My Enemy's Cradle (19 page)

"He's filling the dayroom with his hot air." Ilse laughed.

But it wasn't a laugh.

That evening, Leona asked me where I'd disappeared to.

I put my hand over my stomach and groaned. "I sat outside all afternoon, getting air. Morning sickness."

She nodded. "Me, too, for the first couple of months. It'll pass. I wish I'd spent the afternoon outside. I watched the naming ceremony—have you heard about them?"

I shook my head.

"I won't go to another one. They laid the babies on a pillow in front of a big swastika. 'Variations on the German Anthem' was blaring, and they placed a sword across its little belly ... the sword was bigger than the baby itself! It looked so evil there. Imagine it: a sword blade across a tiny baby's belly. Who would think of doing that?"

Isaak didn't come. A month, he'd said. At the most. But he didn't come. On the thirty-first day, I convinced myself that he was on his way.

That morning, I awoke feeling nauseated as usual, went down to breakfast with Leona as usual, and had only tea and dry toast as usual. The day was brilliant and mild after two days of a chill drizzle, and I decided to spend as much of it outdoors as I could. Partly to be able to watch for Isaak's arrival, but also because when I was outdoors, it was possible to imagine I was in a park in the Netherlands—there were tall firs, boxwood hedges, clipped lawns, and gravel pathways—all these things could have been at home as well. Late asters and chrysanthemums, browning and spindly, still bloomed along some of the walks. And if I stayed at the far edges of the grounds, looking over the peaceful lake toward the distant mountains, I could almost forget entirely where I was. The land itself refused to acknowledge the politics of war, even when it bore its scars.

On that day, my thirty-first day, the shouts from the children's playground drew me. I walked to one of the stone benches that flanked the small grassy play-yard where mothers took their babies to crawl and practice their first steps. Directly across from me was a life-sized statue of a nursing mother and child. The mother's hair was tied in a demure bun; I ran my fingers through my clipped waves and shook my free hair.

I settled down on the bench with my feet tucked up under me and took out the handwork I had brought out—a white receiving blanket I was crocheting with a scalloped blue border. We were encouraged to practice the domestic arts, especially to knit or crochet layette items either for our own babies or to donate to the crèche. Crocheting reminded me of my aunt, and that gave me pleasure.

Sitting there in the sunshine, feeling that Isaak was near, I felt almost peaceful. I smiled watching a sturdy boy stomping around a birdbath with big exaggerated steps, with a little girl following him, laughing so hard she kept falling down. A young mother came to sit beside me, carrying a baby who looked to be about two months old. "May I see him?" I asked, leaning over the sleeping bundle.

Some new mothers were delighted to show me their babies and some would glare daggers if I dared to steal a peek. This one didn't seem to care either way. She pulled the blanket from the baby's head and held him toward me. I smiled to see his plump mouth purse and open, dreaming his milk dreams, and touched the silky fringe of his hair with one finger.

"What's his name?"

The girl shrugged. "He hasn't been named. There's another ceremony next week." She wore her light brown hair plaited into two long braids, and her skirt was the kind a schoolgirl might wear.

"What do you call him to yourself?"

She shrugged again. "He hasn't been named," she repeated, as though I hadn't understood.

"Well, he's beautiful."

She frowned a little and cocked her head, assessing the child on her lap as if he were a piece of fruit she was deciding whether or not to buy. She nodded. "He's perfect. Do you want to hold him?"

"Of course," I said, and lifted him from her. The girl stood and walked across the lawn to join a group of friends. She didn't look back.

It was the first time since becoming pregnant that I had held a baby. I drank in the scent of his neck, nuzzled his soft cheeks, pressed him close, and thrilled at the rightness of his solid weight against my heart. I worked my fingertip into his fist, and when he squeezed, I felt it pull deep in my belly.

Too soon he stirred, his mouth working in hunger, his face nudging more and more urgently into my breast. His forehead creased in consternation when he opened his eyes and found my stranger's face above him, and he began to wail his distress.

