The Blind Side of the Heart

by Unknown

  You must breathe, breathe, keep breathing. The midwife’s voice sounded curiously distorted. She was breathing.

  You can do it, come on, come on, you can do it. Now the midwife took on the commanding tone of an officer. Helene wished she hadn’t gone to the hospital. She didn’t like this nurse and her military tone. Come on, come on, again, and again, stop, stop. Can’t you hear me? You must stop. Stop pushing. Now the officer was angry too. Helene ignored her orders, she could have her baby any way she liked, it was no business of the officer’s. Breathe, breathe deeply, that was good, and push, of course, push, push, push. The midwife felt her vagina with her hands, and it scratched as if she were digging her nails into the soft flesh, the soft, indeterminate, stretchable flesh. What was the officer doing with her hands? There was pressure on her gut, such pressure that Helene felt sure the midwife would catch nothing but excrement. Blood and faecal matter in the officer’s hands. This was no time to feel ashamed, she must breathe.

  Now the officer slapped her on the arm, took hold of her. Stop it, you must stop pushing or you’ll tear yourself wide open.

  Helene heard this, yet didn’t hear it; what if she did tear herself wide open, what did she care? Let what had to tear her do it, let what wanted to tear her have its way, there’d be something left, she must get her baby out. Helene breathed deeply, a good pain, only why did it hurt so much? No, she’d meant to ask that question, she felt her tongue ready against her gums, but she wouldn’t ask it, she didn’t want anyone marvelling at her, ever.

  Keep breathing! The military officer was obviously losing her nerve. Scream if you must, go on, now push, yes.

  The yes was spoken quickly, the officer’s hands moved fast, the doctor pulled something out between Helene’s thighs, there was a squelching sound. The doctor nodded. Here came the head.

  The head? Is the head out? Helene couldn’t grasp it. She felt something thick between her legs, something that wasn’t part of her any more, she felt it for the first time, not inside her now, her baby’s body, hers. The doctor took no notice of her. Helene put her hand down to feel. She wanted to touch the little head. Was that hair, the baby’s hair?

  Hands off! Helene’s arm was yanked away, someone was holding her wrist in a tight grip. You just keep on breathing, do you hear? The officer was intervening. And push when the next pain comes. Take a deep breath, breathe in, now. Helene would have had to take a deep breath even without the officer’s commands.

  It slipped out all in one movement. The midwife caught it skilfully in her hands.

  Her baby was here. What did it look like? Was it grey, was it alive? It was taken away at once. Was it breathing, had it cried? It was crying. Helene heard her baby crying and wanted to hold it tight. Helene turned, trying to catch a glimpse. The nurses’ brown and white aprons were in the way, all she saw was their backs. The baby was being washed, weighed and dressed.

  My baby, whispered Helene. Tears were running from her eyes; she saw the nurses’ overalls and the midwife’s. My baby. Helene was happy. The midwife came back and told her to press down again.

  What, again?

  I thought you were a nurse.

  But why again? Is there another one too?

  The afterbirth, Frau Sehmisch. Now, give a proper push, Frau Sehmisch. Helene knew that meant her. She did as she was told.

  She had to wait for ever before they brought her the baby. Three and a half kilos, a fine little thing. The maternity nurse handed Helene the little bundle. Helene looked at her child, the folded slits for eyes, a tiny mouth, a furrow above the nose, a deep one, and little dots on the nose itself. The baby was crying. Helene held it close. My little one, my dear little girl, said Helene. What lovely long black hair she had, how silky and smooth her hair was.

  You have to hold the head like this. The maternity nurse adjusted Helene’s hand. Helene knew how to hold a baby, the nurse telling her made no difference. Let her knead and press her hand. Nothing and no one could touch Helene’s happiness.

  Are you going to breastfeed him?

  Helene looked at the nurse in amazement. Him?

  Yes, your son, are you going to breastfeed your son?

  It’s a boy? Helene looked at the grey little face. Her baby opened his mouth and yelled, going dark red. Helene hadn’t expected this. She had never thought of a boy, it was always going to be a girl.

  Make up your mind now, or we’ll give him a bottle.

