by Louise Fein
I peck her proffered cheek as I leave her.
A brisk wind numbs my face as I walk toward Erna’s flat. Tomas’s letter is unsettling. He isn’t going to leave me alone. Despite defending him to Mutti, the thought of being with him again, after his rough and desperate groping outside the dance, repulses me. Even though he stopped short of it, what he did still feels like a violation, and every cell in my body is telling me to stay away from him. But if I reject him, he still might talk about Walter and me. I cannot risk the accusation of Rassenschande, with Ingrid and whatever she knows lurking in the background. This threat will always hang over me. Shall I ever be rid of it?
“I’m worried about you, Hett,” Erna says, peering sideways at me as we push against the wind toward school. “You don’t seem yourself,” she adds. “You look so pale.”
“Vati still hasn’t forgiven me. Whenever he’s home, unless he’s in the company of others, he’s so frosty with me. I honestly think if he never set eyes on me again, he wouldn’t give a damn.”
“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. He’s just busy with his new role. In time he’ll forget it all.”
“And, in two weeks, Walter will be getting married. It’ll be unbearable to think . . .” I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Ah, so that’s it.”
We cross the grassy slope of Nordplatz and into the full force of the wind. Erna hooks her arm through mine, and we bow our heads.
“You need cheering up.” Her voice is raised against the gusts. “Let’s get you out and find you a new love interest. I met this absolute dish last week at that BDM and HJ Celebration of Youth march. Shame you missed it. He would absolutely have loved you. Too short and intellectual for me, but for you . . .”
I dig her in the ribs and laugh for the first time in days.
“I don’t need anyone new, Erna, truly.”
“Oh yes you do. It’s the best way to get over an old love. Trust me, I’ve experience of these things.” She winks and smiles. “Besides, it’s the perfect cover. What better way to convince your father you are back on track? Come to the Heer dance on Saturday evening. Please, Hetty.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“Why not?” She stops before we get within earshot of the pupils gathered around the front of the school. “I don’t understand.”
“I’m sort of . . . walking out with Tomas,” I admit at last.
“What? You are joking . . .”
“No.”
“Tomas! I know he’s always had a crush on you, but I didn’t think . . . I mean, I like Tomas and everything, but, Hett, you could have anyone.”
“He’s been . . . persuasive. He writes to me. We walk sometimes on Sunday afternoons with Kuschi. He wants to take me to the cinema.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve done anything with him?”
“No, I haven’t. He tried to once, but I made it clear it isn’t going to happen. He’s said he’ll be the perfect gentleman from now on.”
“But, Hetty, if you don’t feel the same way, you have to tell him.”
“Yes, I know. When I find the right way, and the right time.”
“Don’t leave it too long. It’ll only get harder.”
I should tell her what’s holding me back, the power he has over me, but I don’t. She’d tell me I’m wrong, or that I could reason with him. But where Tomas and I are concerned, reason doesn’t seem to come into it. He’d take it as an affront that I would do with a Jew what I wouldn’t do with him. It would infuriate him beyond measure, and he would be sure to want revenge. There would be no way of silencing him then.
I decide to change the subject.
“What of the kindertransport? Is there any news?”
Erna brightens. “Now, on that subject there is something positive. The English government is raising the age from fourteen to sixteen, so possibly within a few weeks, all Walter’s cousins could go together.” Her face falls. “On the downside, there is a long waiting list. Besides, America has voted down its plan for a similar program. President Roosevelt’s own cousin and wife of the immigration commissioner said that twenty thousand charming children would soon grow into twenty thousand ugly adults.”
“What a horrible thing to say.”
“Yes. Look, Hetty, we can only do what we can do. Try not to get too . . . involved.”
“What do you mean? You’re involved.”
“Yes, but only in the smallest of ways. Look, the Meuten have been brutally treated, broken up. The ringleaders were sent to prison. It’s getting harder and more dangerous, all the time.”
