Fifty-Six
Fifty-Six
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 B?cker’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 B?cker 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 B?ckers 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 B?ckers 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 B?cker?”
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.
D R. K AUFMAN 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 B?cker 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...”
“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 B?cker. “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.
Dr. Kaufman is listening with his stethoscope again, but he is shaking his head and clicking his tongue.
He has Erna and her mother running to and fro, gathering towels and water, and he’s splashing Lysol solution between my legs.
My brain is working too slow to understand what is about to happen as he pulls long, tapered scissors from his bag.
Erna and Frau B?cker are each holding firm to one of my legs and I scream with the burning flare of pain as he slices the scissors through my flesh.
I’m screaming and screaming and writhing and they fight to hold me still.
He has another instrument in his hand, bigger than the last, but the pain is so intense that I’m swept under a carpet of darkness.
Consciousness returns as Dr. Kaufman inserts the big instrument inside me and begins to haul and twist and pull the baby from my body. Erna and Frau B?cker still have hold of my legs, which they have pushed hard against each side of me.
“Push,” yells Dr. Kaufman, “push as hard as you can!”
I push and push, and Dr. Kaufman pulls, and suddenly, in a bloody gush, the baby slithers out.
For a beat, the room is still. The baby lies on the bed between my legs, a thick, twisted purple cord joining us together. Dr. Kaufman cuts the cord.
“It’s a boy,” someone says.
Then silence.
Dr. Kaufman is slapping the baby on his back. He’s a red-purple color, like raw steak.
Time ticks.
He turns the baby over, wipes his nose and mouth.
“Come on, come on,” he says to him.
We all stare.
The silence is more than I can bear.
He coughs. A tiny movement. Then a bigger one. At last, a small cry, then a full-on howl. The tension in the room breaks and suddenly everyone is smiling, laughing, crying. They wrap him in a towel and Dr. Kaufman hands him to me to hold.
“Thank you,” I whisper, “thank you, thank you.”
He delivers the placenta and cleans me up, stitching the cuts to my flesh. I barely notice though, because for the first time, I’m staring into the face of my baby boy.
And suddenly I know love, like I have never known it before.