  I’ll breastfeed, of course. Helene opened her nightdress to put the baby to her breast, but once again the military officer intervened.

  Here, this is the way to do it. The officer took hold of Helene’s breast roughly, with two fingers, and stuffed it into the baby’s mouth. There, like that, see? You must take care the baby’s lying properly. And whether you’ll be able to keep going with those breasts of yours, well, we’ll see.

  Helene knew at once what the officer meant. Her breasts had become large and plump over the last few months, in a way that Helene had never dreamed they could be, but still only relatively large. Compared to the breasts of other new mothers they were small, even tiny. Helene knew that.

  The baby at her breast swallowed and breathed heavily through his tiny nose. He had attached himself firmly to her breast, he was sucking, tickling her, and sucking in a way that put pressure on her, he was sucking for his life. The baby didn’t open his mouth, but sucked so hard that Helene wondered if he had teeth already.

  Name? Someone had come up to Helene’s bed. Why was the military officer so stern? No doubt she had a lot of work to do, there must be reasons. Perhaps Helene had done something wrong. What a humiliation, a nurse lying here in a hospital.

  Name?

  Sehmisch. Alice Sehmisch.

  Not your name, we’ve got that. What’s your son going to be called?

  Helene looked at her child breathing through his nose and sucking at her breast as if to suck her up entirely. What delicate, pretty hands he had, tiny little fingers, all those folds, the thin skin, his hand was clutching her forefinger as if it were a branch and he must cling to it at all costs. How could she give him a name? He didn’t belong to her, what presumption to give a child a name. When she didn’t have a name herself any more, or at least not the one that had been given to her at birth for her lifetime. Well, he could call himself something else later if he liked. That made Helene feel better. And she said: Peter.

  Only when the nurse had gone away did she whisper to her baby: This is me, your mother. The child blinked, he had to sneeze. How Helene would have loved to show him to Martha and Leontine. Didn’t he look like a girl? My little angel, whispered Helene to his cheek and stroked his long, soft hair.

  Wilhelm came home before Christmas. They had sent telegrams in the meantime. He was not surprised that she had had her baby. A boy. Wilhelm nodded; he had expected no less. Peter? Why not? She ought to feed the boy properly, he told her, a few hours after arriving. The baby was hungry, didn’t she hear him crying? And why did it smell like this in the apartment, was it the baby’s nappies, he asked, and his eye fell on the yellow-stained nappies hanging on a line to dry. What’s the matter with you, have you forgotten how to wash clothes? Can’t you see those nappies are still dirty?

  They won’t come any cleaner, said Helene, thinking that if the sun would shine she could have bleached them in the sunlight. But it hardly got light outside all day; it had been snowing for weeks.

  When little Peter cried at night and Helene got up to take him into bed with her, Wilhelm said, with his back turned to her: You’re coddling yourself, if you ask me. Go and sit in the kitchen if you must feed him. A working man needs his sleep.

  Helene obeyed his order. She sat in the cold kitchen with her baby and fed him there until he went to sleep. But as soon as she put him back in his little basket he woke up again and cried. After two hours she slipped into the bedroom, exhausted. Wilhelm’s voice came out of the dark. Get that baby to shut up or I’m leaving again tomorrow.

  Not
all babies sleep through the night.

  You know best, I suppose, do you? Wilhelm turned round and shouted at her. You listen to me, Alice, I’m not having you tell me what’s what.

  In the dark, Helene dabbed the spray of his spit off her face. Had she ever tried to tell him what was what?

  It’s time you were back at work, he said more calmly as he turned his back to her again. We can’t afford any parasites.

  Helene looked at the window. There was only a faint glimmer of light behind the curtain. Wilhelm began snoring, in a strange, chopped sort of way. Who was this man in bed with her? Helene told herself he was probably right. Perhaps she was too used to her baby’s crying to tell when he was hungry. Her milk wasn’t enough for him, yes, he must be hungry, that was it. She must get some milk in the morning. The poor child; if only he’d go to sleep. Peterkin, whispered Helene, who usually disliked pet names, Peterkin. Her lips moved soundlessly. Her lids were heavy.

