A Woman of War

by Mandy Robotham

  Minna held out a welcome cup of tea, while she and I retreated to the back of the room as Nadia’s mother took her place at her daughter’s side, rubbing her shoulders, murmuring encouragement and telling her she would be a mother soon, and to hold on, keep going. The snow fell onto the dirty panes, and the room grew darker still as the powder weaved a white blind to the world outside. We sipped and waited, while the men smoked downstairs, their anxious mutterings pushing through the floorboards, no laughter or macho chiding until the baby’s cry was free.

  Nadia’s pitch rose and fell over the next hour, and I listened to her and the baby at intervals. Eventually, the slightest of squeaks broke through the peak of a contraction, followed by a split-second grunt, and she descended the mountain of pain again.

  ‘I can’t do it!’ she cried into the air.

  Just as I’d hoped, two pieces of the jigsaw in place. I put down my tea, and moved to her side.

  ‘Nadia, maybe it’s time to take off your knickers. It’s safe. It’s just us.’

  She nodded into her hands and her mother peeled off the flimsy material, wet with a patch of fluid – likely from the waters – centred with a healthy mucousy blood streak. Piece number three.

  The next contraction slotted in number four; at the crest, a groan broke free of her mouth, and a bear-like growl coiled from within this innocent girl, a top-to-toe effort of purging as her buttocks parted, and the purple line above her sacrum rose to signal the baby moving down.

  ‘Mama! Anke! Help me!’ Her distress was muffled as she thrashed her head but couldn’t move it from the mattress.

  ‘Nadia, this is all fine, all normal,’ I whispered, my mouth close to her ear. ‘I think you’re ready to push your baby, but will you let me feel inside, just to make sure?’

  She nodded again. Minna was there instantly with water and gloves. Ideally I wanted Nadia to roll over onto her back, but once there, she might not move again, and her position now was best for the baby’s journey. I slipped my fingers, first one then two into her moist opening, slippery from the body’s own birth jelly, and they stopped sharply at the baby, a hard and stretched buttock filling the entire space and acting exactly like a head. The same sensation had caught me out more than once, so my expectations were still for a bottom first. I circled the bony parts, and felt no cervix, important as we had no idea how big or small this baby might be. If a small rim of cervix remained, the rump might slip through but the bulbous head could be trapped inside, a dangerous – almost always fatal – scenario with scrawny babies.

  I withdrew and turned to Minna, smiling and nodding. She flashed relief to Nadia’s mother, and the whole room let out a communal breath. Minna stoked the fire to busy her hands, and put more water on for tea. I retreated towards the edge of the mattress, as Nadia felt the full force of her body’s commands.

  The baby’s buttocks soon showed themselves, with a telltale crease. Nadia shunted back and forth on her knees uneasily, as if she was working a washboard at the other end, a true sign of her reactions, deep into her own self, crying out to us but not expecting a reaction. There was no chance to listen to the baby now, with the speed of the labour and the position. I had to hold my own breath and trust in the baby’s.

  I beckoned Minna closer, as Nadia’s mother couldn’t bear her own daughter in pain and stood by the kettle, hugging herself.

  ‘When will it come? When?’ Nadia pleaded.

  ‘Soon, Nadia, soon. I can see your baby. It’s very close.’

  Minna began humming softly, something I’d heard in a previous labour, and the air lifted a little, until a contraction took hold and Nadia’s loud cry cloaked over it. In one seamless move she pushed herself back, onto her feet and haunches, and Minna caught and cradled her before she fell backwards. The baby launched forward, the rump fully through, and the legs folded upwards, tiny feet only just held inside Nadia’s strained skin. Facing me, I couldn’t help but see the swollen but unmistakable genitalia of a boy’s bluish plums.

  ‘Beautiful!’ I told her. ‘Nadia, just keep going when your body tells you. You’re nearly there.’ The labour was going much more smoothly than I’d expected, but sweat still pricked at my neck. I did nothing but hold a gloved hand under the buttock, ready to catch if the baby released suddenly. Nadia panted a lion’s breath, ready for the next roar into the world.

