‘Twenty.’
He nodded.
‘And a half,’ she added.
‘And you wish to keep the child?’
This time it was she who nodded. ‘Yes, very much, Doctor.’
‘You understand that you will in all likelihood have to leave the convent? I expect that Sister Milgitha will not allow you to stay.’
‘I do know that. Could I ask you to stick around for a short while after informing her? I’m not sure how she’ll . . .’
He nodded sympathetically.
‘I’ll give her the news in your presence. Is that what you want?’
‘Yes, please, Doctor. Thank you.’
He placed the Bible back on the table, ran his fingers over the cover and then stood up.
‘Dr Hoppe?’
He turned towards her.
‘You’re Victor’s father, aren’t you? Victor Hoppe? You . . . I’ve seen you sitting with him a few times.’
‘That’s right. Victor’s father - yes, I am.’ Avoiding her gaze, he fixed his eyes on a spot somewhere above her head.
‘Doctor . . .’ She had a moment’s hesitation. ‘Doctor, Victor is not feeble-minded. He really isn’t at all.’
The abbess asked him if he would help get rid of the child, if that was what Sister Marthe’s parents wished. Her request did not register straight away, because he was busy struggling with some questions of his own. Was it true, what Sister Marthe had told him? - that Victor could speak? that Victor knew how to read?
On the way to the abbess’s office, striding through the convent’s hollow corridors, he tried to decide whether the girl had spoken the truth. The conclusion he came to was that she had no reason to lie, especially now that she was about to be expelled. He had asked her how it was that he had never noticed any of this, and she’d explained that it was difficult to get through to Victor - that it was a matter of trust. That had felt like a dagger to his heart.
When the abbess repeated the request, and her words finally sank in, he objected immediately. ‘She wants to keep the child. Whatever the consequences.’
‘She is too young to make that decision herself.’
‘She is twenty years old!’ he shouted, louder than he’d intended.
‘She is still a novice, Doctor. Her parents aspire to her becoming a fully fledged nun. That is why I am asking you again: can you help us?’
He shook his head, slowly at first, then more and more vehemently. At the same time he decided that he would not mention what Sister Marthe had told him about his son.
Trust. The word came into his head again. The abbess had never managed to win Victor’s trust; nor had he. That was the conclusion he arrived at as he stared at her. And listened to her. That was why Victor had never spoken. And because he hadn’t spoken, he had been classified as feeble-minded. Just because of that.
He pushed his chair back and stood up, still shaking his head. He wanted to rail at the abbess, to vent his intensifying anger, but he couldn’t, because his rage was aimed, above all, at himself. How in God’s name could he have committed such a great wrong, and done this to his son?
The grey woman and her helper were from Aachen. They were instructed not to ask any questions and just get on with the job. That was the arrangement Sister Milgitha had made with them. They were paid more money for their silence than for the task they had been assigned.
Lotte Guelen, quite unaware, was sitting in her cell in her underwear. A few minutes earlier, the abbess had ordered her to take off her habit and hand it over. It had felt as if she were taking off a heavy yoke. It’s finally over, she’d thought to herself. Sister Marthe was dead and Lotte Guelen had been resurrected in her place. Sister Milgitha had left the room without saying a word. Lotte expected the abbess had gone to fetch her street clothes and asked herself if they’d still fit.
When the abbess returned, she wasn’t alone. She was with two other women, one of whom was grey from top to toe. The apron. The eyes. The hair. And the face. As if she had smeared her skin with ashes beforehand.
Lotte caught sight of the grey woman, and she knew. She screamed. But Sister Milgitha immediately clamped a hand over her mouth. With the other hand she gave Lotte’s chest a push, so that she landed flat on her back. The two women then tied her to the bed with a leather strap. She tried to resist, but it was three against one. Her wrists were tied down too. The grey woman yanked her legs apart and the other woman tied her ankles to the sides of the bed. Then they propped a pile of plump pillows under her bottom, so that her pelvis was pushed upwards. Her knickers were cut away with a pair of scissors. She shut her eyes. She didn’t see the long needle the grey woman took out of her bag.
‘Do it quickly,’ Sister Milgitha had instructed the grey woman at the outset.
As the needle was inserted, Lotte bit into the towel covering her mouth to take the edge off the pain. The abbess’s fingernails dug deep into her right cheek.
The grey woman held apart the novice’s labia with one hand, and with her other hand she prodded the needle about. Luck was on her side. It took only a couple of pokes to hit the mark. She nodded at her assistant, who held out the towel to receive the bundle.
Sister Milgitha caught a fleeting glimpse of the foetus, which was much larger than she’d expected. But what startled her even more was that it already looked so human.
When she saw the grey woman gazing at her, she quickly looked away. ‘Take it and bury it somewhere,’ she said.
At the end of that day Lotte came to see Victor. She was wearing her habit again and whispered something in his ear. Then she pressed her lips to the top of his head and said a few more words. She left without looking back.
‘It’s gone, Victor. The baby’s gone. I’m sorry.’
