My Enemy's Cradle (18 page)

I watched myself all that day for more signs of irritability, going out of my way to be sweet and patient. Because it was unthinkable that I would bleed in here. It was the next day I really worried. A dozen times that morning I excused myself to go to the bathroom to check; each time I would be relieved, but my relief would melt half an hour later—didn't I feel something?—and I'd have no peace until I went and checked again.

I was a little calmer by bedtime, when I still had no show of blood or cramps, but it wasn't until a few more days had passed that I relaxed. And began to understand that I was carrying a child.

The thought would startle me, like a burst of sunlight, warming me and lighting everything with a flash of radiance. But like the sun, it was too bright, too powerful to look at for more than a second at a time. I might think,
there's life inside me!
but the thought would melt before I could grasp it.
It will grow, a separate thing!
might flash through my mind, but then a second later it would be gone, too stunning to hold. The only image I could keep was of me, handing Isaak his baby. I had to laugh at myself, the image was so self-indulgent—in it I looked as beatific as Mary herself—but what satisfied me more was the look on Isaak's face.

But like sunlight, the thought could be wiped out by a cloud. By the memory of that uniform, or the smell of motor oil.

By the end of the third week, Isaak still hadn't written. He might come without a letter, might be here any day now, but on October 7, I prayed he would stay away. Himmler was coming. Of course Isaak knew about this. Of course he did.

We had been preparing for days. The sisters had polished everything that would take a shine, and when I walked down a hallway my reflection—in the mirrors, the candlesticks, the furniture, the floor tiles—was constantly startling me. China rattled and pots banged all morning. Whole chrysanthemum plants lined the lobby, garlanded with green ribbon—green was the
Reichsführer's
favorite color—the scent spicy and dangerous. Frau Klaus snapped at the nurses, the nurses snapped at the Little Brown Sisters, and the Little Brown Sisters snapped at us.

We had cleaned our rooms early in the morning in case Himmler decided to inspect them, and I checked the tape on my bundle every time Leona stepped out. He was to arrive at lunchtime and address us in the dining hall about the importance of proper nutrition. Then he would eat with Dr. Ebers and Frau Klaus in the parlor, which had been set up with the best linens and china, and precisely at 1:30, the naming ceremony was to be held. Notes had been issued to all the mothers instructing them to arrange their babies' naptime so neither their fussing nor their sleeping would insult the
Reichsjührer.
It had been impossible to get into the laundry for days, with the mothers busy washing and ironing their children's best outfits.

By noon we were all in our assigned places. No girl was to be found in the halls when he entered; the women who had already presented Germany with children were given the honor of greeting him in the front lobby, while the rest of us were to be already standing at our places at the table. But as the dining room looked out over the drive, of course all of us were crowded around the windows.

A few moments before twelve, a trio of black Mercedes-Benzes, all flying the SS death's-head flags, spun into the gravel. Four SS officers stepped out of each of the first two cars, and came to attention along the drive, their tall black boots gleaming. The third car was longer and bore the license plate SS1. Two more officers exited that car and opened the doors in back. Three civilians got out: two women and a man. And then Himmler.

There was no mistaking him. He was a small man, made smaller still by the large presence of his uniform and the height of the men surrounding him, but every person was turned toward him, moving with him like a wave as he passed up the walk.

The procession entered the building quickly, and we lost sight of him. We hurried to our places, our hands behind our backs like schoolchildren. Well, pregnant schoolchildren—I suddenly felt flat next to all these rounding bellies. And very dark among these fair women. The chicken breeder would see my heritage.

And then Himmler was in the room. Flanked by a dozen uniformed men and the three civilians we had seen leave the cars, he wasn't visible to us at first. He was the shortest man in the group—smaller even than the women. But the group parted in a practiced deference, and as he walked to the podium at the front of the dining room, every eye was upon him as though pulled by strings.