His mother came over when she heard him, almost reluctantly, it seemed to me, lifted him from my arms, and sat down to nurse him, without wiping away his tears. Without even looking down at them.

"How old are you?" I asked, before I could even think about my rudeness.

"Almost sixteen." The girl saw my shock and lifted her jaw to me. "Young mothers are healthy mothers. And the earlier you start, the more children you can bear." Her answer sounded practiced.

I couldn't help myself. "You're already planning on having
more?
"

"Of course! It's a woman's highest duty and her privilege. The future of the Third Reich will be glorious and vast. Millions of Germans of good blood will be needed."

Her speech was just general propaganda, I knew, but the look in her eyes was aimed more personally.
Who did you think was going to run your country once we've won the war?
it mocked.

"And what does your boyfriend have to say about all this?"

She looked at me with disdain. "The father isn't my boyfriend. That's an outdated idea. And he's very pleased. His wife was only able to give him three children."

I felt myself gaping, but I didn't care. "Your boyfriend is married and his wife knows about this? And she's going to take the baby?"

"I told you he's not my boyfriend. He's an officer; he taught sports at my youth group. I asked him to help me present the state with a child. And he agreed, as he wanted more children."

"You made love with a man so that—"

"We had
relations
" she corrected me. The sophistication she was trying for made her seem only younger.

"How old is this man?"

"Thirty-two. He's young enough he should have more children. They're taking this one next month, and then as soon as I can, we'll have another."

"You're fifteen years old, and when you leave this place you're going to have relations with a man of thirty-two, and then hand over the baby to his wife? For the second time?"

She nodded, defiant.

"And then? You'll keep doing it?"

"I'll keep having children, of course. As many as I can. But I might get married next year. I'll be old enough."

Sister Ilse came up from behind us and leaned over, cooing at the baby. "A kiss without a beard is like an egg without salt, you know."

"My aunt used to say that," I said, glad for the interruption. "I thought it was Dutch."

"It's German, too, I guess."

The girl looked annoyed. "What's it supposed to mean?"

Ilse and I answered at the same time: "Don't marry too soon."

The girl rolled her eyes and let out a sigh—she probably meant for it to sound world-weary, but it just sounded petulant. She pulled her baby from her breast roughly and buttoned herself up, then slung him over her shoulder. She left us without saying good-bye.

"That one," Ilse sighed, settling down beside me.

"You know her?"

"I attended the birth. She's one of the faithful. Refused all pain medicine and stared at her portrait of the
Führer
instead. Even at the end, even when her pelvis cracked. That's the badge of honor, to do that. If you ask me, it's the sign of insanity. Brainwashed out of all common sense."

"Wait." I put my hand on her arm. "Her pelvis cracked?"

"Don't worry!" she assured me. "Your hips look fine. Hers hadn't widened yet. And the baby was over four kilos, I remember that—"

"Could you hear it?" I interrupted.

Ilse reached over to pat my arm. It was the first time someone had touched me in thirty-one days. No, thirty-two. "Please forget I said that. It wasn't very professional of me. Her body was immature. You'll be fine. Besides, you'll be smart enough to take the ether if you need it. Promise me you'll stop thinking about this."

I couldn't. I didn't want to, but I could picture the girl's delivery. Her thin child's legs splayed wide, knees knobby as a colt's. Her narrow child's pelvis cracking under the increasing thrusts of the baby's descent. The doctors splitting her open to pull him out. She bit her lips so hard they poured blood—somehow I knew that was true. And all the while she stared at Adolf Hitler, her God. I shivered.

"Anneke?"

"I'm sorry. It's just that she's so young. Fifteen!"

"Girls grow up fast these days. Children always lose the most in wartime."

"And she's so cold, completely without romance—that seems very sad."

"It
is
sad. When I was her age, we were so excited about our possibilities. It felt like the world was opening up to us. To women. My mother was very modern—she told me I could be whatever I wanted to be, and there was no shame if I didn't choose motherhood. What a difference now."

"What does she say now?"

"She would have been ... she's dead. She died in childbirth with my sister."