That was the first thing she’d said. And then, after the kiss, she’d said, ‘God giveth and God taketh away, Victor. But not always. There are times when it’s up to us. Remember that always.’
Those were the last words he ever heard her say. The next morning, his father took him home.
The date was 23 January 1950.
He had two options: either give two lives, or take two lives away. That was the dilemma Victor Hoppe was wrestling with during the month of April 1979, as congratulations from his fellow researchers, who had read his article in Science, came pouring in by post and telegram.
Either he could allow the foetuses to develop, or he could abort the pregnancy. That was something he had never done before. He had never taken a life. That was why he was so desperately torn. From the moment he had started on his doctoral research, his mission had always been to create life. That had always been the challenge. That he might make the ultimate decision about life. Not about death.
The envelope with the University of Aachen logo caught his notice. The card inside was from a professor he did not know, a certain Rex Cremer, dean of the Faculty of Biomedical Studies. The message was also one of congratulations, but it was different from the others. There was one line that had caught his eye:
You have certainly beaten God at his own game.
Rex Cremer had meant it as a joke. The divine comparison was supposed to be a way of snagging Dr Hoppe’s attention. He’d assumed that his colleague would understand he was being ironic. Not for a minute did he think that he might take it any other way.
The telephone conversation he had with him on 15 April 1979, caused him to rethink that assumption.
‘Dr Hoppe, this is Rex Cremer from the University of Aachen.’ Here he paused deliberately, to give the doctor time to recognise the name.
His reaction, however, was instantaneous. ‘Dr Cremer, thank you for your card.’
He was pleasantly surprised. ‘You’re welcome. You deserve it.’
‘But it isn’t really true,’ he heard the doctor say, almost as a reproach.
‘What isn’t really true?’
‘What you wrote. That I’ve beaten God at his own game.’
‘Oh, that? It was only—�
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‘God would never have done it.’
Rex was confused. It was as if he had dialled the wrong number, but the person on the other end of the line wasn’t aware of it.
‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘Just that your comparison does not apply here. You have arrived at the wrong conclusion.’ The doctor was speaking in a rather patronising tone, which made the dean feel as if he were a student again. A mediocre student, at that. Victor was often to make him feel that way.
‘God would never have attempted such a thing,’ Dr Hoppe continued in the same tone of voice, ‘He would never have tried to create offspring from two female or two male animals. Therefore I have not beaten Him at his own game.’
There wasn’t a shred of irony in his voice, and that, too, irritated Cremer. ‘I hadn’t really thought of it that way,’ he said, careful not to betray his annoyance. ‘But the reason I was calling—’
‘Of course, we should not overestimate Him, either,’ Dr Hoppe brusquely interrupted.
‘No, of course not,’ Cremer responded diplomatically, wondering if the doctor was drunk.
‘Because if we overestimated Him, we’d be underestimating ourselves, ’ Dr Hoppe went on, imperturbable. ‘That is the mistake a great many researchers tend to make. They impose limits on themselves. They decide before they even start what can and what can’t be done. And if something is deemed impossible, they simply accept it as such. But sometimes that which appears to be impossible is merely difficult. It’s just a matter of persevering, isn’t it?’
‘And that, happily, is what you have done.’ The dean had finally found an opening that let him get to the point he had wanted to make from the outset. ‘That, among other things, is why I would like to invite you to come and talk to us. The university would like to offer you a research chair, for an indefinite period. We would very much like you to continue your research under our roof, in the Embryology Department, where you earned your doctorate.’
There was silence at other end of the line.
‘Your former professors still sing your praises. They would very much like to see you return. We also have several excellent new biologists on our staff, and I’m sure you will find some splendid collaborators among them.’
‘I prefer to work alone,’ was the curt answer.
Cremer thought for a moment. ‘That could certainly be taken into consideration. The most important thing is that you agree to come and work for us. Could we make a date to meet?’
‘Now is not a good time. Please give me a while to think it over. I’ll give you a ring later in the week. Is that acceptable?’
‘That’s fine. Let me give you my direct line.’ Rex repeated his phone number twice, and ended the conversation by assuring Victor that he would look forward to his call, even though he wasn’t entirely certain of that.
She thought she was having a chorionic-villi test. At least, that was what Dr Hoppe had told her. The test would allow him to see if the twins in her stomach had Down’s syndrome. If they were mongoloid. She’d never heard of this test before, but he told her it was relatively new.
The doctor had carefully explained that he would pass some narrow tongs through the vagina and cervix to take a sample of placental tissue. She might feel a little pain, but he would mitigate that by administering a topical anaesthetic. By examining the tissue sample’s chromosomes he would be able to determine whether both children were healthy. Or not.
‘And if they aren’t . . . ?’
‘In that case we’ll see,’ the doctor had replied, and quickly changed the subject. He talked about the risks associated with the test. There was a small chance of a miscarriage. Later on. A very small chance. Nothing to worry about.