My first thought was that without the uniform, without the cortege, you would have mistaken this mild-looking man for a clerk. He held his hat at his chest now; his forehead was very high—dark thinning hair swept across the crown of his head. He wore perfectly round glasses which gave him an expression of bewildered surprise, as if he weren't sure how he'd gotten here, and had a tiny clipped mustache—a weak imitation of his
Führer
's. His face was soft and babyish, with a small double chin. The second most powerful man in Germany showed no strength in his face anywhere, and when he spoke, no strength in his voice.

Power that sprang from weakness was to be feared the most—my father had told me that.

"Ladies," he addressed us. "You carry within you our nation's greatest wealth, Germany's future strength. Please sit down." He waited through the bustle of fifty pregnant bodies seating themselves, and then he began flattering them again. "Every war involves a tremendous letting of blood. It is the highest duty of German women and girls of good blood to become mothers, inside or outside the boundaries of marriage, and not irresponsibly, but in a spirit of deep moral seriousness, of children of soldiers going on active service of whom fate alone knows whether they will come back again or die for Germany.... "

He didn't seem to know that there were non-German women in the room. Or, more likely, he didn't care. I couldn't listen. And I couldn't look at him, either—it felt too dangerous. I dropped my gaze to his hat instead. It lay in front of him on the podium: the golden eagle perched on the sweeping crest; a death's-head medallion below it rode a black velvet band—plush and evil.

"And not just one or two!" he was exulting. "Supposing Bach's mother, after her fifth or sixth or even twelfth child, had said, 'That'll do, enough is enough'? The works of Bach would never have been written."

And then he talked about porridge. Porridge!

"You must abandon the absurd belief that eating porridge will rob you of your figures! Besides, one need only look to the English to see that the eating of oatmeal flakes has nothing to do with the weight of persons of quality. Look no further than Lord Halifax, whose slender form is a result of eating those oatmeal flakes called porridge every day..."

I clamped my hands over my mouth and ran from the dining room, through the empty kitchen, and out to the back garden.

I only just made it, vomiting behind a low brick wall. Then I sank to the wall and clutched at my stomach, shaking.

"He has that effect on me, too," came a voice. Then a laugh. Then cigarette smoke, which made me feel ill again.

Sister Ilse, the short dark-haired nurse, stuck her head out from behind a granite buttress beside me, smiling as if we were in on a secret. She drew on her cigarette, then noticed my face. "Sorry," she said, grinding it out with her heel. "Would you like some water?"

I shook my head. "I don't know what happened, I suddenly—"

"Do you feel all right now?"

"Yes. I'll go back in." I stood up, but I swayed.

"No. Just sit down again." She came over and eased me back down, then sat beside me. "You're pale. See this uniform? I'm a nurse, so you must listen to me." From the pocket of her apron, she pulled a handful of wrapped candies and offered me one.

"Thank you." I unwrapped it and put it in my mouth to let the licorice clear the taste of rust. "But I ran out in the middle of the speech—"

"Don't worry. If anyone asks, I'll say I was tending you and wouldn't let you go back in. Besides, morning sickness is perfectly normal, and anything to do with being pregnant is fine around here."

I stared blankly for a moment. Of course.

"Is this your first time?"

I nodded.

Now it was her turn to stare. "How far along are you?"

"Not very," I admitted. "I just thought I'd eaten something bad last night."

"Perhaps you did. But it's more likely morning sickness. You might have it for a week, you might have it all the way through. Water crackers are good. Do you want me to get you some?"

I groaned.

"I know," she said. "But they can help. The thing is to listen to your own body—try different things to find out what helps. Don't let anyone tell you things should be a certain way, or you must do a certain thing. Some of the doctors here forget that having a baby is a perfectly natural thing. Wait here. I'm going to make you some tea."

I leaned back against the white stucco wall and sat with the sun on my face, too weak to go inside even if I'd wanted to. Morning sickness. I smiled a little—
so you're making yourself known already.

Sister Ilse came back with a cup cradled in her hands and passed it to me. Bits of bark were floating in the tea and I looked back at her, suspicious.