  When Helene woke up her left breast hurt. It was hard as stone, and a red mark was spreading on the skin. She knew what those symptoms meant. So she went over to the basket, took her Peterkin out, carried him into the kitchen and put him to the breast. Peterkin’s mouth snapped shut on it, it was like having a knife thrust into her breast, stabbing, boring, red-hot, the pain stopped her thinking. Helene gritted her teeth; her face was glowing. Peterkin wouldn’t suck, he kept turning his head away, gasping for air rather than milk, spitting and crying, clenching his little fists and writhing.

  What’s the matter now? Wilhelm was standing in the doorway looking down at Helene and her baby. Can you tell me what this is all about? His indignant look fixed on her breast. The baby is crying, Alice, and you just sit here, you’ve probably been sitting here for weeks letting him go hungry, have you?

  Should she say it? I’m not making him cry. Little Peterkin was bellowing now, his face was red and a white mark showed round his mouth.

  Turned mute on me, eh? You’re not going to let the baby starve, are you? Here. Wilhelm gave her a banknote. Get dressed at once, go out and buy milk and feed him, understood?

  Helene had understood. Her breast was throbbing, the pain was so terrible that she felt sick and could hardly take in Wilhelm’s orders. She would do as he said, of course, she would simply obey him. She put the baby down on the bed and dressed herself. Without looking at Wilhelm, Helene wrapped a blanket round her baby, picked up the bundle and went downstairs with Peter in her arms.

  Your eyes look quite glazed, said the grocer’s wife, do you have a fever, Frau Sehmisch?

  Helene tried to smile. No, no.

  She took the bottle of milk and the little pot of curd cheese and climbed upstairs with the crying baby. Halfway up she had to stop. Her discharge hadn’t quite dried up, the pain in her breast made decisions impossible. She put down the milk and curd cheese, and laid the baby in his blanket on the steps. Helene went to the lavatory on the landing. When she came out again she saw the cheerful face of their new neighbour, who had opened her door and was putting her head round it. Can I help you?

  Helene shook her head and said no. She picked up the bundle of baby and went on up the stairs. As she passed her neighbour, the name on the door caught her eye. Kozinska. It was easiest to notice unimportant things just now. Kozinska, her new neighbour was called Kozinska.

  Once she had climbed the stairs she saw that Wilhelm already had his coat on. He had to go out to Pölitz to see how the work was getting on, he said, and she wasn’t to wait up for him. Helene put the baby in his basket and warmed up the milk. She put the milk in a little bottle that had never held anything but tea until this morning, made a compress of curd cheese to cool her breast and fed the baby. By the afternoon her body felt so hot and heavy that she could hardly stand up to get down to the half-landing. She could tell that the baby had wind, the result of the milk and all that crying, swallowing air, but he would soon be full, she was sure, fed and happy. There was no part of her body that Helene could lie on now, her skin itched, she was so thin that she felt the sheet was rubbing her harshly and the air made her itch, she wished she could be out of her skin. Helene was freezing, shaking, there were beads of sweat on her forehead. Once an hour she got up, her legs shaking, and went to make a new compress. She was so weak that she could hardly wring out the cloths and nappies. The fever stayed with her overnight. Helene was glad that Wilhelm didn’t come home. She wanted to put the baby to her breast again, but he twisted and turned and screamed, biting her hard, hot breast. He cried indignantly.

  Helene bottle-fed her baby. At first he was still indignant and brought up curdled milk, almost choking, the milk was still too hot and then quickly got cold. Helene gritted her teeth. He would drink, she was sure he would, he wasn’t going to starve to death. Her inflammation went down, so did the swelling of her breast, and a week later it was not quite all right yet, not entirely, but almost. However, when the inflammation passed off her breast milk had dried up. Wilhelm thought that he had taken care of everything. There was just the question of her work, which he wanted to get cleared up before he had to set off for Frankfurt early in the New Year. Wilhelm went to the Municipal Hospital in the Pommerensdorfer district with Helene.

