Chapter 30
The next couple of weeks moved with the strange, suspended quality of a held breath.
To anyone watching from the outside, Clara and Friedrich maintained the careful choreography of a contented marriage.
They left for work each morning with a kiss, returning home to share quiet dinners, moving through their evening routines with practised ease.
But beneath this performance, Clara felt as though she were living in a house of glass, fragile and transparent, where any sudden movement might shatter everything.
The routine with Max had continued as normal where each week after her home visits to the Müllers, Clara would go to the church and slip into the pew at the back, before tucking a new list of names into the hidden prayer book.
The sense of being watched had become a constant companion. Every footstep behind her on the street made her pulse quicken. Every shadow in a doorway demanded a second glance.
At home the familiar sounds of their apartment building took on sinister undertones. The creak of the stairs, the slam of a door somewhere below, the shuffle of feet in the hallway, each noise made her freeze, waiting for the inevitable knock that would bring her world crashing down.
Their evenings had developed a new rhythm.
Friedrich would settle beside her on the sofa, drawing her close with a protectiveness that was both comforting and heartbreaking.
She would curl into his warmth, feeling the steady rise of his chest as they read or listened to the radio.
But even in those moments of apparent peace, she could sense his vigilance in the way he held her, always alert, always ready.
Since the night with Fuchs, they had made love with an intensity that surprised them both. Each time, Clara felt pieces of herself being carefully gathered and reassembled by Friedrich’s gentle hands, replacing fear with tenderness, violence with love.
Unusually, Paul hadn’t been to the apartment asking her to come and help a pregnant woman, or mother and child. It was a relief but at the same time a worry.
That afternoon, Clara visited Ursula as she had done every day since the birth. Mother and baby were both healthy, and it brought Clara real joy to see Ursula bond so easily with her son.
‘My visits will drop to every other day now,’ she explained.
‘I know.’ Ursula laid the baby gently in his crib. Her voice was quieter than usual. ‘I’ve already spoken to the clinic.’
Clara paused. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’
‘I spoke to them just before you came.’ Ursula looked down at her son, avoiding eye contact with Clara. ‘I won’t be needing you to visit anymore. My mother is coming to stay as of tomorrow.’
Clara felt a tension in the air and her body stiffened. ‘I thought she wasn’t coming until next month.’
Ursula looked around at Clara now, her hands clasped tightly together.
‘I asked her to come early.’ Her voice wavered and she glanced away for a moment, before looking back.
‘Clara, I want you to know how much I have appreciated everything you’ve done for me.
You’ve been so much more than a midwife. ’
‘You don’t need to thank me. It was my job.’
Ursula gave a faint, sad smile. ‘Was it? I hoped it had become something more than that. I thought we were friends.’
‘We are friends,’ said Clara, feeling genuine concern.
‘Are we?’ Tears gathered in Ursula’s eyes. ‘Because friendship means trust. And I . . .’ She hesitated, her voice lowering. ‘I’ve come to understand that sometimes trust means accepting there are things we can’t talk about. Things that might put others we care about in danger.’
Clara’s heart hammered. ‘Ursula . . .’
‘No. Please.’ Ursula shook her head. ‘Don’t say anything.
I don’t . . . I can’t know.’ She drew in a shaky breath.
‘Hans has been under terrible strain with work. Things going wrong with . . . with relocations. Missing families. His superiors are starting to ask questions about who has access to certain information. The sort of information he brings home with him and keeps in his study.’
Guilt raced through Clara. She wanted to explain, to confess, but she stopped herself. ‘I . . . I’m sorry . . .’ Her words faded. What was she going to say? She closed her mouth.
‘Don’t say anything,’ said Ursula. ‘I don’t want to know. If I did, I would have to . . .’ She stopped, pressing her lips together. ‘As a wife, as a German citizen, I would have duties I couldn’t ignore. And I can’t bear the thought of having to carry out those duties.’
‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ Clara whispered.
‘I know. That’s what makes this so hard.
Mothers and babies, just as we’ve discussed before, every baby deserves to be safe, every mother deserves that chance.
’ Her voice fell to barely a whisper. ‘It’s not safe for you to come here anymore.
Not for you and not for us. I can’t protect you a second time. ’
Tears gathered in Clara’s eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for your friendship. Thank you for everything.’
‘I wish things were different,’ said Ursula, wiping her eyes. ‘I wish we lived in a world where friends could just be friends, without all these . . . complications. Where we could have coffee and talk about babies and laugh together.’
