laid her in a basket she had woven from reeds. There was a cradle, too, made by Ottfried for his “son and heir.” He had told them gravely that every Brandmann born in their new homeland must sleep in it. Cat thought it looked far too big for the tiny infant.
She helped Ida to her feet, washed her off, and brought her to bed, where she began to writhe in pain again until she’d finally rid herself of the afterbirth.
“Does it ever stop?” she asked desperately. “Won’t this ever stop?”
Cat comforted her, washed the sweat from her brow again, and dressed her in a white, clean nightgown. Meanwhile, she kept an eye on the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in her basket. When Ida finally asked for her, she lifted her almost reluctantly.
“Don’t wake her,” she said gently before laying her in the young mother’s arms. “Look how sweet she is when she’s asleep. Those tiny little hands!” The baby had balled her hands into fists. Cat thought that she looked determined even in her sleep. “She’s certainly healthy, no need to worry.”
“My sister looked healthy at first too,” Ida said. “And she was just as small.”
She was looking at her baby now, but she didn’t care in the slightest if the little creature lived or died. It was horrible, and she felt like a terrible mother.
“When she wakes up, you should nurse her right away,” Cat explained. “You have milk, don’t you?”
Ida felt tension in her breasts, but she didn’t want to think about taking the child close enough to her naked body so it could suckle. Of course, she forced herself to try anyway, but stopped when the little mouth clamped painfully onto her nipples.
“We’ll try again tomorrow,” Cat consoled her and thinned out some cow’s milk.
Laura Redwood had brought it just the day before, and then she had left for Port Victoria with her husband and his brothers.
“We’ll only be gone three or four days,” she had explained. “I’m sure the child won’t come before then.”
Now, Cat regretted not letting Laura Redwood in on what was going on. Maybe the courageous farmer’s wife could have helped her understand Ida’s behavior. She had never been confronted with such fears and reservations among the Maori. Every woman, and the entire tribe with her, would have been thrilled to have such a beautiful, healthy child.
“Have you thought of a name for her yet?” Cat asked, slowly rocking the baby back and forth. The little one was sucking fervently on the corner of a towel that had been dipped in milk. “I know Ottfried wanted to call his son Peter.”
“After his father,” Ida murmured apathetically. “The child was supposed to be named after his father.”
Cat nodded. “What’s his mother’s name?”
Ida grimaced. “Ottilie. But—”
“We can’t call her that,” Cat agreed. “Nobody here would be able to pronounce it. What about his grandfather? What was Ottfried’s grandfather’s name, Ida?”
Ida struggled to remember. “Karl,” she said at last. “I think—no, I’m sure it’s Karl.”
Cat pulled the cloth out of the tiny mouth and dipped it in more milk. The baby made a kind of impatient mewing noise. Cat laughed.
“Well, that’s a nice name, and she’s already answering to it. I think you like the sound of it too, don’t you, Ida?” Her voice was gentle but cons
piratorial.
Ida looked away. “But a girl can’t be named Karl.”
“She could be called Karla,” Cat retorted. “Or Carol. That’s the English version. Doesn’t that sound pretty?”
Ida gazed at her child, and in her mind’s eye, she saw Karl Jensch. She could almost imagine him saying the name when he had been learning English. A new name for a new country.
“Carol . . .”
Ida said the name to herself quietly a few times, and for the first time since the contractions had set in, she smiled.
Chapter 46
Ottfried Brandmann didn’t even see his first child before the second was born. Cat’s contractions began during the night, and of course, they had agreed she’d wake up Ida if that happened. After little Carol’s birth, Cat had left the bed and bedroom to the new mother and child and set herself up in the kitchen. Ida told her it wasn’t necessary, and that Carol could sleep in her basket. But no Maori would have considered separating a mother from her child during the night, so Cat insisted on retreating to the kitchen. But the next morning, she found Ida had put the child in her basket anyway, and was sharing the large bed with Chasseur.
“I’m scared I’ll crush her,” Ida explained.
