by Sara Young
"Then you can't go until the weather breaks. I won't even consider you out there, pregnant, at night when it's still like this."
"Next month?"
Karl shook his head. "May."
"May first, then." I couldn't keep the smile from my face.
"Mid-May." Karl was not smiling.
"Two months." We both said the words at once, but from Karl's lips they were a dirge, from mine they were a hymn of hope. We heard that and we laughed, and a small brick fell away from the wall between us.
"Karl, why do you want to do all this? Why do you even want to be involved?"
"I have a lot of reasons."
"Anneke?"
He nodded slowly. "Anneke, of course." He looked across the fields for a moment. "There's a symmetry that makes it feel right. I build boats. That appeals to me."
"What do you mean?"
"Anneke and her baby—my baby—are gone, and I'm here. Isaak is gone and you and your baby are here. The pieces fit. There's a balance when you align all the pieces." He held his hands up, the fingertips touching but at right angles to each other. Then he rotated them and laced them together. "Do you know what I mean?"
I raised my hands, turned them and laced them together like his, and smiled. Yes.
"And do you remember what I told you about my sister and my niece? About how caring for them gives me something to hold on to? I think there's some of that, too."
"I understand."
"But that's not the main reason." Karl looked into my eyes for a long moment, as if he thought the words he needed were there. Then he turned away, as if they weren't. He stood up. "Never mind. We should go. It looks like it might rain."
We walked back without talking any more, but now the quiet was peaceful. As he put the key to the ignition, I stopped him. "Wait. You said there were three choices. What's the third one?"
He pulled the key out and looked down at it in his palm. "You could marry me."
His response stunned me so much that I laughed. Karl tightened his eyes and stared straight ahead, his forearms resting on the steering wheel.
"Karl—you're not serious."
"Actually, I am. It's one of your options. I asked Dr. Ebers about that, too."
Now I was too shocked to form words.
Karl turned to face me. He flushed. "Here it is: If you and I got married, I could take you out right now. It would be optional for you to stay. You'd have to become a German citizen, but they've set up paperwork to do that easily for these situations." I could tell he had practiced this speech, and I was surprised to find that it touched me.
"Karl." I laid my hand on his arm. "Karl, no. That's really not one of my options."
"Because of Isaak?"
"Isaak, Anneke, me, you. Everything."
He nodded as if he'd expected this.
"I want you to know how much I appreciate everything. But you have to understand—I loved Anneke."
"Cyrla. I really didn't know she was pregnant."
I looked into his eyes and saw that he was telling the truth. Or maybe it was just what I wanted to see. "It's still hard. But I really am grateful for all the trouble you went to and for what you're going to do for me. Just the fact that you want to help means a lot. In the six months I've been here, I've had no one. I've been completely alone."
"I think you're very brave. To come here in order to make your baby safe. Well, you aren't alone now." He put the key back into the ignition and started the engine.
I wasn't alone now. All my life, I'd done nothing but lose people. My mother and father, my brothers. My aunt and uncle, Anneke, Isaak. All ghosts. Now, for the first time in six years, someone was asking to come into my life. I suddenly knew that no matter the barriers which would always remain between Karl and me, I wanted to try. No matter the cost.
"Karl, when will you see your sister?"
"Tomorrow. Why?"
"Could you come here first, for just a few minutes?"
"I could. But why?"
"Trust me. Tomorrow morning, all right?"
We had reached the home and I had reached another decision.
"Karl. Isaak's last name is Meier."
FIFTY-ONE
When I got back, I found a surprise. "I'm Anneke," I introduced myself to the girl unpacking her suitcase.
"Eva."
By now, I had become used to living among a sea of girls with rising bellies. Our shared situation was obvious to all, which made for a strangely immediate intimacy. Yet there was a strict code about the boundaries of privacy. The first questions were always Where are you from? How far along are you? and How long will you stay? It was only after a certain level of familiarity had been achieved—impossible to predict when it would happen, but unmistakable once it had—that one could ask about the father.
