by Louise Fein
“You would do that? For me? Surely this could put you all in danger?”
She laughs at my expression. “I hope you finally understand how much you mean to me, Hett,” she says. “Besides, we want to do something. It feels good to be helping. There is nothing worse than sitting back and being helpless when faced with something so . . . huge . . . you can’t fight it. What’s happening is so against everything we hold dear. Even if we do something small, help just one person, well, that’s defiance, isn’t it? And that’s worth it. Just in itself.”
I look at my dear friend in awe. She has been so kind, so brave, and so forgiving. She could easily have turned her back. “Oh, Erna, how can I ever thank you?”
“There’s no need.”
I bite my fingernails. “I don’t know how to get out of going to Berlin.”
Erna fixes me with her bright green eyes.
“You have to get your mother on your side. You’ll work it out. But right now, we need to send a telegram to Walter and let him know your decision.”
Fifty-Five
May 31, 1939
In the quiet of the early morning, I pull out the letter Erna handed over to me yesterday. I reread the words, over and over.
My dearest Hetty,
It is once again in a turmoil of emotion that I find myself writing. I’m relieved, terrified, devastated, and filled with overwhelming love at your decision to send our baby to England. I dare to hope that one day, you will be able to follow and that this will somehow turn out to be for the best, and we will all be reunited.
Erna also tells me that you are married to Tomas. In all honesty, I have struggled to come to terms with this. My reaction was utter disbelief, but she swore this was what you wanted, and that Tomas has been very good to you. If this is true, then I will try my best to be happy for you. But this cannot be the truth. I find it strange, to say the least, that Tomas should take a wife already expecting another man’s child. I also believe I know you well enough to know this can’t be what you really want. I suspect that you, like me, have been swept along by events over which you have no control. I suppose we are neither of us in this situation out of our own choosing.
I also want you to know that Anna is a good, forgiving person and I know without any hesitation that she will treat our baby with love and tenderness. Were things different, I feel certain the two of you would easily become the best of friends. Know only this, my dearest love, I will never stop loving you, from this day until my very last.
Yours,
Walter
Tomas and Vati are eating breakfast and reading the morning papers when I come into the dining room. Mutti has not yet appeared. It still gives me a jolt to see Tomas sitting in Karl’s chair at the table.
Vati glances at me as I come in. He folds his paper and slurps the dregs from his coffee cup.
“I must be off,” he says, pushing back his chair. “Busy day.”
Don’t worry, Vati, just a few more days and I won’t be here to pollute the atmosphere and offend you any longer.
“Morning, darling,” Tomas says, watching me help myself to juice and slices of bread.
He reaches for my hand as I sit across the table from him, drawing his fingers across my skin. I pull my hand away and begin buttering the bread. “I shall hunt for a place for us to live, while you are away,” he continues. “It’ll take my mind off your absence. Just seven more weeks at that arschloch factory. I can’t wait to get out of there. I begin my training mid-September, so we shall have some time together before that. Then I will be close by for twelve weeks. After that, who knows? There are rumors, you know.”
“What rumors?”
“That Germany will take Poland.”
“What do you mean?”
“We need more space. And the Poles . . .” The skin on his face contracts. “I hate them.”
Mutti hurries into the room.
“Goodness, I overslept this morning! I haven’t done that since . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence. She pats her neat hair, smooths her dress.
Tomas folds the paper and taps the front of it. “See that?”
I look at the images of smiling war veterans proudly raising gold medals for the photographs. “5,000 German Soldiers Return from Spain Triumphant!” the headline proclaims. “Göring Awards Medals for Valor.”
“One day,” Tomas says, “I plan to make you proud by winning a medal of my own.” Mutti has her back turned, helping herself to coffee from the sideboard. Her shoulders hunch, and I frown at his thoughtless words. “But for now”—he sighs, as he gets up—“I’ll have to make do with dreaming about it.” He kisses my forehead as he leaves.