All my inner strength drains as I recall Vati’s discussions about the Leipziger Meuten. We are powerless. “I know. You’re right.”
She gives me a pat on the arm, and I follow her into school.
Forty-Seven
March 15, 1939
Today is the day. I don’t know what time. I suppose it doesn’t matter. If only I could block it from my mind, think of something else. I told Mutti I was feverish and didn’t want to go to school. She doesn’t care whether I go or not. School has little meaning anymore, and Mutti is so absorbed in herself that nothing really touches her these days. The midday light is strong, and patches of sunlight splash color onto the rug by my bed. I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling. But it isn’t possible to think of anything else.
Today, the love of my life is getting married, only not to me.
My hand strays to my belly. I leave it there, resting on the soft curve of it. Under my fingers, the faintest of flutters. Butterfly wings. I quickly turn onto my side and they’re gone. Slowly, I roll back, gingerly placing my fingertips once more on the low part of my belly. My heart stops. There it is again. A tiny pulse beneath my skin. Like some ghastly insect has gotten trapped in there and is tap, tap, tapping to find a way out.
Something Walter left behind.
I’m frozen, hand on stomach, a buzz in my ears. Hundreds, or is it thousands, of kilometers away, Walter is about to get married, and I am carrying his baby in my belly.
I can’t deny my swelling breasts and the soft rounding of my body anymore. I must be four and a half months gone.
With trembling fingers, I take Walter’s letter from where it is folded and hidden inside the pages of my journal. The paper has softened and thinned with so much handling. I stare again at the post office address at the bottom of the letter. He says to write in an emergency.
I doubt if this is the type of emergency he envisioned.
I picture him on this day. Twenty years old, at the start of everything. Excited? Nervous? Sad his family members aren’t there? Will he spare a thought for me? And then there is Anna. This faceless girl I know nothing about, who will begin a future with this most perfect of humans. She will be wearing a beautiful dress. Her hair curled and styled. Radiant and happy beyond words. Her belly flat and empty. But for how long? And when she feels this fluttering of new life, she will be excited, and he will be there for her.
I pulse with hate. And fear.
I haul myself out of bed and dress slowly. I have no enthusiasm. I’m bone-achingly weary. I dress carefully. The skirt a little looser in style than one I’d have chosen before. The pleats cover my thickening belly.
What on earth am I going to do?
“WHY DIDN’T YOU come to school today?”
Erna is at the front door. Her cheeks are pinched, her lips pressed closed. Her usual smile is absent.
“I’m not feeling great, that’s all.”
“You didn’t tell anyone, but it’s okay, I covered for you.”
“They don’t care whether I’m there or not.”
“Probably not. But anyway . . . can I come in, Hett, or do we have to talk on the doorstep?”
I pull the door open wide and we climb the stairs to my room.
As soon as the door shuts, I burst into tears. Floods and floods of self-pity.
“What is it? Hetty, whatever is wrong?”
Erna’s arms are aro
und me, and she hugs me tight. I’m crying so hard, I can’t say anything, I just shake my head.
“Please, whatever is the matter?” Erna pleads.
“It’s—”
But how can I possibly tell her? The shame, the horror, of the Jewish fetus in my belly. The absolute proof that I have committed a crime worse than murder. That I’ve sullied the purity of my blood.
“Shh, shh. Come on, whatever it is, it can’t be this bad.” She tries to laugh, guides me to the window seat. Strokes my hair.
Slowly, my body stops heaving and the tears dry. I’m so exhausted I can hardly form words.
“He got married today,” I tell her.
“Oh, Hett . . .”
“And I need to get rid of Tomas. He’s supposed to be coming again on Sunday . . . I can’t face him. But I’m scared, Erna, scared if I reject him, he’ll tell people he once saw me kissing Walter. I never told you, but he has this hold over me . . .”
