Chapter 8
The Wilmersdorf Geburtsklinik stood on a tree-lined street, set back from the road behind a small but meticulously maintained garden.
Clara paused at the wrought-iron gates of what would now be her new workplace.
Her recent interview with Doktor Weber had gone well and she had been encouraged by his open-mindedness.
He had told her he didn’t view her as anything other than a midwife – her nationality was not important to him.
She had been touched by that one statement more than she had expected to be.
The private clinic was in contrast to the sprawling Charité Hospital, with its institutional coolness. This unassuming villa, sitting quietly on a Berlin street, oozed a sense of calm, elegance and respectability.
Clara pushed open the gate and made her way down the path to the stone steps leading up to an oak door.
Two planters with boxed hedges stood either side of the steps.
A brass plaque beside the door read ‘Wilmersdorf Geburtsklinik’ in elegant script.
Next to it, a small sign displayed visiting hours and beneath that a brass bell for out-of-hours emergencies.
The former villa had been converted with care, designed to encourage middle- and upper-class women who came here to give birth away from the crowded public hospitals.
As she entered the clinic, Clara hoped Doktor Weber’s views that her nationality was irrelevant would be shared by both colleagues and patients alike.
Clara needn’t have worried. As soon as she set foot in the reception area, she was greeted warmly by a member of the nursing team, Frau Lange. A woman in her early forties, Clara guessed, tall and willowy with sharp facial features which belied her friendly demeanour.
‘We’re very pleased to have you here, Frau Bergmann. Your reputation precedes you.’ She smiled at Clara. ‘Please, come this way. I’ll show you where you can put your things and we can find you your uniform.’
Clara followed Frau Lange along the oak-panelled hallway which lent a certain warmth to the otherwise sterile environment of the clinic. A faint smell of antiseptic drifted up from the floor which must have only recently been mopped – Clara couldn’t see a mark on it.
They passed a room on the right which Frau Lange informed her was the waiting room. Sunlight streamed through the leaded glass of the windows, falling on the upholstered chairs set around the edge of the room. A table to the side held several medical pamphlets.
‘The first appointments are at nine o’clock,’ explained the nurse. ‘They are a mix of ante- and post-natal. Some of our mothers prefer to be seen at home though. Any home visits are carried out in the afternoon usually.’
‘Yes, Doktor Weber mentioned that,’ said Clara. ‘Do you know if I will be on the home visit rota?’
‘Of course you will be,’ replied Frau Lange. She hesitated and turned to Clara. ‘Unless that is a problem? I mean, travelling around the city.’ She didn’t need to add that because Clara was British it could be problematic.
Clara shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Doktor Weber said he would provide me with a travel pass.’
‘And you’re happy to do that? I can reschedule your home visits if you would rather?’
‘No. I’d sooner you didn’t,’ said Clara. ‘Not unless it turns out to be absolutely necessary. I don’t want to be treated any differently to other members of staff.’
Frau Lange nodded. ‘Good.’ They turned a corner at the end of the hallway and through a door marked for staff only, before coming to the foot of a stone staircase.
‘This was once the servants’ staircase,’ explained Frau Lange.
‘It’s for staff only. Helps us move quickly about the clinic without disturbing our patients. ’
At the top of the steps, Clara was shown into the staff changing rooms where she was advised her uniform was hanging up for her.
A short time later Clara was looking at her reflection in the mirror of the small staff changing room.
Her uniform here at the clinic was a change from what she was used to at the hospital.
Gone was the dark blue dress, replaced with a white dress, fitted at the waist with an A-line skirt.
A white apron over the top, a small white cap pinned to her head and white stockings completed the uniform.
It was a clinical and almost angelic uniform.
The only stain was the identity booklet stamped with ‘AUSL?DER’ (Foreigner) that she had to carry with her at all times now. She tucked it away in the pocket of her apron, out of sight, out of mind here she hoped.
‘Perfect,’ said Frau Lange, looking Clara up and down when she came out of the changing room. ‘Now, I’ll show you around and as we go, I’ll give you a rundown of your duties.’
It was a refreshing attitude and a warmth that Clara wasn’t used to having always worked at the Charité Hospital. She hoped this was a good sign of things to come and would make living in Berlin bearable for now.
It was something of a whistle-stop tour as Frau Lange showed Clara around the clinic.
As they went, Clara couldn’t help appreciating the small details that softened the appearance of the clinic from what she was used to at the hospital.
There were vases of flowers on tables in the hallways, plush rugs over polished floors and framed watercolours of landscapes and botanicals on the walls.
The walls themselves were painted in a soft green with cream woodwork and doors.
Many of the villa’s original features had been maintained. In the delivery room, formerly the dining room Frau Lange advised, the ornate cornices and ceiling roses stood in stark contrast to the modern equipment and sterile furniture.
The first-floor nursery still retained the fire surround and shelving in the alcoves, which now housed an array of medical supplies.
The post-natal rooms were situated on the same floor as the nursery, private rooms for each new mother. The antenatal rooms and delivery suite were on the ground floor where it was two women to a room.
‘This is Doktor Weber’s consultation room,’ said Frau Lange. She knocked on the door, waiting for a response before showing Clara in.
‘Ah, Frau Bergmann. So pleased to see you,’ greeted the doctor, rising from his chair and holding out a hand. ‘Welcome to Wilmersdorf Geburtsklinik.’