  Yes, we can certainly employ your wife, the personnel manager told Wilhelm. You know, she added, we can’t motivate half as many nurses to come and work here as we need. And we’ve just had to dismiss one. A Polish nurse, mixed race in the second degree, they’re supposed to nurse only their own kind. Your wife’s family records, her certificate of Aryan descent, excellent, you’ve brought it all with you. We can make out a certificate of health for her here. The personnel manager looked at Helene’s papers.

  Only when she showed Wilhelm and Helene to the door did the woman see the pram standing by the cellar stairs outside the building. I suppose the child’s grandmother will be looking after him?

  Wilhelm and Helene looked at the pram. We’ll find someone, said Wilhelm with his confident smile. The personnel manager nodded and closed her door. Helene pushed the pram. Wilhelm strode along beside her. He seemed to take it for granted that he would not go straight back to his car and instead walked to the suburb of Oberwiek with Helene and the baby. The water of the Oder was grey, the wind ruffled it into waves. Wilhelm looked at his watch and announced, glancing back in the direction of his car, that he would have to start straight out now, he was expected in Berlin that afternoon. He was sure the tram would come along soon, she could manage to get back on her own, couldn’t she? Helene nodded.

  The baby’s fine, gleaming dark hair had gradually fallen out in his first months of life, until his little head was bald and a pale gold down began to grow on it. It turned into golden curls, he was golden blond like Helene. According to her conditions of employment, Helene was to work sixty hours a week in shifts, but in fact it was more than that. She had a day off every other week. She collected her child from Frau Kozinska and would have a nursery school place for him when he reached his third birthday. She was glad of that, because quite often, when she had knocked on Frau Kozinska’s door, no one had opened it and she could hear her son crying behind the locked door, calling Mother, Mother, and sometimes calling for his auntie, as he called Frau Kozinska. Then Helene had to wait outside the door because Frau Kozinska had just popped out to do some shopping, and sometimes it was an hour before she came back.

  When Helene first took him to the nursery school the teacher asked: What is your little boy’s name? Helene looked at his golden corkscrew curls lying softly on his shoulders.

  Peter. She had never yet cut his hair.

  Well, we’ll look after your son, said the teacher in friendly tones. Such a pretty little boy.

  Helene would have to cut his hair now. The teacher stroked Peter’s head and took his hand.

  Helene followed them for a couple of steps, crouched down and kissed Peter’s cheek. She hugged him. He was crying and holding tight to her with his little arms.

  I’ll soon be back, Helene p
romised. I’ll come for you after supper.

  Peter shook his head. He didn’t believe her. He didn’t want to stay here, he screamed, he clung to her with tears flowing from his eyes and bit her arm to make her either stay or take him with her. Helene had to conjure up a smile quickly and stand up straight to shake him off, turn her back and hurry out. She mustn’t cry in front of Peter. That made it even more difficult.

  When Helene collected him, he gave her a strange look. Where were you, Mother? he asked.

  Helene was thinking of the injured nurse from Warsaw who had lost both her legs. She had been brought in only a few days ago and was the first of the war wounded that Helene saw. Her lymph nodes had swollen all over her body, and in many places she had the copper-coloured nodules typical of the condition. They had developed into large papules in the folds of her skin. Helene had to wear gloves and a protective mask over her mouth when she was treating the nurse’s sores, because the papules were already weeping and could be infectious. It was lucky that the patient’s skin was not itching. Thanks to the Prontosil antibiotic, the stumps of her legs were healing well, but her heart muscle wasn’t used to her lying down for a long time, with poor circulation of the blood as a result, and she suffered from insomnia. Medical opinion was that antibiotics might perhaps be useful in treating syphilis too.

  Where were you, Mother? Helene heard Peter ask. They were sitting side by side in the tram. Should she tell him she’d been to the observatory or the butterfly house, make up a pretty story? But that would make it even harder for him to understand why she’d left him for twelve hours.

  Mother, say something. Why don’t you say anything?

  I’ve been at work, said Helene.

  Doing what? Peter tugged her sleeve and she wished he would stop it. Doing what?

  Couldn’t he give her any peace, must he always be asking questions? Don’t ask so many questions, Helene told Peter.