Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Seven
H is head is covered in downy hair, so fair it is almost transparent.
He smells of warm milk and biscuits. He has deep blue eyes, and already he focuses them so meaningfully on mine.
We are one, he and I. It’s as though he can read my mind and I, his.
He wants to know me. His eyes trace every contour and line of my face with such avid attention that his little mouth forms an “o” shape as he pants with excitement and his arms and legs thrash about.
I examine every inch of his body, over and over.
I never imagined I was capable of producing anything so perfect.
His hand wraps itself firmly around my finger and he grips with surprising strength, but he doesn’t yet know how to let go.
When I lift him, his legs scrunch up and his back curls over as though he doesn’t realize he has all the space in the world to stretch out.
And when I feed him, his fingers reach and grab at my skin, just as a tiny kitten would knead its mother as it suckles.
He is a thing of extraordinary wonder.
And more precious to me than anything in the universe.
I can hardly bear to sleep, because when I do, I’m not conscious of his presence. Time moves too fast, and each night that falls and each day that dawns brings the dreaded parting closer. I kiss his forehead and gently wipe away my tears that land on the soft down of his head.
Under the sloping eaves I imagine this is a safe and cozy nest. That the steady marching boots that tramp outside through the streets of Leipzig, Berlin, and all the other towns and cities of Germany cannot get to us. If only we could hide up here forever.
We need to come up with a name for this tiny human. Time is running out to register his birth before the inevitable day of our separation.
George. Henry. William. Edward. The names of English kings. You can’t get more English than that.
No. I want something simple. A name so he will fit. That other English children might have. I need to get this right as I shall play no other part in his life, for how long, who knows? All I can give him is a name, so it had better be a good one.
A distant memory of being with Mutti and Vati in Berlin a long, long time ago emerges.
I must have been around seven or eight years old.
It was a hot day and I was dangling my hands under a refreshing stream of water falling from the mouth of a strange mythical stone creature at the top of a fountain.
Nearby was a street café with tables and chairs outside on the pavement.
A little boy, younger than me, kept climbing down from his seat and running toward the fountain, his mother in pursuit.
Vati tut-tutted at the lack of discipline the English have over their children.
Stanley , the mother had called after him repeatedly.
Stanley. The lady spoke fast and firmly to the little boy, but I could only pick out a few words as it was all in English.
I understood “sit” and “father” and “now,” but the rest was lost on me.
To my amazement, the little boy ignored his mother and laughed.
That’s why I remember, because in my young life, I had never witnessed any child so openly disobeying.
He ran around and around that fountain and laughed and laughed as if everything in his life were pure, sweet joy.
I stare down at the little boy nestled in my arms. I lay him, sleeping peacefully now, in the empty drawer lined with soft blankets and padding. I could leave him awhile and join Erna and her parents in the sitting room. But I don’t want him to be all alone.
Instead I take out Walter’s letter, the one he sent the moment he heard of the birth, and read it for the thousandth time.
My darling,
I’m scribbling this note in dreadful haste.
I received the telegram this morning from Erna with the news of our son’s birth.
I’m in such torment. I am of course relieved and overjoyed to know you are both well.
But thinking of you bearing this alone and soon having to part with this baby, I know how this must be killing you.
I have walked the streets of London all morning with tears pouring down my cheeks, thinking of you.
It’s not been easy at home. I suppose I have been rather difficult to live with.
Anna knows how I think of you. If she is jealous, she never says, and she is handling this situation with fortitude and bravery.
I admire her more than ever. And I can tell you, she will shower our baby and my poor cousins with such love.
We will do our very best to make them feel at home here.
I know that is little consolation. But in my heart of hearts, I’m sure that one day it will be possible for you to be a proper mother to our son.
I hope and pray to God that that day will come sooner than we all think.
Stay strong, my darling Hetty. Things will get better, and please know that I love you more than ever before. This will never change.
You are in my heart, now and always,
Walter
“Hetty?” Erna pokes her head around the door. “Are you okay?”
“He’s asleep,” I say, folding the letter and putting it away. “I didn’t want to leave him.”
She sits next to me and smiles at the baby asleep in his nest of blankets. His two little fists are clenched and stick straight up above his head.
“Oh, Hetty,” she says, “isn’t he just perfect?”
I look at my friend in wonder. She’s seen me at my lowest. She has watched me give birth. She has cleaned up my blood. She is risking her own life for me. How can I ever repay such a person?
“I’ve thought of a name,” I tell her. “He is going to be called Stanley.”