I sat on my bed as Eva unpacked. She was petite—possibly the smallest girl in this place which seemed to revere tall women—and very pretty, although her face looked tight and newly formed, as if it had never contorted in grief or expanded in joy. When she moved, it was with the twitchy grace of a cat.
I asked the questions.
Eva was from Haarlem and she was exactly five months pregnant—for the first time, I had the seniority that came with being further along than one's roommate. This brought a slight sense of urgency—for the first time, my baby's birth felt imminent. But it was her answer to the third question that brought me to panic.
"Jurn's put in for leave to marry me. I'll stay until that happens."
I put down my book. The German girls often married their boyfriends, of course, but I hadn't heard of any girls from other countries doing it. It was one thing to sleep with the enemy. Quite another to marry him and move to the Fatherland.
"And afterward," I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral, "you'll stay here, in Germany?"
"No. Jurn is from Haarlem, too. We'll stay there."
Eva watched me as understanding dawned, her small face a mask. Her boyfriend was in the Waffen SS. I was the one who was sleeping with the enemy. For only two months more, I reminded myself, blessing Karl again for what he had promised.
That night in the dining hall, Eva established her status. At five months, she was still sinuous and sexy. Even the German girls seemed to sense a danger behind her pretty face and they shrank away, leaving a space around her. I'd seen this space before: Sometimes when Anneke had entered a room, the women had stepped back and eyed her, feeling threatened. Anneke never allowed this—she went out of her way to put other women at ease, even going so far as to act less graceful than she was, less feminine. A few minutes of her charm would melt all jealousy.
But Eva did nothing to encourage any approach, let alone any friendship.
Well, if it was distance she wanted, I'd be happy to give it to her.
In the morning, I headed straight to the newborns' nursery before breakfast. "I need a favor."
Ilse shook her head. "No. Last time was too close." She turned away as if she didn't trust herself to stay firm if she looked at me.
I laughed and tugged at her sleeve. "No, this one is easy. Really."
Ilse put down the stack of folded diapers she'd been carrying. "What is it?" she groaned.
"I need some formula." I held out my coat. "Whatever will fit in the pockets."
"Why on earth—"
"Don't ask. It's for a baby—that's all I'm going to tell you. She doesn't have milk. And all you have to do is let me into the supply room and then turn your back."
"And let you steal it? I don't know. That's a pretty big favor." But she threw up her hands and led me down the hall.
"There's no one around this morning. I'll help you." We pulled down a case of cans of concentrated formula—my pockets were large and held two cans each. I opened the coat and showed her two smaller pockets inside.
"How about powdered milk?" she suggested. "If we folded a packet, it might fit." We tried, but the packet wouldn't bend enough to slip inside. "This baby is really hungry?"
she asked.
I nodded. Ilse checked the hall, then took a pair of surgical scissors from a drawer. She opened my coat and slit the silk lining from the wool at the neck. She dropped several packets of dried milk into the space and shook them down to the hem, then several more. "This is how we do it."
"We?"
"A lot of the nurses have families. Hungry families."
Then she opened a cabinet and took a handful of small dropper-bottles. "Vitamins. Three drops a day in any liquid." She filled the two inside pockets. "If the mother's been nursing, she ought to take the vitamins, too. Six drops." She patted my pockets. "There you go, you little thief. If you get caught, I never saw you this morning."
I hugged her. "You are so good, Ilse. I'm so glad you're here."
I waited downstairs for Karl, sitting still as a stone—if I shifted at all, the treacherous clink of the vials sent my heart thudding. But I was happy—it had been so long since I'd had people to care for. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, I ran out to meet him.
"What are you doing? Put your coat on." But I just waved him back to the car.
Inside, I spilled the treasures onto the seat between us. It took only a second for his face to light up. "For Lina? All this?"