  The next contraction was a mighty one. She let fly with her voice upwards, and downwards with courage. By the light of the nearest candle I watched in awe as Nadia pumped her body up and down, her legs muscles taut and wet – the baby’s feet plopped out one by one, then the arms in quick succession, left and right, and the baby’s chin appeared at the opening, as this young but all-knowing mother lowered herself to land the baby onto the mattress. He sat, folded at his midriff, as if wearing his own mother like a little hat. Behind Nadia, Minna’s wide eyes were fixed on mine for clues, and she saw me visibly relax in that split second – if the chin was through, I could be sure the head wasn’t trapped. Minna’s own strength kept Nadia upright and floating, and the whole room existed in a state of suspension.

  As we waited for another contraction, the baby gasped and bucked his legs, as if desperate to suck in air, but I pulled back my voice. I wanted to say, ‘Just give a push, Nadia,’ sweat dripping from me now. It was a crucial time for the breech, still not fully born, the cord being trapped and flattened against the mother’s tight skin. I wanted this baby out – now – but I knew in my mind the time had to be right.

  It was less than a minute but felt like ten. Finally, Nadia opened her eyes, looked at me as if she had caught sight of the devil, and bayed her baby into the world. Released, he flopped forward and rolled onto his side, sparking himself into life before I had a chance to reach him with a towel. The little man was the loudest, but the women in the room joined in with their own joyful noise – theirs with a welcome tone, mine of sheer relief. Seconds later, we heard a whoop below the boards, as the news filtered down to the men.

  There was more tea, interspersed with birthing and checking the placenta, washing and clearing, as the newest resident of this tiny room suckled eagerly at his mother’s breast. Nadia’s face was flushed, a halo of wet hair around her head, beaming with pride and relief. The baby, thankfully, was dark, with tiny, nub nose, no sign of any Aryan features as yet. Nature had mercifully given him the looks of his mother, acceptance into the family being his best chance of survival.

  Almost two hours after the birth I signalled to Minna I was ready to go. After dark, and with the snow now settling, one of the men usually walked me to the perimeter, where a well-hidden entrance into the ghetto pushed me out into the Berlin beyond, so that if I was stopped by a patrol, it was usually only curiosity and not an inquisition I had to deal with. I could easily claim being lost in the afternoon’s weather and the darkness.

  Minna went downstairs to search for one of Nadia’s brothers. I heard a distant rap on the door two floors below, and imagined the news was already out – families would come calling with whatever gifts they could spare. But a thunderous ascent on the wooden stairs sparked sudden alarm, and before I had time to bar the door to any unwelcome guests it was flung open.

  The men who waltzed confidently into the room didn’t just look like Gestapo. They were Gestapo.

  16

  Plans

  April saw a late bloom in events at the Berghof. I was reading on my porch when I recognised the lean frame of Captain Stenz walking towards me. I felt a brief tingle of … was it excitement? Or simply relief at the prospect of real conversation? It was the first time I had seen him since the war summit, and it felt like an age.

  ‘Captain Stenz,’ I said, trying to mask an overenthusiastic greeting.

  ‘Fräulein Hoff.’ He smiled. ‘I assumed I would find you here. You are well?’

  ‘As expected.’

  His eyes, the turquoise shade of my memory, glinted in the light. ‘I’ve just had a brief meeting with Fräulein Braun, and it s
eems there are no problems. The relatives of the Goebbels are also very grateful for your expertise.’

  ‘I did what I would do for any woman, and, to be honest Captain Stenz, it was a change to get away, and to be a midwife again. I know I’ve said it before but I feel very underemployed here – quite useless.’

  He sat down, took off his cap and flattened his blond strands with a lean hand, fixing his pupils on mine. ‘But just having you here – your experience – is vital for keeping everything in—’ he pondered his words carefully ‘—in balance.’ He smiled again, a little crinkle appearing in the corners of his cheeks where I hadn’t noticed it before. ‘Don’t underestimate it, Fräulein Hoff. Your contribution. It certainly makes my life, my work, a lot easier.’