“Is that why you’ve been walking out with him? Because you’re afraid he’ll expose you? Oh, Hetty, he won’t talk. He wouldn’t dare. Besides, Walter’s out of the country and it’d be his word against yours.” Erna half laughs. “Come on, it’s really not that bad. Which of you would they pay more attention to? Look, I know you’re upset about Walter, but it’s done now, and you have to move on. You’ve lost Karl, too, and with Tomas breathing down your neck . . . it’s just all too much.”
She straightens.
“That’s it!” she says firmly. “That’s how we get rid of Tomas, for a while at least. And once he joins the Heer, well, then he’ll be properly off your back.”
“How?” I wipe my eyes and blow my nose. My head throbs.
“You leave Tomas to me. I’ll tell him you’re still grieving for Karl and he needs to give you space for a few weeks—no, months. To leave you alone and not bother you. That will let him down gently. How does that sound?”
I nod slowly. It would give me space and time to think of how I can deal with this mess. Perhaps it will just go away. It happens, doesn’t it? Miscarriage. You hear about them all the time. Perhaps that will happen to me and then everything will be okay. Much better that I don’t see Tomas, because the way he looks at me, he’s sure to notice soon enough.
And he, of all people, will be able to work out who the father is.
“Thank you, Erna. You’re a true friend.”
“It’s nothing.” She squeezes my hand. “I just want to see you smiling again, dearest Hetty.”
AFTER ERNA HAS gone, I settle back in my window seat with my journal. The soft cushions mold in familiarity to my back and around my legs. Kuschi jumps up and curls himself against me, thumping his tail on the cushions. I stroke his silky coat a few times, then begin to write.
I know you are married now, but I shan’t ever stop thinking about you, dearest Walter. It would be impossible because you are part of my very being. I cannot see that this will ever change, however much time passes by. Today has been torture. I don’t need to say why. But now that it’s done, I feel some kind of weird, inevitable calm. As though as your new life starts, mine is somehow over. I hope you are happy though, I really do, and I’m glad beyond anything you’re safe. That’s why I’ve made up my mind. I am not going to tell you. I’m keeping what’s happened a secret, because it will be better for YOU that way. And that’s what matters to me the most. My love for you is completely unselfish. As for me, I shall pray every day that this problem will solve itself. Because if it doesn’t, I know that I am doomed. I cannot even bear to think . . . Perhaps that night Tomas got carried away, perhaps it would have been better if he’d gone through with it. Then this would have been easier to explain. But it’s too late now. Much too late. Nobody can help me. So please, God, if you are there, make this easy for me. Make this thing go away.
Forty-Eight
March 16, 1939
I need to complete a science project for Herr Metzger,” I tell the librarian during lesson break. She nods and leads me through the deserted library to the science section.
“On what subject, precisely?” she asks.
“Hereditary disease, and abortion,” I say casually.
She pulls a few books from the shelves and carries them to the big table in the center of the room.
“That should be sufficient. If not, there are a couple more that may help you.”
“Thank you.” I smile at her, holding my belly in as tightly as I can.
She returns to her desk, facing me, and continues cataloging a big pile of books.
I flick through the science manuals. There is not much of any help. It’s easy to get an abortion, it seems, if the mother is a carrier of a hereditary disease, or if she is racially of poor stock. If not, it is almost impossible. I stare at the gruesome pictures of the procedures. Metal wires, catheters, poison. Bleeding to death is a common complication. I find my hand on my belly as I look in horror at the illustrations.
I glance up and see the librarian is watching me.
“Found what you are looking for?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Thank you so much. Very helpful.” I snap the books shut.
Back in class, Frau Schmidt’s voice drones, but I don’t hear a single word. I’m nauseated after looking at those pictures; and from the sudden realization that far from wanting to end this life growing inside me, my instinct is to protect it.
“COME ON, HETTY, faster!” Erna yells, holding her hand out for the baton, and jogging on the spot.
I will myself to speed up. Normally I have no problem passing Gerda or Eva, but today my legs are like lead and I can’t outpace them. We round the bend of the athletics track and I’m last, mouth open gasping for breath. I can’t seem to take in enough air. I stumble forward and thrust the baton at Erna. She snatches it and is away, sprinting on her long legs toward the finish line, closing the gap with the leaders.