A short time later, Clara left Ursula’s house, closing the door behind her and crossing the threshold for one last time. As she walked down the road, she knew their friendship had become another casualty of the times.
As Clara waited for the tram to arrive to take her home, she was aware of a man coming to stand beside her. She knew instinctively it was Max.
‘Don’t turn around. Just keep looking straight ahead,’ he said. ‘When did you last see Paul?’ He took a newspaper from his pocket and nonchalantly began reading the front page.
Clara kept her gazed fixed across the road on the window of the shop. She could just make out their reflections. ‘When your daughter was born.’
Max flicked the page over in his newspaper, refolding it as one might for ease of reading. ‘He’s missing.’
‘Missing?’ Clara stopped herself from turning around to look at Max. ‘Since when?’
‘Since that night.’
‘He walked me to the end of my road,’ said Clara. Her mind replayed the last time she’d seen him. She shivered, wanting to throw up at the memory of Fuchs’s hands on her body.
‘He told me what happened,’ said Max. ‘He said no one witnessed it.’
Clara felt sick. ‘That’s right. There was no one else there. Has Paul been arrested?’
‘I’m making enquiries.’ Max went to the back page of the newspaper.
‘How is the baby?’ asked Clara.
‘Very well.’ There was a softness in his voice this time. ‘Thank you.’ A small pause followed before he spoke again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow with the list.’
‘I can’t. I’m not working there anymore,’ said Clara, her grip tightening on her bag. ‘My services are no longer required.’
‘I thought you had made friends with her.’
‘I had but her mother is coming to stay, and she doesn’t want or need me there anymore.’
‘You need to find an excuse to be there.’ Max’s voice was void of any warmth now.
‘Not possible.’ Clara dipped her head, her gaze falling to her feet.
‘You were caught, weren’t you?’ Max stated, rather than asked.
‘She covered for me,’ said Clara.
Max swore under his breath. ‘You were caught and now Paul is missing. I don’t like coincidences.’
‘I have done everything possible to help you. No, make that help mothers and babies. None of this is my fault, so don’t you dare try to blame me for this.’
Max was silent for a long time before speaking. ‘You need to be careful now. If Paul has been arrested, it’s only a matter of time before they come for the rest of us.’
The tram pulled up before Clara had a chance to reply. Max boarded ahead of her, taking a seat near the back of the carriage, while Clara took one in the middle. All she wanted to do was get to the safety of her home.
However, the familiar comfort of approaching home evaporated the moment she saw her apartment.
Harsh electric light blazed from both windows in the living room – not the usual gentle amber glow of their table lamp, but an unforgiving brightness of overhead bulbs.
Someone wanted to see everything clearly.
Her footsteps slowed involuntarily on the cobblestones. When a figure moved across the window – tall, broad-shouldered, definitely not Friedrich, her heart began hammering against her ribs. The silhouette paused, as if sensing her presence, then moved away from the window.
Clara’s mouth dried, the metallic taste of fear coating her tongue.
She fumbled with the strap of her bag, her fingers clumsy and cold.
Every instinct screamed at her to turn and walk away, to disappear into the maze of Berlin’s side streets until whoever was in her home left.
She tried to reason with her fear. Perhaps it was someone Friedrich knew from work. A colleague. A friend.
But even as she tried to convince herself, her stomach clenched with fear. The street felt different tonight. It was too quiet, too empty. No neighbours hurrying home with their evening shopping. There was just the distant hum of the city and the sound of her own shallow breath.
That’s when she noticed the black Mercedes parked across the street, half hidden in the shadow between two streetlights.
It had been so still she’d almost missed it, but now she caught the faint glow of a cigarette tip through the windscreen.
A match flared, illuminating two faces in the front seats for a brief, terrifying moment.
Both men turned to look directly at her.
The match died, plunging them back into darkness but Clara could feel their eyes on her. Her legs felt weak. The men in the car were waiting. For how long? Waiting for her?
Even if running had been an option, it certainly wasn’t now. They’d catch her before she reached the end of the street.
She hoped to God that Friedrich was in the apartment and not working late.
She didn’t want him to come home and not know where she was.
She hadn’t left out their secret sign that she was helping mothers and babies, so he would naturally worry about her even more.
No, running wasn’t an option. She had to be there for him as much as she needed him there for herself.