  I was never glad to make this loathsome war any smoother for the Nazi Party, but he did make me feel worthy again. Equally, I hated myself for needing it.

  Mindful of the recent emergency at the Schmidt household, I was keen to discuss details of the birth – the timing of bringing in equipment, and the pain relief I knew Eva was anxious to have on standby. Captain Stenz took copious notes in his black leather book, his script classical and ornate, fitting for an architectural student.

  ‘And the medical staff, when do you think they should arrive and take up their post?’ he said.

  It was a question I hadn’t wanted to address. But Eva would never be allowed to birth halfway up a mountain without medical support, and since I didn’t relish an emergency and a bumpy ride down, with consequences for her or the baby, I had to accept their presence. Given my recent reputation, though, I tested my bargaining power.

  ‘From about thirty-six weeks would be standard,’ I said, ‘but I want to stress that they are to remain outside of the birth room at all times, unless invited in. Really, my preference would be outside the building.’

  ‘Surely, Fräulein Hoff, there is a benefit in having everything on hand, just in case?’ He wore that familiar look of confusion about birth I had seen in countless faces.

  I sat back and smiled. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ I said, ‘especially when I’m talking to someone from your background.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He was sharp. Defensive.

  ‘Well, I don’t know much about architecture, but I assume that when you plan a building, you plan for it to stay upright first and foremost, and you build solid foundations, as a good basis?’

  ‘Yeees.’ He softened at the analogy, though clearly unsure where my argument was heading.

  ‘And you feel sure that your building will be safe and secure because you’ve put all that in place, based on the laws of physics, of science?’

  ‘Yes.’ Still sceptical. He sank back a little further into the chair, perhaps sensing I was playing.

  ‘Well, I work in exactly the same way, except my foundations are rooted within people – experience, intuition, training, protocols. Midwifery is an art much more than it’s a science.’ I leaned back, satisfied I had explained myself.

  ‘But what about the nasty surprises, Fräulein Hoff? What about the fact that babies are humans and that human behaviour cannot always be predicted. After all, look at this wa—’ He stopped abruptly, before we led ourselves into a truly moral battlefield. It was a recurring theme in debates where I defended my unshakable belief in birth.

  ‘And can you tell me, Captain Stenz, that when the last brick is placed on top of your building, you know with absolute certainty – one hundred per cent certainty, mind you – that it won’t topple?’

  ‘Well, nothing in this life is a hundred per cent, but—’

  I leapt in. ‘So what makes you fix that last brick on? If you’re not absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of doubt?’

  ‘I suppose there’s a small amount of faith …’ and he smiled as he said it, conceding defeat. Checkmate. ‘But it’s faith in the science,’ he qualified quickly.

  ‘It’s faith nonetheless,’ I said. ‘In my job, I’m allowed to have a lot of it. And where the faith runs thin, where nature goes sideways, then you have training and protocol.’

  ‘And surely that means equipment, medical staff, back-up plans?’ He was confused again.

  ‘Yes, sometimes, but we don’t assume it will go wrong. Labouring mothers may look, at times, as if the process is awry, as if they are out of control. But they are not. It’s the labour talking, the journey progressing. And that’s always temporary.’

  I sat forward, enjoying the argument. ‘That’s my one and only surety, Captain Stenz. That pregnancy and labour always end. The bits in between, that’s what keeps us on our toes. That’s what I love.’

  He looked genuinely amused. ‘Well, Fräulein Hoff, if what you say is true then we are in good hands, although I don’t pretend to understand.’ He got up, and I was suddenly deflated at his going. ‘It doesn’t fit with the military way of the Reich, of order, or rules—’

  ‘I’m not sure you do either,’ I interrupted.

  He smiled, mouth closed. ‘Perhaps. But I must go and—’ he held up his book of lists ‘—work on your demands.’ He grinned as he turned.

  ‘Ah, one more thing, Fräulein Hoff,’ he said, swivelling back. ‘Were you reassured by the letters from your family?’

  ‘Letters? What letters?’ My heart rate shot up twenty beats.