My head becomes thick and dizzy. A buzz fills my ears and my vision dims, swirls, and then blackness folds in . . .
“Herta? Herta? Get the nurse, will you?”
Someone is holding my head, rolling me onto my side.
Instinctively I curl into a ball. My head bangs with pain and I groan.
Someone touches my shoulder, pulls at it.
“Get off,” I say weakly. “Leave me alone,” and I bat the hand away. Roll up tighter. Hide my midriff.
“Hett, are you okay? Hetty, can you hear me?” Erna’s voice, far away.
“She’s fainted!”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s never done that before!”
Voices, clamoring and loud.
“Move aside, give her space,” says a loud commanding voice. “Herta Heinrich? Can you hear me?”
I flicker my eyes open. The school nurse’s face looms in front of me. I close them again. Please no. She’s going to find out.
“Yes,” I hear myself say. “I’m quite all right.”
I summon all my strength and sit up. My head pounds and I’m trembling uncontrollably.
“Please don’t fuss,” I tell the crowd around me. “I don’t know what happened, I just felt a bit . . .”
“Head between your knees,” the nurse commands me.
I do as she says, clutching my knees and hiding my stomach from the gawping onlookers. I can feel the nurse’s eyes boring into me.
“Time of the month, is it?” The nurse’s voice is brisk and businesslike.
“Yes, yes that must be it.” I nod, my heart thumping. The dizziness recedes and slowly I raise my head.
Someone hands me some water and a sweet biscuit. I didn’t realize my mouth was so dry.
“I feel much better,” I say after a drink, which is almost true.
“Common affliction in young girls,” says the nurse with authority. “Go home and rest. Don’t come back until you are well.”
“I’ll make sure she gets home,” Erna says, helping me to stand. “I’m sorry I yelled at you to run faster, I had no idea . . .”
“Don’t be silly, of course you didn’t.”
She’s looking at my stomach. I realize I’m clasping my hand over it. I drop it guiltily to my side.
“Do you have cramps?” she whispers.
I nod. Press my lips together. Resist the urge to cry.
“It’s a sign of good fertility, you know. Cramps,” says the nurse.
“Come on, let’s go home.” Erna takes my arm.
The other girls begin to lose interest and drift away.
I lean against Erna as we walk slowly back toward the school building.
A narrow escape. But how much longer before someone makes a correct diagnosis? The weight of impending disaster presses down on me. Like being buried alive, however hard I scrabble, whichever way I turn, I can’t see a way out.
Forty-Nine
April 11, 1939
Dear Hetty,
I know you don’t want me to call on you. Erna told me you need space and time. Well, I’ve tried to do that, for a whole month. And in that time I’ve decided sitting at home and being sad all the time won’t do you any good. The best way to get over your brother’s death is to do things that will make you happy. Be in good company. So I’ll call for you this Sunday. I’ve been saving up and I shall take you out for lunch. I shan’t take no for an answer. I can make you happy, Hetty, I know I can. And I will.
With devotion,
Tomas
I scrunch the letter into a ball and put it in my pocket as I climb the stairs to my room. Slamming my bedroom door closed behind me, I fumble desperately for the fastenings at the back of my skirt. My fingers slip and the clips stay firmly closed. Breathe in. Slow down. I release the hooks one by one. I sewed them on myself a couple of weeks ago, when the buttons would no longer reach the buttonholes.
There is exquisite relief when it’s done. I let the skirt drop to the floor, unbutton my blouse, and allow my belly to bulge out. It aches from being constricted and sucked in all day at school. I look down at my distended abdomen. Deep red indentations mark my belly where the waistband dug in for so long. Five and a half months gone. I feel it all the time now. No longer flutterings, these are proper, strong kicks of two little feet. I’m not going to be able to hide it much longer.