"For Lina, yes. But Erika and your mother should take some vitamins, too."
"They gave you all this?"
"Well, they don't exactly know they've given it to me."
"Cyrla! You stole it?"
I clapped my hands to my face.
"This isn't funny. You've just stolen supplies from a Nazi institution. You could be thrown in prison for doing that."
"Oh, I doubt that." I patted my stomach. "We're too valuable, remember?"
"They shoot people for less than that. Don't you ever do anything so stupid again."
Karl must have caught my hurt look because he softened. "I'm sorry. It's just that sometimes I don't think you understand how dangerous things are." He gathered the stolen supplies and began to hide them beneath the seat. "I'm really grateful. You have no idea how much this will mean to them." Karl made a move toward me, and I flinched without thinking. But immediately I was ashamed—he had simply tried to hug me.
"I'm the one who's grateful, Karl. I know I haven't made it easy for you, and I'm sorry for that. What you're doing, helping me get home, helping find my family—"
"Cyrla, I have some news about that."
His look melted my teasing mood like cold rain. "What is it?"
"Don't be upset. It's not bad news, exactly."
"Karl, tell me now."
"All right. I had an inspiration after I left you yesterday. I saw an easy way for me to ask about your aunt and uncle without arousing any suspicion."
"Tell me."
"I will; be patient. I told my commander that I wanted to marry you, but that you insisted I speak to your parents. He patched me through to the commander in charge of the unit using your old home."
"Where are they?"
"They're gone. Apparently, there was a warrant for your uncle. He came home one night, late, and they kept him locked up there. Sometime in the middle of the night, your aunt set fire to the house."
"Fire?"
"Calm down. Of course it was extinguished right away. But in the confusion, your aunt and uncle slipped away. They're still missing."
"She set fire to the house?"
"It's not exactly something to be celebrating, Cyrla. But it means they're all right. I would have been told if they'd been arrested."
"Wait. Why was there a warrant for him? The blanket order?"
"No, not that. But what matters is that you're not going to reach your aunt now. I'm sorry."
"Not the blankets? But then—"
Karl looked away and then I knew.
"But how did they know?"
"It doesn't matter. They escaped. What matters is—"
My father's Sabbath candlesticks. The stack of his letters.
"Cyrla, did you hear me? I think you should reconsider now. I really think you should stay and let me take the baby. Or you should marry me."
I raised my palms to him. "I've decided."
"You'll only make it worse for them if you go home. You see that, don't you?"
"I won't go near them," I said. "I'll find Leona. But I have to go back now. Do you understand?"
Karl sighed as if he had been dreading this. "No. But we'll talk about this later. And remember, we agreed: You can't leave until May." I nodded and he looked away. "My sister will be wondering. And I can't wait to bring this to her—she's going to be so happy." Karl got out, opened my door and helped me out. At the entrance, he stopped and turned to me. "Thank you."
I reached up and put my arms around him to make up for my foolish rudeness before. My belly was hard between us, but I squeezed him, and when I pulled away, he held me fast for a second. Later, I wondered if it was just the wind in the trees or the rustle of our clothes I heard, or if he had whispered my name.
And all that day I caught the scent of almonds and pine in my hair.
FIFTY-TWO
For the first time since I'd arrived here, I had something I could close my eyes and picture that wasn't a nightmare. Seeing the photograph of Erika and Lina had made them real for me, and I loved imagining how my gift might have made Erika's face lose its sadness for a bit or fattened Lina's cheeks. I thought of that photo many times: how Erika's face, and even Karl's, shone in Lina's, and I wondered who her father had been, where he lived in that child. I wondered about the child I was carrying, where its father would present himself.
One afternoon I stopped at Corrie's room and told her to come with me. She'd looked at me for a long moment without speaking, without even asking me where. "Come with me," I insisted. She hesitated as we entered the orphanage, but she followed me in.