"I'm so sorry." I suddenly ached to tell her that we shared the sad bond of motherlessness, but instead I asked her if that was why she'd gone into obstetrics.

"It is." Ilse gave a wry laugh. "This isn't exactly what my mother would have chosen for me, though. Or my sister. She's just like that girl. Except that she hasn't yet been asked to give a baby to the
Führer.
She's dark and short like me, so she's not being recruited. But she's brainwashed all the same. I don't even try to talk to her about it—I don't dare. I swear she'd turn me in if she thought it would get her into the Little Brown Sisters."

Ilse stopped herself then and looked around. The young mother was standing across the path beside the statue with two other girls; all had their babies slung on their hips as if they were nothing more than sacks of grain. Ilse flicked her fingers at them in a quick wave, then she stood up. "Let's take a walk."

We walked along the edges of the property. There was no one else around, but Ilse didn't speak about her family again, or about the girls here. I was glad enough to leave those subjects. I looked out over the meadows stretching out to the east. "These back fences. They're patrolled all the time, or just at night?"

Ilse looked at me sharply. "Are you going somewhere?"

"No. I just wondered, you know, how safe everything is here. That's all."

Ilse stopped. "Anneke, why did you come here so early? You can't be more than three months along, and Holland isn't so bad off that you need the food."

I gave her my lie about my parents being so angry they kicked me out. Ilse didn't believe me—I could see it in her face. And she looked hurt that I had lied to her.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What would it feel like...." I caught a breath, suddenly dizzy. "What would it feel like to bleed to death? Would it ... hurt?"

Sister Ilse stared at me.

"A friend of mine died. Please. I want to know. Did she feel pain?"

"Well ... no. If you bled to death, you would just feel weak. Weaker. Until..."

"She wasn't in pain?"

"No. She would have felt cold, but no pain. But what caused the bleeding?"

I pictured it, streaked with blood, lying under that white pillow. I saw my uncle's face. My aunt's. "A knitting needle," I said quietly.

"A knitting needle? How...? Oh." Ilse's face fell. "Oh, how terrible! Abortion is illegal here, but the real crime is what it forces girls to turn to."

I clenched my jaw, close to tears now. I saw her gaze drop to my bag, where the crochet needle lay on top. She pulled her head back to look at me harder. "Anneke, are we really talking about something someone else did?"

"Yes, really. Someone I knew. Did it hurt?"

Ilse looked at me for a long moment, her eyes sad. "Yes. There would have been pelvic pain from that. But she wouldn't have felt it for long. She would have slipped under. Anneke, are you sure—"

I raised my hands and took a step back.

"Anneke," she said again. "If you ever want to talk..."

I had never felt the need to talk more in my life—to tell someone about Anneke's death; how frightened I was here; my pregnancy; all the things that needed to be made right between Isaak and myself. Everything I needed to make him see.

I couldn't talk, so I began to write instead. Not about these things, though. I began to write poetry. Or, rather, it began to write me.

Lines would come to me, challenging me to make sense of them, to chase them down to their meaning. I would bend over the paper, forcing words into couplets, couplets into stanzas, stanzas into completeness. I would finish a poem and feel one measure of calm, and then I would feel the need to start again.

The problem was paper. Sheets of stationery were available, but if I took paper to write letters on, wouldn't someone expect me to have letters to mail? And to whom could I possibly write? I became the oddest of thieves. Everywhere in the home I kept watch for things that wouldn't be missed: the wrappings from deliveries, drawer liners, and once a windfall—a full sheet of discarded gift-wrapping paper. I wrote as small as I could, tiny cramped words, crossed out and written over dozens of times.

I became equally clever at hiding these orphan sheets, lining the bottoms of my drawer with them, sandwiching them between my mattress and box spring, slipping the smaller ones inside my few books.

But once I was careless.

Leona had thrown away an envelope and I'd retrieved it from the wastebasket and had been working a poem on it for a week. I had just slipped it beneath a book on my bedside table when she walked into the room.

Maybe she recognized the address or the handwriting on the corner sticking out. Before I could do anything, she pulled out the envelope.