My Enemy's Cradle

  I stopped a few steps from our room. I didn't trust Eva and since she'd come, I'd trained myself to pull Anneke's skin more firmly around me before entering her presence. It was easier now—this afternoon I really was a girl with a German lover fathering my child. Then I walked to the doorway, quietly as we all did—pregnant girls needed to nap.

  The door was open. Inside, I saw Eva asleep, one arm flung out, the other draped over a breast. Her swelling belly was turned to the door, pulling at her nightgown, and one leg, naked almost to the hip, curled up to meet it. Provocative even in sleep.

  I crept through the door without a sound, but inside I nearly screamed: In the shadows at the foot of Eva's bed stood a Little Brown Sister. She jumped and ran from the room, but not before I'd seen the ache in her glazed eyes, devouring Eva, drowning with longing.

  I passed her in the hall a few days later. I wanted to tell her I knew better than anyone that we want whom we want and it's not a choice. I wanted to tell her I was the last person who would judge her. But she turned her head in shame and hurried away.

  I should have stopped her. I should have told her what a waste shame was.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Klaas was gone one day, just like that. I went down to the orphanage and he wasn't there. I grabbed a Little Brown Sister hard, and she looked at me alarmed. "He was adopted. Yesterday," she said and shook me away. As if that were all, as if the person in this place I had loved the most hadn't just been torn from safety into a world where anything could happen to him. There was nothing I could do about it, though. I went to my room and made my last entry into the journal I'd begun to keep for Leona:

  Everything is funny to him: He had the hiccups yesterday and he laughed all the way through! When I put a bootie over my hand and wave it at him, he becomes hysterical. He makes me do this a hundred times, and each time he finds it funnier. And his face, when he sleeps ... he is more beautiful than I can describe. They will love him. It would be impossible not to love him.

  With my afternoons now empty, I began to think about my baby's birth in earnest. It was as if before, when I hadn't known where I would give birth, I hadn't been able to imagine it. Now it was all I was able to see when I closed my eyes.

  I read everything I could get my hands on and bothered Sister Ilse incessantly. She never grew impatient, only answered my fears with reassuring information: Only a few times since she'd come here had a mother died, and in most of those cases the mother's health had been complicated by previous illness. No, a forceps delivery wasn't likely to do permanent damage. Yes, if it was necessary, the doctors were prepared to perform a cesarean delivery.

  "What about Sofie?" I asked her. I hadn't seen it, but the girls on the first floor had come upon Sofie wedged in her doorway, screaming into a towel she'd stuffed between her jaws. They'd pulled her out and found the head of her baby mashed between her thighs.

  "She waited too long. She was afraid of the doctors. You won't be afraid of the doctors, will you?"

  "What about Sigi?"

  "A breech at the end. We usually catch that. And they're both fine!"

  What about...? What if...?

  "Women have been doing this for thousands of years, Anneke," she would always comfort me. "You're strong. You'll do fine."

  One day while I was visiting with Ilse in the nursery, rolling booties into pairs while she measured out doses of medicine, she asked me if I'd thought about staying for a while after the birth. "It's so good for the baby. Even a few weeks of nursing is such a benefit."

  The idea made me anxious, but I'd been wondering about it myself. Allowing it to seep in. Maybe. I would talk to Karl about it.

  "And forgive me if this is none of my business, Anneke," she said. "But I've seen you with the father ... why are you in such a hurry to leave? Is he married?"

  Before I could come up with an answer, Ilse dropped the measuring spoon and jumped up from the table. She flew to the window.

  "What is it?"

  Ilse dug her fingertips into the mullions. An official wagon, a guard in a black uniform standing by its open rear door, was parked in the delivery ward's entrance.

  "The soldiers? What's wrong, Ilse?"

  "That's not the Wehrmacht, Anneke, that's the Gestapo," she whispered, her voice tense. "They've come for someone." She ran to the next window and twisted her head to see more. Her face drained. "They're inside. They're here."