At last, I have Mutti alone. I wait until she has drunk her first cup of coffee, smoked her first cigarette, and is relaxed in her chair with the newspaper.
“Mutti,” I say, before she becomes engrossed, “I need to talk to you about something.”
She looks at me expectantly. My mind goes blank. I need the right words. Exactly the right words.
“Well?”
“The plan,” I begin, “for me to travel to Berlin on Saturday . . .”
“We’ve been over this, Hetty, lots of times.”
“I know. But . . . please let me say something. Hear me out before you reply—”
“Nothing is going to change, whatever you say. I thought this might happen. The closer it got to the end.” Mutti’s body is upright and stiff. Unyielding.
“Please. Just . . . listen.”
She shrugs her shoulders and lights another cigarette. I gag slightly; the smell of smoke still induces nausea.
“I know you all see me as a problem to solve. And I know how you feel about . . . the baby. But I’m speaking to you now as a mother. A mother who gave birth to two babies. Who must know how it feels to carry a new life around inside her for nine months. To grow attached to that life, more than you ever thought possible, even though you’ve never met that person . . .” Mutti has her lips pursed and is shaking her head.
My mouth is dry, and I take a gulp of fruit juice.
“I’m not suggesting a change to the ultimate outcome. I know I can’t keep this baby, because of who its father is. But I can’t let it go to that orphanage. Through . . . a friend . . . we’ve found an alternative. To send the baby to its father, in England, where it will be well looked after and safe. I just want it to be loved and have a chance—”
“No! Absolutely not, Herta. I’ve spent a lot of time making these arrangements. You cannot expect me to change—”
“Mutti, please—”
“You are infuriating! It’s out of the question. What if this were to get out? You realize Vati would be ruined? His good reputation is vital to his career, to everything we have. He has worked so hard to get to where he is. I cannot jeopardize that, even if I wanted to. No, what’s been arranged keeps everything tight. Very few people know anything, and I’m paying a fortune to those Jewish pigs, a fortune to keep their mouths shut . . .” Her eyes widen. “Who have you been speaking to? You were warned to tell no one.”
“Mutti, it’s fine. Don’t worry, the secret is safe. I promise you—”
“What does it take to make you learn, Herta? Time and time again you do this . . .”
She’s getting angry. She begins to jiggle her leg.
“Mutti—”
“You know I would never go against your father’s wishes. I would never be disloyal to him. This is an utterly pointless discussion.”
“There’s a thing or two you should know about Vati’s loyalty,” I cry out in anger and desperation. It’s time she learned the truth about her precious husband. I’ve kept his dirty secret for long enough and I couldn’t care less about sparing her feelings anymore. “Things I’ve found out. Things Vati wouldn’t want others, especially you—”
She holds up a hand. “Stop right there,” she says, her voice hard. “Don’t say a word more.”
I meet her eyes. And then I see it.
&n
bsp; “For Christ’s sake.” I exhale. “You know, don’t you?”
“Of course I know. Do you think I’m stupid?” Her leg is jiggling again. Up and down, like a piston.
“Why? Why do you put up with it?”
“What choice, exactly, do you think I have, hmm? I put up with it, because I have to. And I love him.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Without him, I am nothing. So I fill my time with other things, I close my mind to it, and we carry on. He pretends it’s not happening, and I pretend the same. That’s how it is. We all have our shadows, Hetty. The demons that keep us awake at night. Don’t think your life will be any different, because it won’t be.”
“Oh, Mutti . . .”
She dries her eyes and pours herself another coffee.
“As long as he thinks I don’t know, everything will carry on. Everything will be okay.”
There is desperation in her voice, as though she is telling herself this because she doesn’t quite believe it, and she hangs on to it. Like a lifeline. But none of this is helpful. My brain whirs.
“Then you understand, Mutti, even better than I thought, what it is to lose both the love of your life and your child.”