  He coloured, and his mouth set firmly. ‘I believe some letters have arrived for you. Please excuse me for a moment. Wait here.’

  Without explanation, Captain Stenz strode quickly towards the main house, while my heart bounded in my throat. In minutes, he returned, his neck flushed a cherry red above his tight collar. His hand shot out and presented a small bundle of envelopes – I counted four edges quickly.

  ‘My sincere apologies, Fräulein Hoff,’ he said. ‘I can only think that Sergeant Meier’s memory was not what it should have been. You can be assured that any future correspondence will be forwarded to you as soon as possible.’

  I plucked at the bundle, like a small child snatching a new toy, and immediately pulled them in to my breast, wanting to rip them open there and then and drink in the sentiments. I stopped myself, in time to halt my rudeness and acknowledge his efforts. His body was rigid and starched, I imagined from an angry encounter with his deputy.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You don’t know how much this means. Really.’

  He dropped his head, but stopped short of clicking his heels – he seemed less inclined to do it in my presence.

  ‘Well, good day, Fräulein. Have a good afternoon.’

  ‘Good day, Captain Stenz,’ I said, but I was already turning towards my room. I needed to be contained, to breathe in everything they said, to be in my own world.

  My hands were shaking as I spread the four envelopes out on the bed, cheap paper fashioned into makeshift packages. Two were in my father’s distinctive hand, although a little more spidery than I remembered, two in my mother’s, solid and upright lettering. There was nothing, however, from Franz or Ilse and I didn’t allow myself to guess at the reason.

  Tentatively, I brought each letter out from the envelope and scanned the date. The first, from my father, was dated five weeks before, and the last, from Mama, two weeks ago. As of then, she was alive! I lay back on the bed, hoping the mattress would absorb the nervous pulse of my body, although it did nothing to quell the shake in my hands. The letters were only a page each, as if a maximum number of words had been dictated. My eyes swam, making the ink a scrawl.

  Papa began:

  My darling Anke,

  You can’t imagine how relieved and delighted I was to receive your letter – so unexpected. You sound well, in fair health. I am with some lovely comrades, and we are keeping up our spirits together.

  You would not believe how practical I have become, working all day at my bench – I almost feel like I have a proper job, darling girl, just like you! My chest is holding up, even through the winter, so there is every reason to be cheerful. We can see the sunshine from our workplace, but it wo
uld be nice to glimpse a consistent horizon every so often too. Maybe one day.

  I think of you, my gorgeous one, of all of you, and hope one day we can be reunited – if not at home, then all together. Please, be well, be good.

  I hope to hear from you again.

  All my love, Papa

  I read it through several times, scanning for hidden messages. He was in a men’s camp – he only used the word ‘comrade’ in the male sense – and there was no mention of my mother, so they were not together and – I had to assume – hadn’t been for some time. Clearly, he was in a labour camp doing some type of factory work, which quietened my nerves a little. Our agreed code – talk of smooth or rocky horizons – told me he was surviving, and he was pleading for me to ‘be good’, to follow the rules, to stay alive. Most of all, Papa’s tone was reassuring; his old tenacity about politics had transferred itself into survival. He hadn’t given up.

  The next letter, date-wise, was from Mama. She relayed the same sort of messages, of being in a packed hut of women with many new sisters, but her tone smacked of being alone, without her family, until she wrote: Ilse is well and sends her love. I still have to chide her about trying to protect her wheezing chest but you know your sister! We are both working hard, but managing to rest also.

  So Ilse was alive, and they were together! It seemed almost a miracle, but then when I thought about the night we were all taken, they would have been together. Men and women were automatically separated, but not necessarily female relatives. It had been common in my camp to see mothers and daughters spooned into each other on the bed racks, feeding off each other’s heat, those children old enough to work, teenagers usually, with bodies like chiselled stone from the heavy lifting of machinery around the factory.

  While Papa had chosen his words carefully to avoid the censor, Mama’s naturally emotive style had attracted a few black marks. I held the tissue-like paper up to the light in the hope of seeing through, but the Reich’s black stain was foolproof to the naked eye.