"What do you think you're doing?" she hissed under her breath. "Do you think I'm suddenly going to feel fine about this baby I'm carrying? Do you think I'm going to forgive those men?"
"But it's not their fault," I said, gesturing to the babies—Ilse's words.
"I know that. I don't care. I'm fine. You don't have to rescue me."
"Just sit with me." I drew two chairs to the windows and went to get Klaas. I held him on my lap and Corrie sat beside me, looking out over the mountains, not speaking. But not leaving, either.
And she came the next day. And the next. She never held a baby, just sat beside me while I fed Klaas and played with him. And sometimes she would talk.
"Do you dream of him?" she asked me once. "The one who did it?"
"A few times."
"Just a few? You're lucky." And then she left.
A few days later, I tried to hand her a little girl—about two months old, with a mouth like a tiny strawberry—while I went for a diaper. She wrapped her arms tighter to her chest and shook her head, her face squeezed.
"They used their rifles."
I wasn't sure I'd heard her, but then she repeated it, louder.
"To strip me. Their rifles with the bayonets. They stripped me with their bayonets. It was a game. They laughed. They took turns. My clothes were shredded, in the mud."
Another time she asked, "Don't you care that you might be carrying his baby? Doesn't it remind you all the time?"
I looked down at Klaas, smiling up at me—he smiled all the time now—and then back at Corrie. "I don't care," I said, the words a shock to me. "I don't care who the father is."
"Because we're leaving them here. We're getting rid of them." Corrie held me in her stare, waiting for my agreement.
"No," I said. "That's not why."
For an instant she looked furious, then betrayed. She didn't come to the orphanage again.
When Karl came again, I was happy to see him. We could never really be friends, but it was good that we were no longer enemies.
"Erika sends her thanks. You can't imagine how much it meant to them." He raised a garment bag. "She wants you to have these."
We w
ent into the parlor and sat and I opened the bag. Maternity clothing. Beautiful things. Three blouses, all of them nicer than anything I'd been wearing—crepe de chine, rayon, silk. A skirt and a dress. A flared black velvet jacket with frog closures and a scarlet lining. A pair of chocolate wool pants, cleverly made with a gathered panel in front and a row of buttons along the waistband to accommodate my growing size. Anneke's trousers hadn't fit me for a month now, even though I'd opened up the darts and the seams and moved the button. Prettiest of all was a wraparound slip, robin's-egg-blue satin with heavy cream lace. For the six weeks I had left, it would be a pleasure to get dressed.
"These are wonderful. Thank her for me. But I don't know how to return them. I won't be able to pack when we leave."
"She doesn't want them back. They remind her of too much."
I held the slip to my cheek. "Everything's so beautiful." So expensive.
Karl read my mind. "We had money then. It was ... before."
"Before what?"
Two new Belgian girls came in. They came over at once, drawn like moths to the finery on my lap. And drawn to Karl, I saw by their exaggerated gestures and flirty giggles. Well, he was handsome; I had to give him that. Karl stood back and watched, smiling, until everything had been admired. Then he offered me his hand. "Let's take a walk."
I kept Karl's hand as we walked across the room, and I turned back at the door and nodded to the girls to make sure they saw. Because Anneke would have done that.
I brought the clothes to my room and hung everything in the wardrobe, then buttoned the velvet jacket over my dress and went down to join Karl. I did a little twirl to show him how pretty the jacket was, but he only gave me a half-smile.
We walked to a patio at the back of the property and sat on a stone bench overlooking the lake. It was mild and sunny, but we were the only ones out. Karl took a lighter from his pocket and looked down at it for a moment, flipping it over and over, before lighting his cigarette.
"You know I'm a boatbuilder."
I nodded.
"Fourth generation. We always had four or five people working for us. Bengt designed our engines. We were known for our cabinetry—we made the finest sailboats and yachts on the Baltic. We had our own timberland—over three hundred acres of white oak for framing. Well, we still own that."