“Yes,” she says, looking at me. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
“Then help me. You don’t wish the same fate for me, do you? This can be our secret. Vati must never know. You deserve to keep something from him. This is your grandchild, Mutti. Your grandchild fathered by the boy who saved your daughter from drowning all those years ago. Together, we can do this, Mutti. Do it for me, and do it for you.”
She looks at me in silence for a long time.
At last, she opens her mouth to speak.
“What, exactly, is it you need me to do?” she says.
Fifty-Six
July 24, 1939
Perhaps Mutti does really love me, after all. Perhaps having lost her own dear son, in some strange way she is the only one who truly understands. And so here I am, as far as Vati and Tomas know, holed up in Berlin, awaiting the imminent arrival of the bastard brat. But instead, I’m just a few streets away, grateful beyond words to Erna and her parents for all they are doing for me. I have the small attic room next door to Erna’s room. It has just a single bed, a wardrobe, and a chest of drawers. It’s comfortable enough, and through the little window under the eaves, I have wonderful views of Leipzig.
A knock at the door.
“Yes?” I say, instinctively closing the book and shoving it behind me.
Frau Bäcker’s head appears around the door.
“I’m just checking you are all right,” she says, assessing me with a look of concern.
“I’m fine,” I tell her with a smile.
“Are you sure? Have the pains gone away?”
“No, but they aren’t bad. Not yet. Truly,” I reassure her.
She nods. “Well. Let me know if there’s anything you need. Or if you want me to call the doctor.” Her forehead creases. “Perhaps I should do that, anyway, before it gets too late in the evening?”
“Really. I’m fine. I promise I’ll let you know.”
She smiles and backs out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Once I’m certain she’s gone back downstairs, I continue.
The pains have been coming, on and off, for a few days. Discomfort, rather than pain. It’s hard to know what to do with myself. I’m so big now, my abdomen tight and swollen. The Jewish doctor, Dr. Kaufman, who retired from doctoring years ago, partly because he’s old but mostly because he isn’t allowed to treat Germans, and who has been engaged by Frau Bäcker to care for me, is a kindly man, with a gray beard and sad, watery eyes. He knows of Walter’s family and has been acting as liaison between me and them, as well as helping the Bäckers communicate with the families they are trying to help in the Jewish house.
I put down my pen. This is more than discomfort now. I pace up and down the little attic room. My back aches and I rub it as I walk. I control my breathing, like I’ve been told to. In, out. In, out. The pain grips and bites, growls around my underbelly. In my pocket is the handkerchief Walter gave me the day he told me he was getting married and leaving for England. I finger it as I pace and it comforts me. The pain eases, and I sit on the bed again. I want to finish the diary entry. There’s so much I want to say, but I have just one last page to fill, and then this book will be complete.
Walter said to me once that he thinks all people—Germans, Jews; Nordic or Africans; Slavs or Americans—we all have the same capacity for good or evil. That no one race is different from any other. He said that although some individuals are worse than others, everyone is a mixture of both. But I know this is wrong. Perhaps he’s right about most of us, but not all. Some people really are better. They sacrifice so much for the good of others. Their own safety, their own lives. These are the real heroes among us. The ones who possess so much strength of mind and fortitude, not to take the easy route, no matter what personal cost is to be paid.
The Bäckers are such people. Others may think they are like them. But few would match up. They are as rare as the Lady’s Slipper orchid, and more precious. One day I truly hope I will find a way to thank them.
I drop my pen, gripped by a wave of pain so fierce I cry out. In the few moments that it eases, I scrabble for the pen on the floor and place it, with the journal, back inside the bedside drawer, on top of the small pile of letters Tomas has written, delivered surreptitiously by Mutti to a box at the post office.
Another wave of pain, stronger than the last. I break out in a sweat. My breathing becomes ragged. I reach for the door.
“Frau Bäcker?”
She appears at the base of the narrow stairs to the attic.
“It’s getting worse,” I tell her, my voice breaking as the pain grips again. I bend double on the landing.