The woman remembered all this as she lay down on the examination table, slipping her ankles into the stirrups. At the doctor’s request, her friend had stayed in the waiting room. It wouldn’t take long, he had reassured her. They would have preferred to be together during the procedure, but neither had the nerve to protest.
‘You’ll just feel a little pinch,’ she heard him say.
She could not see him. Her stomach and nether parts were hidden by a green sheet; the doctor was parked on a stool on the other side.
The sting sent a mild shock through her entire body. When it eased, she gave a sigh of relief. Then, suddenly, she felt something cold on her stomach. The gel for the ultrasound, she realised. She couldn’t see the ultrasound’s screen either. But she didn’t mind, because she didn’t really want to see what was happening inside her. The sounds she heard were bad enough: the buzzing and clicking of the ultrasound, the clatter of the doctor rummaging through a drawer of metal instruments, the creaking of his stool, his breath.
Now he was moving the probe across her belly. When he stopped at a certain spot and held it there, she wanted to ask him if he could see them - the twins. And if they were OK. But before she could say anything, he said, ‘Please hold your breath for a few seconds. It won’t take long.’
She took in a few gulps of air and clamped her lips shut. Notwithstanding the local anaesthetic, she could feel something cold entering her. She balled her fists and dug her nails deep into the palms of her hands.
He began moving the probe over her stomach again, in small, circular motions. His breathing was agitated. He was inhaling and exhaling through his mouth, which made it sound as if he were panting after some exertion. Then his hand stopped again.
It’s going to happen now, she thought, and clenched her jaw.
Nothing did happen, however. Perhaps she simply hadn’t felt it, she thought at first. But a few seconds later, when she finally had to gasp for air, it occurred to her that she couldn’t even hear him panting any more. She waited a few seconds more, not wanting to startle him, and then asked hoarsely, ‘Doctor, is something wrong?’
There was no response.
‘Doctor?’
Then suddenly everything happened at once. She heard a stool creak, and at the same time the probe was lifted from her stomach and the cold instrument was pulled out of her. There was some clattering of dishes, and then she saw the doctor rush out of the room.
He couldn’t do it. He had been this close. But just as he’d been about to cut the conjoined foetuses apart, in order to pull them out of the womb piece by piece, something had stopped him - as if someone had grabbed his wrist and yanked his arm away.
Then he had stormed out, mortified, leaving the woman lying there in that uncomfortable position. He darted into the bathroom, peeled off his latex gloves and washed his hands for a long time. He stared into the mirror. Because he had not taken the time to shave all week, his jaw sported a sparse beard and he was suddenly struck by how much he looked like his father.
He went on staring at himself in the mirror. At the red hair. At the nose. At the scar on his upper lip.
And it was then, in that very instant, that the idea must have sprung into his mind. It wasn’t more than a flicker, but it was enough to spark the fire that would shortly turn into a blaze.
When he finally returned to the woman’s side, he had no idea how long he had left her lying there. She had stayed in the exact same position, as if she’d been afraid that if she stirred, even slightly, it might somehow harm the twins.
As soon as he walked in, she asked him what was going on. He answered that he had felt faint. It wasn’t even a lie.
Then she asked him if everything was still all right. And if the procedure had worked. He lied twice in reply.
Helping her off the table, he told her to expect the results in a week. He had already told himself that at that point he would tell her the truth about what was growing inside her. Not about what he had been on the point of doing. That didn’t matter any more. He was already beyond that, in his mind. Way beyond that.
The women returned three days later, visibly shaken, and after another ultrasound there was nothing he could do but confirm their worst fears. One of them burst into tear
s, and the whole story came pouring out in one breathless rush, to make the doctor understand that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it.
It had started with a bad stomach ache, and she had sat on the toilet and started straining, she said. She had not had a bowel movement in days and her intestines had suddenly just let go, in one lengthy, drawn-out convulsion. There had been a stench she had never smelled before, which had made her gag, and before wiping herself she had flushed the toilet, to make sure whatever had been inside her was expelled down the drain as quickly as possible.
Did he understand?
Afterwards she had wiped herself and flushed the toilet a second time, still without looking, her eyes clenched shut, because she was so disgusted at herself. Then she’d stood up, and the pain in her belly had been as bad as before, and that was why she thought her bowels weren’t quite empty yet, and so she had pushed again, because she thought the pain would go away if she just managed to . . .
Did the doctor understand?
And she had had another bowel movement and, again, the overpowering stench, and in the end, in the end, it was possible she might have felt something else leaving her body, out of another orifice, but then, everything down there hurt so much that she really didn’t know what was coming out of where, and so she had flushed it all down the drain, because she never thought that there could have been . . .
‘Do you understand what I’m telling you, Doctor ?’
Again she had cleaned herself with reams of toilet paper, and she had flushed all the paper in several batches too, with her head turned away, still revolted at herself, and then she had stood up to pull up her pants and had noticed that the pain was gone, and it was only then, only then that she’d seen the blood pouring down the insides of her thighs, and had looked down at the toilet bowl where everything that had come out of her with such force had now vanished.
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