Cat was worried. Something wasn’t right between Ida and her baby. She could only hope that the resentment wouldn’t be projected onto her own child, once Ida took it in as her own.
Now she wondered if Ida could actually help her. Carol had only been born three days ago—could she really expect Ida to go through it all again, and while she was recovering? Cat knew she shouldn’t care. She would need help, and no woman should be alone during such trying hours.
Cat decided to postpone the decision. She struggled to her feet, made herself some tea that Te Ronga had told her would speed up a birth, and even said the right prayers to the proper spirits. She felt closer to Te Ronga that way. Then she went out to the chilly barn.
She walked around until the labor pains became too strong, and then undressed and kneeled down on the packed earthen floor before moving to her bed of straw. Once she had arranged herself, there was no need to suppress her groans and screams; the pain had already become overpowering. Cat held onto one of the horses’ hitching posts and leaned against the other, making the movements that the ancestress Turakihau had taught the women of the tribe. At last, numb with pain, she thought she could hear Te Ronga’s kind voice: Ko te tuku o Hineteiwaiwa . . . It was a karakia that was supposed to help with difficult births. Cat tried to blurt out the syllables instead of screaming. She pushed in time to the song and spoke to her baby, until it finally slid out onto the straw.
It took Cat longer than it had taken Ida, but she suffered less. But after all the pain, she would never call birth rauru nui, or easy and simple, again. It hadn’t been easy for her to push out the small creature that was still connected to her by the umbilical cord. It was lying on the bed of straw and waving its little hands and legs uncertainly.
“You need to cry,” Cat groaned after cutting the cord. She got to her feet, nimbly lifted the child by its feet, and slapped its bottom until it started bawling loudly. Only then did she take a closer look, and she beamed with happiness at the realization that she, too, had given birth to a daughter.
“Your father won’t be happy about it,” she said, and pulled the child close to get some rest before cleaning them both up. “But I’m happy. I wanted you to be a girl!”
Cat wailed as the contractions started again. Now she really did wish someone was there—if just to take care of the child. She had to be careful not to crush her as she writhed back and forth again between the posts, pushing out the placenta. In the end, she lay on the straw, shaking, sweaty, and tired, and barely managed to pull a horse blanket over herself and the child before falling into an exhausted sleep with the baby on her chest.
Cat awoke early in the morning with the child in her arms, warm and protected. The little one started to fuss again, but Cat put a nipple into her mouth before she managed to draw enough breath for a scream. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to suckle. Tentatively at first, and then fervently. Cat was dizzy with relief. There wasn’t much cow’s milk left in the pantry, and neither of the women was in any condition to walk the distance to the Redwoods’ place and milk the cow. Cat told herself she’d nurse both children if Ida wasn’t able to.
She pulled the blanket tightly around herself and the baby before clambering to her feet and walking back to the house. Her entire body ached in protest at having to move again so soon. Cat stuffed a rag between her legs to stem the flow of blood after the birth, and she put the kettle on to make tea and bathe the child. As the sun rose outside, her clean, sated, and freshly swaddled daughter lay in her arms, and Cat went to introduce her to Ida.
She quietly opened the door to the bedroom where her friend was still asleep. Carol was beginning to stir in her basket. Gently, she put her own baby down on the pillow next to Ida and quickly picked up Carol before she could cry. She put the child to her breast, and Ida’s daughter immediately began drinking desperately. A short while later, Carol seemed reasonably satisfied as Cat swaddled her in fresh linens and laid her down next to Ida. Only then did she wake her friend.
“Look, Ida! Our twins.”
Ida looked in confusion at Cat, and then at the babies lying to her left and right.
“You had your child? But how? You didn’t call me! Did you give birth all by yourself?”
Cat nodded, smiling. “It wasn’t that bad,” she said, and it wasn’t even a lie anymore. The longer she gazed at her perfect baby, the more the horrors of the night seemed to fade.
“It’s a girl, too, if you were wondering,” Cat said. “But I don’t have a name for her yet.”