“It’s all right,” she soothes. “I’ve already called Dr. Kaufman. Hermann?” she calls to her husband. “Boil water and fetch fresh towels from the linen cupboard. Quickly now. Erna, come with me.”
The pain is all consuming. I’m enslaved to it; I walk, sit, lie, sway, bend to its demands.
Why does love end in pain?
I try to remember the fun Walter and I had together. The endless walks by the river. His kisses, tender and sweet. The light in his eyes when he met mine. His words, his hands, the warmth of his body against me. His dear, beautiful face.
Oh, Walter, how I miss you.
And the pain overwhelms me once again.
DR. KAUFMAN IS trying to get me, freshly shaved and the enema having done its trick, to lie on the bed. But I don’t want to lie on the bed. It feels all wrong, lying on my back with the great weight of the baby pressing down. So I’m on all fours, making a slow crawling circuit around the room, bathed in sweat, groaning with each building mountain of pain. As the light outside fades, the louder I groan. In some weird way, this eases the suffering.
“I wasn’t able to get ahold of any sedative,” Dr. Kaufman says apologetically. “It’s very difficult for me to get any supplies.”
“Just do whatever you can to help her,” Frau Bäcker says, wringing her hands. “We’ve tried our best to sterilize the room. I’ve boiled all the towels and bed linen . . .”
I’m tossed over and over on great waves of agony. Time rolls by until I’ve lost all track of it. Minutes pass, or hours. I’ve no idea. I’m inside myself. Deep inside. Conversation between Dr. Kaufman, Erna, and her mother goes on above me. I swirl in and out of it. I rock back and forth, possessed and controlled by some animal instinct. I’ve lost all other care for anything.
Why in hell’s name do people have babies?
“I need to listen to the baby’s heartbeat,” Dr. Kaufman tells me gently. “I need you to get onto the bed so that I can check it is okay.”
“No,” I tell him. “I’m not getting on the bed.”
“I need to examine you. Down there”—he points between my legs—“I have to see how close to the birth you are . . .”
&n
bsp; “No way,” I shout. “I’m not getting on the bed and you’re not looking at me!”
I begin to sob and resume my crawling.
“It’s been hours now,” I hear Dr. Kaufman tell Erna and Frau Bäcker. “I’m worried the baby has become stuck. I really need to perform an examination, but she won’t allow me. She’s getting more and more tired. She will need the energy to push, when the time comes. Assuming everything is okay.”
“What do you mean?” Erna’s voice is anxious. “Why would it be stuck?”
“Any number of reasons,” Dr. Kaufman replies. “The cord might be caught around the baby’s neck. The position might be wrong. The head might be too big. She’s young. It’s a first baby. Sometimes it’s complicated. You know, it is only me and there are limited things I can do. I have forceps but . . .”
“All right,” I snap. “I’ll get on the bed.”
I try to stand, but my head swirls with pain.
“I can’t,” I cry. “I just can’t.” I sink back to the floor.
I’m swept up under the armpits and the three of them haul me onto the bed. As they pull me upright, a rush of fluid floods down my legs.
“I’m sorry . . .”
“It’s okay, just the waters breaking. This is a good sign,” Dr. Kaufman says.
I’m vaguely aware that Erna is clearing up the mess.
From the bed, I can see out the window. The gray light tells me dawn is breaking. I hadn’t even noticed it got dark.
Dr. Kaufman’s head is bent over my belly, listening with his stethoscope. His face scrunches. He meets my eyes.
“What,” I gasp.
“It’s . . . it’s all right. But the baby’s heart rate is very fast. Too fast. It can be a bad sign. Perhaps the cord . . . We need to get this baby out quickly. I have to see how dilated you are.”
He pulls my knees apart and I wince at the discomfort.
“Herta,” he says, his voice gravelly and low. “I must get this baby born as fast as possible. You must be brave now and still.”
I groan. I’m so exhausted I just want to sleep, but suddenly the urge to push is too strong. I’m going to split in two.
