Forty-Nine
Forty-Nine
Dear Hetty,
I know you don’t want me to call on you.
Erna told me you need space and time. Well, I’ve tried to do that, for a whole month.
And in that time I’ve decided sitting at home and being sad all the time won’t do you any good.
The best way to get over your brother’s death is to do things that will make you happy.
Be in good company. So I’ll call for you this Sunday.
I’ve been saving up and I shall take you out for lunch.
I shan’t take no for an answer. I can make you happy, Hetty, I know I can. And I will.
With devotion,
Tomas
I scrunch the letter into a ball and put it in my pocket as I climb the stairs to my room.
Slamming my bedroom door closed behind me, I fumble desperately for the fastenings at the back of my skirt.
My fingers slip and the clips stay firmly closed.
Breathe in. Slow down. I release the hooks one by one.
I sewed them on myself a couple of weeks ago, when the buttons would no longer reach the buttonholes.
There is exquisite relief when it’s done.
I let the skirt drop to the floor, unbutton my blouse, and allow my belly to bulge out.
It aches from being constricted and sucked in all day at school.
I look down at my distended abdomen. Deep red indentations mark my belly where the waistband dug in for so long.
Five and a half months gone. I feel it all the time now.
No longer flutterings, these are proper, strong kicks of two little feet.
I’m not going to be able to hide it much longer.
Tears work themselves loose from my eyes. I’ve shed so many, but they don’t solve a thing. I clench my fists and rub them away, knuckles hurting my cheeks, but I don’t care. I deserve it.
I walk bare-legged to my window seat, resting my back against a cushion and stretching my legs gratefully out in front of me.
The cherry tree is in full blossom once again.
It’s so full this year with pink-tipped flowers that some of the delicate ends of the branches appear to bow under their weight.
I wish I could be that tree. It doesn’t suffer human anguish.
It lives in blissful oblivion of mine, and of the German boots marching their way across eastern Europe.
Vati says war is inevitable now. A war to annihilate the Jews.
My bowels shift. This threat to the life that scrabbles and squirms inside me.
A mischling child, whose Jewish blood is considered to be so abhorrent that it would surely be in the greatest danger if it were to be born.
And whose existence may also be the end of mine.
I think of Hilda Müller. How I despised her for her poor morals and husband stealing.
Now I am just like her. Only worse. Because there is no Vati in the background giving me a flat and money and love.
Even if she does have to share him with Mutti, at least she has a part of him.
I wish Walter was here. I screw my eyes closed and conjure his spirit with every pore of my being. I can see his face, his hair, his smile. I feel the touch of his hand, the smell of his skin. I’m drifting in his arms. There is water swirling, but I’m safe; after all this lonely time, I’m safe.
I barely register the sound of the door. I open my eyes, turn my head. Mutti is in the room. She is speaking, walking toward me. It all happens in slow motion.
“I’ve called you three times, why aren’t you answering?” She stops. She is staring at me. Staring at my round, exposed belly.
My brain clicks. Everything speeds up. I tuck my knees in, wrap my arms around them to hide the bump. But it’s too late. Mutti is standing statue still, her mouth half open as if to speak, but no words come out. Her eyes are wide; she doesn’t blink.
The air is static. Time stops.
“Herta?” Mutti’s voice is a hoarse whisper. “Is that... Are you... in trouble ?”
The clock ticks again and something releases. Like water through a loosened plug, all my suffering flows out. Freely, copiously, the tears come.
“Yes, yes, yes... I’m in trouble. Terrible trouble.”
At last. Someone knows, and the relief is infinite.
I SIT WITH my legs folded beneath me, enveloped between the cushions of the big armchair in the afternoon sitting room. I’m wrapped in my dressing gown and my fingers are curled around a warm, milky cup of cocoa.
Vera and Margot, our new cook, have been told I’m unwell. They both paint a look of concern on their faces, but really, they don’t give a damn. Not like Bertha. Oh, how I miss Bertha.