  "Are you ... what should we do?"

  She went back to the table and gripped the edge, her head down. Then she looked up at me. "You should go. You're not really supposed to be here." She shook her head and fell into the chair. "No, stay. They don't know those rules. Just go back to what we were doing."

  I sat across from her and picked up a pair of booties. If they've come to this wing, I told myself, they're not looking for me. I wondered what Ilse was telling herself. I'd never seen her so disturbed.

  She sat rigid, her back to the door, clenching a beaker so hard I worried it might shatter. "Can you see them?" she asked.

  I risked a quick glance through the door to the nurses' station. "Yes. They're at the desk. No, they're moving away. Frau Klaus is getting up."

  "Are they coming this way?"

  "I can't tell. They're talking. No, they're leaving. They're heading down the west corridor."

  "The west corridor? To the nurses' quarters?"

  She didn't wait for my answer, but jumped up and ran back to the windows.

  They were out in a minute. Two men, dragging a small older woman. A third followed with Frau Klaus.

  Ilse's face crumpled. "No," she breathed. "Solvig. No!"

  The men pulled the little nurse along roughly as though she were fighting them. She wasn't—Sister Solvig was probably sixty years old, and often I'd heard her talk about the arthritis in her hips—she was only crying hard and trying to clutch a sweater around her shoulders.

  "What's she done, Ilse?"

  Ilse's eyes never left the woman, and she cringed every time the men jerked her along. "Nothing. She did nothing. What have any of us done?"

  "But why are they taking her?"

  "Her husband's Jewish," she whispered. "They've been hiding it." Ilse's eyes filled with tears, but then suddenly widened in terror. "No!" she cried. Her hands pressed against the windowpane as if she could stop what was happening.

  We watched in horror as Sister Solvig slipped free from one policeman's grip and strained to pull away. The officer on her other side yanked the arm he held and spun her back. At the same instant, the guard at the wagon's door raised the dark wooden butt of his rifle and drove it into her temple. She dropped and my heart pitched down with her. Just before her head hit the gravel, the first policeman reared back and kicked her with his hobnailed boot, splitting her face open from eye to jaw in a shower of blood. Ilse and I gasped at the same time, our hands flying to our cheeks as if we felt the sickening blow outselves.

  The men picked up Sister Solvig's limp body as if it were a bag of onions, carried it to the wagon with one foot dragging along the walk, and then heaved it into the back. And then they were gone—taking with them the hope that my baby and I would be safe in this place.

  Ilse stiffened. I grabbed her arm, but she wrenched away from me. All I could do was watch from the window as she stormed down the walk to the spot where the men had attacked the little nurse. She bent and picked up a shoe, pressed it to her chest. I could see the hatred in her eyes.

  Still at the entryway, Frau Klaus was watching her, too.

  The next time Karl came, he had only an hour. We went outside to the gardens, which had burst into purple bloom with tulips, lavender, and lilacs. The patios were full—dozens of girls chatted or read on lounge chairs, babies napped in prams lined up against the wall, heedless of the swastika banners ruffling in the breeze above them. In the east garden, Dr. Ebers was leading a tour of uniformed men.

  Karl and I chose a bench as far away from the others as possible. I ached to lie skin to skin with
him—how greedy I'd become. Instead, I had to content myself with the press of his knee against mine, the warm strength of his hand on my back, as I began to tell him the things I'd been worrying about.

  "You must take him the first day. The day he's born, do you hear me?"

  "I know. We've already discussed this."

  "It's important. Get him out of here and don't bring him back. Not for more formula, not for a checkup."

  "What's wrong?"

  I started to tell him, but I couldn't put the image of what had happened to Sister Solvig near any thought of my baby. "It's just not a safe place for him," I said.

  "It will be fine, I promise. Nobody will be suspicious—there's no reason. You can stop worrying, all right?"

  I relaxed a little then. "All right. But there's more. I have so much to tell you. In the beginning, babies shouldn't be in the sun. Your mother can take him outside when she brings Lina out—is there a park they go to?—but keep him covered in a pram. Later in the summer, she can put a hat on him."

