by Sylvia True
Mia finished her bottle and sat up. She was as glorious as Inga had described. Sabine pulled a few toys from her bag.
“Can she sit on the floor?” Sabine asked.
“Of course, if she likes.”
Mia sat sturdily as Sabine surrounded her with a doll, some blocks, and a wooden cow.
With the baby settled, Sabine sat again. “The day after Omama died, I found a letter addressed to you in her hotel room. I sent it right away.”
“Thank you,” Arnold said. “I received it, and she wrote about you and the baby. How well you recovered, which I can see for myself.”
“Yes, I’m good. I think.” She dipped her head, and Arnold felt his heart flutter. There was something in her movement, something he couldn’t place.
“Did you know my grandmother before the war, in Germany?” she asked.
“I did.” He smiled again, wanting to show her that she could ask whatever she liked. “We knew each other quite well during that time.”
Sabine looked out of the window, then turned back to him. “Did you know her sister?”
He nodded slowly. “I did know her, yes,” he said carefully. “I am surprised that you have heard of her.”
“My grandmother told me. She thought it would help me.” “And did it?” he asked softly.
Sabine hesitated. “Yes. I guess it made sense. My life that is. Everything seemed to fit. To sort of click into place.” She glanced at the baby. “Did you know Rigmor when she was sick?”
It felt strange and perhaps a bit wrong to speak of this when Inga had always asked that they not speak of it, yet it was in a sense Inga who was now providing the direction. She had opened the door.
“I did know her.” Arnold paused. “In fact, I was a doctor, a psychiatrist, and although Rigmor was not a patient, I did in some ways oversee her treatment.”
“What was wrong with her?” Sabine asked, her voice a whisper.
He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, the room dimmed as clouds obscured some of the light. “If I were to look with a modern-day lens, I would say she suffered from depression with some psychosis.”
“That’s what I was diagnosed with,” Sabine said.
“If I may ask, did they put you on a suitable medication?”
“Yes, you can ask. And yes, they did. I didn’t even know it was possible to feel as good as I feel now. If I look back, I probably had depression for most of my life.”
“It is often the case. But thankfully, you seem well now and very capable. The way you manage the baby. Are you here on your own?”
“I’m actually living in Arlesheim. In Omama’s chalet. She left it to my mother, who is coming soon to decide what to do with it. But I’m sure I’ll be here for at least six months. I took a job working at the home for disabled children.”
“Arlesheim is lucky to have you,” Arnold said. “For however long you decide to stay.”
“Thanks,” she replied. “Can I,” she began and paused. “I mean, can I ask more about Rigmor?”
“I think that’s what your grandmother would want,” he told her, surprised by how sure he was of this.
“Did she die in Germany?”
“Yes. She had an operation, and from that she got an infection that didn’t respond well to the medicine they gave her.”
“Was it an operation from being sterilized?” Sabine asked, lowering her gaze.
“It was.” He rested his good hand over his lame one.
“I think Omama felt guilty, like she should have done something differently.”
He glanced out the window. It had begun to rain. “Your grandmother had nothing to feel guilty about. I can assure you of that.”
Arnold remembered Rigmor lying on her bed, begging for the pain to stop. “In the end, Rigmor suffered greatly. No one should have to be in that sort of agony. Your grandmother was there in those final hours. She was a great comfort.”
The rain passed. Sabine glanced out at the roses. The yellow ones seemed to be looking directly into the window.
“Omama was a comfort to me too.” She dipped her head again. This time Arnold recognized the gesture. It was exactly like Rigmor’s. “I wasn’t very nice to her at first.”
He smiled. “Your grandmother wasn’t always easy. But she cared deeply about the people she loved. She was so happy to see that baby of yours.”
Sabine looked up, startled, as if she’d just thought of something.
“What is it?” Arnold asked.
“Was Rigmor married?”
“No,” he answered.
“Did she have a baby?”
He hesitated. “She did. But the child died.”
“No,” Sabine whispered. “Omama asked me to tell you. It was the last thing she said. ‘The baby didn’t die. Tell Arnold.’”
Arnold was speechless. He massaged his bad hand and looked at Sabine. He coughed and tried to remember. Inga had said the baby was cremated, but he had never actually seen the baby or the ashes. And it had always seemed so odd, almost incomprehensible, that Inga rushed away from Rigmor when she was in such a critical condition.
“I see,” Arnold finally answered, not knowing what else to say.
“I mean—I should probably not even say this—but is there any way that baby was my mother?” asked Sabine. “Because, well, it would make some sort of sense. You know, or maybe you don’t, how my grandmother wasn’t in the picture much when my mother was young, and how my great grandmother, Frieda, raised my mother. I know I’m babbling, and Omama would think my form is terrible.” She gave a half-hearted smile.
Arnold grinned. He liked her. Very much. “It’s nice to hear your thoughts.”
“Do you think—” she started. “I mean, is it even a possibility?”
He closed his eyes for a moment and felt the sun’s warmth on his shoulders. “Yes,” he said, trying to grasp the enormity of what Sabine was suggesting.
Sabine walked to the window as Mia crawled behind. She lifted the baby, and for a few moments they stayed there, their bodies a natural fit.
When Sabine turned to face Arnold, he had no doubt. “You would have liked Rigmor.”
“Can I come and visit you again? To hear more about her?”
“Of course.”
“My mother too?”
“It would be a tremendous joy to meet her.”
And then Sabine did something completely unexpected. She walked toward Arnold and put the baby on his lap. He wasn’t ready. He had only one good arm. But what choice did he have? He held Mia, looked into her deep brown eyes that Inga had said were the color of dark chocolate, and felt very glad indeed that he had lived to see this day.
Frieda
House in Frankfurt am Main
Inga and baby Rigmor
Inga and Rigmor as young girls
Rigmor age ten
Rigmor age thirteen
Rigmor in rose garden at Sonnenstein
Inga
Lisbet
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