Mutti paces the room. Her eyes flicker about nervously.
Some strands of her usually neatly groomed hair fall free and trail softly over her ears.
Her waist beneath her slim-fitting dress looks impossibly narrow.
The beautifully cut fabric of the skirt swings as she walks, caressing her long, slender thighs.
I cannot imagine how Mutti could ever have been pregnant. Twice.
She grabs the packet of cigarettes and matches lying on the coffee table as she passes.
Her movements are jagged, clipped. She walks the room, one arm up, holding the cigarette between her fingers, wrist cocked; the other arm is hugged across her waist. She hasn’t been this agitated since that doomed day last October that shattered our lives forever.
She stops in front of me and perches on the edge of the sofa.
“For heaven’s sake, Herta. Why? I mean, after all we’ve been through. How could you do this to us?”
“I’m sorry...”
“Stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl.” She thumps the arm of the sofa with her fist. “I just don’t believe... How could you... I didn’t bring you up to behave...”
“Mutti, I’m sorry,” I sob. “I really am...”
“You will be.” Her tone is harsh. “He’s going to have to marry you, you know. He does know that, doesn’t he?”
“Who?” I whisper.
“The goddamn father,” she says. “Who else? What a damned shame. You could have done so much better for yourself. Tomas—I take it, it’s him—is.
.. not exactly what your father and I had in mind for you.
Vati will be so disappointed . But it’s too late now.
You can forget any dream of having a job.
Taking your Abitur. You do realize that, don’t you?
” Her hand trembles as she moves it to her mouth.
She sucks hard on the cigarette, narrowing her eyes.
“I don’t know who the father is,” I say softly.
“What?” She sits up, staring at me as if I’ve gone mad. “Jesus. How can you not know ! I just thought Tomas... How many other boys have you been with? You dirty little slut!” Her voice is high pitched, on the edge of hysteria.
“I don’t mean that. I mean I do know. I just don’t want to say.”
“Good God, what is this?”
“Oh, Mutti. I wish I could—”
“Well! You had better write and tell whoever-it-is. And fast. He will get a hell of a shock. But then”—she laughs a hollow laugh—“he should have thought about the consequences before he did it to you. Shouldn’t he?
Stupid men. They never do, though, do they?
Hmm? Think. Or at least, they think only of one thing.
” She shakes her head and jiggles one leg up and down on her tiptoes.
I bury my head in my hands.
“Herta. You have to tell me who the father is.”
“I can’t.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hetty. This is serious . Don’t you realize? Are you so stupid... You have to tell me, and you have to marry him !”
“You don’t understand. I can’t, I just can’t.”
Mutti’s leg stops jiggling.
“Who the hell is the father ?” she screams, leaning toward me, red in the face. “Do you have any idea what Vati is going to say when he finds out?”
She’s going to strike me. I lean away. I’ve never seen her so angry. We stare at each other, then she howls in frustration and jumps up, paces the room again.
I stare at the floor. The geometric patterns on the rug beneath the coffee table swim and merge. Rust red. Olive green. Burnt orange. Camel.
“Please, Hetty. I can’t help you if you won’t tell me. Come on...” Her mood changes; her tone becomes cajoling, pleading.
“I can’t.”
“At least tell me the reason why you can’t name him.”
I glance up at her. Her eyes have grown large. I shake my head, tears welling once again. A look of horror falls like a shadow over her face.
“Oh, Herta,” she says, “he isn’t married, is he?”
“No, Mutti...”
But he is.
Blood curdles in my veins. Vati, who is in Dresden until the weekend, could, at this very moment, be with his mistress and their newborn son, instead of being on the official SS business Mutti thinks he’s on.
Lie upon lie upon lie. The falsehoods gather and pile up, one on top of the other like a castle formed from layers of packed, wet sand, until one day the sand will dry, and the castle shall crumble and come tumbling down.