  "On her."

  "What? Oh, all right. She can put a hat on her. Just no direct sun. And where will he sleep at night? Will Erika be able to hear him? Her? And remember, he'll be able to roll over by three months, so she should never leave him alone—"

  "Maybe you should write all this down. I'll give the list to Erika."

  Something in his voice alerted me. "What is it?"

  Karl looked sad, but relieved also, as though he'd been anxious to tell me something but hadn't known how to begin. "It won't change anything, and I don't want you to worry," he started. Immediately I pulled back and braced for the blow.

  "I'm being transferred." He took my hands. "It's all right. It won't be until after the baby is here, I promise. Not until August or maybe September."

  "Where?" My voice was hard and tight. I pulled my hands from his and held them in a fist on my lap.

  "Peenemunde. It's on the coast."

  "How far away is it?"

  "Five hours."

  "But—"

  "No, don't worry. Erika and I have already talked about it. If it seems I'll be there for a while, and if it feels right, they'll move closer. We'll do what's best."

  "And if they don't move? Will you be able to visit?"

  "I'm sorry, I don't know any more than that. I'll know more when I get back. I'm going there Monday."

  "But you said—"

  "It's just for a week. Just to prepare. You're not due for a month."

  "But—"

  Karl stood up. "I have to go. Walk me to the car."

  At the car, he kissed me then pulled me close. "Don't worry about this. It won't change anything."

  "Karl, what is it you do?"

  He opened the car door and got in. "I'll be back at the end of the week. I'll see you then. Don't worry about this."

  But of course I did. And my heart plunged when he came back at the end of the week—something about him reminded me of Anneke when she'd returned from her examination. "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "How have you been? The baby?"

  He sounded unconcerned, but he wouldn't look at me.

  "We're fine. Look at me—I'm an elephant. But we're fine. Is something wrong?"

  "I don't have much time today. I've borrowed a camera."

  "A camera?"

  "You said you wanted a photograph for the baby to see. You're due in three weeks. We should take one now. It's in the car, I'll go get it."

  "No, no pictures. It's a rule—no pictures of the mothers in here. But Karl, tell me what happened when you went away. What's going on?"

  "Fine. Let's take a drive. We'll stop somewhere and take a photograph."

  For a second, I wondered if he'd been drinking. But then I dismissed it—his eyes were old, but not dull, and he hesitated before he spoke, but his words weren't slurred.

  We left, and in the car I was quiet and a little afraid. He took the road to our farm and I felt relieved—we would talk in the barn. He always relaxed in there. But when we got there, he didn't want to go inside.

  "It's so hot. I know a stream," he said. He took the camera from the backseat and set off. I followed him, watching carefully. He stopped after a few paces to unbutton his tunic, and then he threw it to the ground. I grew very worried then.

  Karl spoke only once as we walked. "It wasn't always this quiet," he said, almost apologetically.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Even the birds know to be quiet."

  I slipped my hand into his and that seemed to calm him.

  "No one talks anymore," he said. "In the whole country, no one can talk. We're too afraid."

  "We're talking," I said gently.

  "Yes. I can talk to you. But you're the only one."

  "What about Erika?"

  "I could, but we don't. For one thing, it's safe only if we know her neighbors in the next flat are all at work. But even then we don't, because it upsets my mother."

  "Why don't you talk to me now, then?" I said. "Tell me what happened last week. You're starting to scare me."

  Karl shook his head. He pointed. "The stream's just ahead. Listen, you can hear it. It's still talking, anyway."

  The stream rushed swollen and fast over rocks and the roots of the pines and birches that overhung its banks. Almost singing. Karl took off his boots and his socks and rolled up his trousers. He stepped in and held his hand out for me. I took off my shoes and stockings and joined him. He climbed onto a wide, flat rock and I sat down on one a few meters away. Still I waited, observing him, as I dipped my feet into the clear water.