"Dried ginger root. Try it, it usually helps. I keep a package in my room. Ask me for it anytime. Apple-peel tea is good, too."

She sat beside me and offered her hand. "I'm Ilse. I've been trying to run into you so I could thank you for last week, in the washroom."

"Anneke." For the first time I wished I could have said my real name.

"You're from the Netherlands. How awful for you in there, listening to that ass go on about precious German blood. And I know how hard it must be to hand your children over to them. Everyone here—the girls, the staff—you must hate us all sometimes."

I looked straight ahead and sipped my tea. It tasted sharp and clean, and it cut through the nausea.

Ilse read my mind. "Don't worry. Everybody's eating by now. Then they'll be in the dayroom with the new mothers. They'll hand out the candlesticks and make a big fuss about the bankbooks, and pretend the babies are the most beautiful they've ever seen." She looked at her watch. "Nobody will come out for at least another hour. Things like this, this ceremony. It must be terrible. I just want you to know that's how I feel sometimes, too."

I edged away.

She turned and measured me, her green eyes pleading for understanding. "You can trust me, Anneke. You won't, though. No one trusts anyone these days. So instead, I'll trust you.

"My father lost his job because he spoke out against the Nazi party. He was a professor of languages at the University in Munich, and he'd traveled all over Europe and the United States lecturing, and was very well respected. Suddenly, about two years ago, his position was no longer needed. The week after, it apparently was needed again, because it was filled. By a good Nazi, of course.

"So my father, my brilliant, decent father, with his two doctorates, is stocking the shelves at a tobacco store at night. And he got that job only because the owner is a friend. And I had to leave the university."

The connection startled me badly. I saw so clearly my father's face just a few months before he sent me away, the night he came home after losing his position at the university, telling us not to worry—he could still teach at a Jewish school—but looking so worried himself. Even picturing him felt dangerous, as if this woman could look into my eyes and see him there. I looked away, making sure there was no one to overhear, then I asked her what she'd been studying.

"Medicine. I was going to be an obstetrician. I was halfway there."

"Ilse, how do you know it's safe to talk to me this way?" I whispered.

"You're Dutch. I'd never talk to the German girls this way. And I'd know if you were a sympathizer. Non-German Nazis are the worst, the most fanatic. It's as if they have to prove themselves or something. I've been here two years and I've met only a few girls from your country who are sympathizers. And you know what? They're just girls in love with their boyfriends, who happened to be Nazis."

We sat for a moment in the quiet sunshine. I finished my tea, then stood up.

"Do you feel better now?"

"I do. The tea helped, thanks."

"Well, I'm not going back in until this whole business is over. You're welcome to sit with me if you'd like."

There was something comforting about this woman. I sat down again. Ilse reached into her pocket and then seemed to change her mind.

"I feel a lot better. It won't bother me now."

She smiled in relief and lit up a cigarette, then offered me her packet. I shook my head—I didn't feel
that
well. She leaned back and inhaled deeply. "My father," she said, her voice lower now. She took another deep pull on the cigarette, then flicked her ash and watched it fall and melt into the grass. "My father hates that man in there. He knew from the beginning, and he was right."

I waited beside her while she stared out over the garden hedge. "Back in '35, he used to say, 'Watch that man. That man is dangerous.' He used to make a joke about it in the very beginning. Himmler was a fertilizer salesman once, did you know that? My father used to say, 'That man is still trying to sell us a load of shit.' But then he stopped joking about it. Because right away, Himmler stopped trying to sell anything. He once said, early on, something like 'We know there are people in Germany who feel ill when they see our black tunics, and that's fine. We don't expect to be liked.' That's the thing, you know. They have no feelings, just this religion of blood."

We sat together, neither of us talking, while she finished her cigarette. Then she stubbed it out with her white nurse's shoe. "Do you know what I hope?"

I shook my head. "What?"

"I hope we lose the war. If we win, we're doomed."

The sound of a window opening not five meters away made us both jump. Then two more a little farther down.