Ida knew that she would have liked to name her child after Te Ronga, but Ottfried would never accept that. Of course, Cat probably would have fought ferociously against having to name her daughter after one of Ottfried’s relatives.
Ida gently pulled the swaddling cloth away from the baby’s delicate little face. Cat’s daughter didn’t seem as squashed and red-faced as Carol had been. Sleeping in Cat’s arms in the barn had smoothed her features, and she hadn’t screamed herself into a rage either. She was a miracle to Ida, a delightful baby who seemed to have been brought by angels. It was exactly what she had imagined motherhood would be like when she was a child, before she had been confronted with the brutal reality of her sister’s birth. She smiled in wonder when the baby scrunched up her face in a way that made it look as though she was returning her smile.
A dream! This child was a dream! And suddenly, words formed in Ida’s head. Words that Karl had said once, in a land that had also been a dream, in an hour as surreal . . .
“Você é linda,” she whispered. “That means ‘you’re beautiful.’”
Cat looked at her and frowned. “What makes you say that? And what language is that?”
“A beautiful one . . . ,” Ida said pensively, and she had the same smile on her face she’d had three days ago when she’d given her own child Karl’s name. “Your child is beautiful.”
Cat wondered what Ida was talking about. “You mean we should call her Linda?” She tried to understand her friend’s mental leap. “That would be pai in Maori.”
“Pai sounds nice too,” Ida said tentatively. “If you call her Pai, Ottfried will be angry, but Linda would work. Just tell him it’s your mother’s name.”
Cat raised her eyebrows. The last name she would ever have given her child was the name of her biological mother—Suzanne! But then she thought of Linda Hempleman, and tears sprang to her eyes.
“It’s actually kind of true,” she said quietly.
When Ottfried and Joe returned a few days later from their trip, Ida was lying in bed, clean, nicely dressed, and looking fresh and relaxed. She was holding a baby in each arm, and one of them seemed to frown in alarm at the sight of her father, while the other gazed innocently up at him with clear blue eyes. Th
e two girls were introduced to him as Linda and Carol without further ado.
“Linda’s named after Cat’s mother,” Ida explained, her voice tense. “Carol is the English form of Karla, for Karl, your grandfather.”
Ottfried grimaced but remained silent on the subject of names when Cat began to explain further. “Linda sounds the same in both languages.”
Ida glanced up fearfully. But Ottfried seemed preoccupied by something other than the fact that Ida had named her child after his former rival.
“Are they really both girls?”
“That isn’t something you can choose,” Cat replied pointedly.
Ottfried snorted. He glared at Ida threateningly. “Next time,” he said.
Ottfried’s dark mood, which didn’t change during the next few days, wasn’t due only to the lack of a son and heir. Cat and Ida figured out that the men’s elaborate undertakings to recruit settlers hadn’t been particularly successful. In Nelson, Ottfried hadn’t found a single buyer, and Joe had found only one in Wellington. And even that man, a former whaler and seal hunter who had earned more money as a pelt merchant, didn’t plan on moving immediately. It would take another few months before he had finished his business on the North Island.
“Nobody in Nelson wanted the land?” Ida asked incredulously. “But we had to wait so long for ours.”
Ottfried shrugged. “Yes, we were unlucky. Actually, Rantzau is located very close to Sankt Pauli Village. It seems that our pastors have a new mission house there, higher up where there’s no danger of flooding. The land is fertile, and everybody’s happy. Our people who followed the group from Rantzau are happy too. The squire who arranged their emigration is very generous. Of course, he expects repayment. But he gave everybody land, and they’re very grateful. They certainly won’t move away. On the contrary, they’re even talking about bringing back our people from Australia.”
Ida nodded. So far, she had received only one letter from her father and the Brandmanns, but it hadn’t sounded very encouraging. In Australia, the community continued to disintegrate, and the land was more foreign, exotic, and dangerous to the Germans than New Zealand had been. The real danger seemed to be coming from the English, who were mostly the descendants of prisoners. The spiders, snakes, and crocodiles were secondary, according to Frau Brandmann.