  Karl looked over at me and smiled. "You look like a girl," he said. "You look very young. Maybe twelve."

  I leaned back and patted my huge belly. "Quite a reputation I'd have."

  He took a packet of cigarettes and shook one out, then lit it. He inhaled deeply and then took the cigarette from his mouth and stared at it, as if he couldn't remember how it had come to be there. He tossed it into the bubbling water, and we watched it dance for a moment in an eddy, then disappear.

  "I saw things."

  I looked up at Karl and saw his face wrenched in despair, his teeth clenched, his palms pressed to his forehead as if trying to crush an image, his arms trembling. I jumped up and splashed across to him, wrapping my arms around him. He buried his face in my chest, then pulled away and clawed at the buttons of my blouse, ripped aside my slip, and pressed his head between my breasts, shaking.

  "I saw things."

  FIFTY-NINE

  I stood there in the stream with Karl's head on my chest, the cold snowmelt rushing around my shins and his hot tears soaking my skin. Finally, he pushed me away and turned to look across to the meadow, to where the yellow wildflowers were spattered like gold coins. I tried to put my arm around his shoulder but he shook his head. He wiped his eyes and swallowed, then he began to talk.

  "Prisoners. From the camp there. Hundreds. They all looked the same, with their gray skin, their shaved skulls, their gray uniforms. I couldn't tell one from another; I didn't even know if they were men or women. They were skeletons."

  He took another moment. "I was walking along an assembly line, being given the tour. A corporal was telling me about a new paint they were trying that would resist higher temperatures. Then he shot a man."

  Karl folded over, his fists pressed to the sides of his head, as if he heard the gunshot again. I waited, my dread building.

  At last he straightened.

  "He hardly even looked. The man was so close, he didn't have to aim. He was talking to me, he was explaining about the paint—how it had to be applied—and then he glanced over at this skeleton working beside us and a look came over his face. It said, oh, what an irritation, and then he pulled out a pistol and—"

  "Don't," I whispered.

  Karl raised his hands as if to keep me back. They were shaking. "No. I have to tell this." He drew a ragged breath and this time the words poured out. "He pulled out a pistol and he didn't look, he just sho
t a hole through this man's head. Then he turned. He looked at the man next to the fallen one—he had stopped working. He was covered in blood. Brains, bone. And he shot him, too. Through the chest. Then he went on talking to me as if nothing had happened. 'Of course, it's a lot more expensive than the old paint.' That's what he said."

  "What did you do?" I asked, even as I felt my heart shrink back, numb, as if my ribs were sticks of ice.

  "Nothing. I did nothing. A cart drew up with bodies piled on it. They heaved the two dead men onto it and took them away. The corporal raised his hand and stuck two fingers into the air. He was calling for two replacements. I looked away. The corporal handed me off to the man at the next station. I let him shake my hand." Karl raised his hand and looked at it as if it had betrayed him.

  I saw Isaak's face. I saw him standing in a prisoner's uniform. I saw him fall. "Where were they from? The prisoners?"

  Karl ignored me. But then I realized I hadn't asked it aloud.

  "There must have been a hundred people who saw what happened. None of them raised an eyebrow. So now I know it's all true. All of it."

  There was so much despair in his eyes. My arms tried to reach for him again, but it was only half a gesture; I couldn't touch him. He pushed them down anyway, as if he didn't deserve the comfort I couldn't give him. He began to talk again, his voice flat.

  "When I was still at the boatyard, in '39, there were rumors. About the camps, about things that might happen there. But nothing ... well, it was difficult to get information, and no one knew anything. Then in '40, when I went into the service, it all stopped."

  "What?"

  "Everything. Rumors, information, talking. We had war news, but it was only what they wanted us to know. I was relieved. It was so much easier. I had nothing to struggle with except the ship I was repairing—broken metal and wood. We had no consciences to struggle with. We all felt that way, I think. Do you understand that? How it could be easier to not see?"