After speaking with Doktor Weber for a few minutes, Frau Lange took Clara back to the reception area.
‘Today you will help with the antenatal appointments. You will work alongside another midwife. I’m sure you know exactly what you’re doing but she will help you with writing up the notes and making sure all the information is recorded in accordance with the clinic’s rules and regulations.
’ Frau Lange spent a few more minutes going through some formalities with Clara before taking her along to the antenatal department.
By the time Clara arrived home that evening, she was exhausted but so much happier than she had been in recent weeks.
‘It’s very different to working at Charité,’ she enthused to Friedrich over their evening meal. ‘The staff are welcoming. No one seemed to be concerned about me being British.’
Friedrich smiled as she recounted some of the expectant mothers she had dealt with that day. ‘I’m very happy for you,’ he said.
‘Thank you for arranging it all,’ said Clara, leaning over and kissing Friedrich’s cheek. ‘I’m so lucky.’
‘We are the lucky ones,’ corrected Friedrich. ‘Me and the clinic – lucky to have you.’
Clara kissed her husband again, but even though he was smiling, she could see a strain on his face. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy talking about my day, I haven’t even asked you about yours.’
Friedrich patted her hand. ‘Your day is much nicer to talk about than mine.’ He sighed and rose from his chair.
‘Why don’t you sit down in the living room for a minute,’ said Clara, taking his hand and leading him through to the other room, sitting him down on the sofa.
‘I’ll fix you a drink. You look tired.’ When he didn’t resist, she felt even more concerned.
Quickly, she poured a glass of wine and took it over to him. She sat down beside him.
Friedrich took a long sip of his drink, closing his eyes for a couple of seconds, savouring the moment of the taste of the alcohol. When he opened them, he looked at Clara and gave a small chuckle. ‘You really want me to tell you?’
‘Really.’
He took another sip. ‘Increased movement of supplies, equipment requisitions, transportation logistics, troop movements, et cetera, et cetera. All of it means increased paperwork and increased scrutiny of said paperwork.’
‘I saw a newspaper at work today,’ said Clara. ‘The Germans in Poland were ecstatic to be liberated, I think it said.’
Friedrich took a long time before saying anything. He swirled the last drop of wine around in his glass. ‘The situation in Poland . . . it is perhaps more complicated than what’s being reported.’
Clara wanted to press for more information, but she didn’t want Friedrich to compromise his position.
She knew how much he loved his country, or at least, what was his country before the rise of the current regime.
She could see the pain it was causing him.
‘Do others not see what you see?’ she asked in a whisper.
Again, there was a long and heavy pause. Eventually, Friedrich reached for her hand. ‘I am not alone but we are few.’
Clara leaned into her husband, wrapping her arm around his body as he cradled her against his chest. It was a sobering thought that even in their own apartment, they felt compelled to talk in whispers and almost in code.
Later that evening after she had cleared away the dishes, they had sat down in the living room and listened to music on the radio, a small escape from what was happening around them.
The following morning Clara woke to the apparent triumphant news from German radio that a U-boat hard targeted and sunk HMS Courageous off the coast of Ireland in the North Atlantic.
‘They sound practically jubilant about it,’ she said to Friedrich. ‘Over five hundred men lost. And this is just the beginning of it all.’
‘This is the price of war,’ said Friedrich, shaking his head.
‘How can people celebrate? It doesn’t matter what nationality they are, they are all someone’s husband or brother or son.’
Despite Friedrich trying to comfort her, Clara couldn’t shake the broadcast from her mind.
As she took the tram to the clinic, her thoughts went back to England and the families who would be waking up to the devastating news that their loved one was never coming home again.
It could easily be someone she knew, someone in the West Sussex village she had come from.
For the first time in a long time, she wished she could be at home.
She hadn’t seen her parents or sisters, Rose and Evie, for two years.
Her last contact had been a letter she had received from Rose six months ago.
Even then, her post had been opened by the authorities before it was delivered to her – ensuring her and her sisters weren’t exchanging secret information.
Rose had said she was still working at the hospital, and thinking about it now, Clara realised that her sister had omitted to mention which hospital.
Clara now wondered if that had been deliberate.
She was lost in thought and would’ve missed her stop had it not been for a gentleman sitting behind her who tapped her on the shoulder.
‘Entschuldigung, gn?dige, Frau.’ Excuse me, madam, he said quietly. ‘Wilmersdorf Geburtsklinik? You wanted to get off here?’
Clara jolted back from her thoughts. She looked out of the window and recognising the area, jumped to her feet. ‘Danke,’ she said. She hopped off the tram, as did the man. ‘Danke,’ she said again, looking properly at the man for the first time.
He tipped his hat and was about to walk away, when something occurred to Clara. ‘Einen Moment, bitte.’ She touched his sleeve lightly. ‘How did you know this was my stop?’
The man hesitated before smiling. ‘Your midwife’s uniform is unmistakable and your cape.’ He gestured towards the pin on Clara’s cape with the clinic’s name.
‘Oh, yes. Of course.’ Clara’s hand went to her pin.
‘Guten Tag, Frau Bergmann.’
‘Guten Tag,’ she replied automatically before hurrying along the path towards the clinic. As she pushed open the gates, a chill ran through her. She stopped abruptly. The man had used her name. He knew who she was.