The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (30 page)

He retreated to the window, peeked through a crack in the curtain, then returned. ‘Trust me now,’ he urged and disappeared.
 

The door clicking into its frame and the ensuing solitude didn’t feel safe at all. I rose, keeping a good grip on my revolver, walked to the door and locked it, then pushed a chair under its handle.
 

I threw a one-eyed glance down to the street. Nothing moved. Footfalls in the hallway passed my room, but no one tried to force entry. I exhaled, struggling to rid myself of all this tension. The contractions were bearable; I still hoped they might subside.

Pushing all thoughts of Moran aside, I paced the room, careful to stay away from the curtains and trying to calm myself.
 

About half an hour later, someone knocked. I cocked my revolver.
 

‘Madam?’ The voice of a male stranger. ‘Your husband informed me of your premature labour. I’m Dr Lehmann. May I come in?’

‘One moment,’ I huffed, thinking fast. It didn’t sound like Parker, but the man had already proven that he could imitate even a female voice.
 

I looked down at my feet — no shoes, good. Tiptoeing, I reached the door, quietly removed the chair from the handle, and softly placed it aside. Then I retreated to the bed and aimed the revolver.
Get it over with
, was all I could think.

‘My apologies, Dr Lehmann, I’m unable to walk. The door should be unlocked; you may enter.’

The tip of my gun was steady; one straight line from my pupil, along the revolver’s barrel, to where the heart of a medium-sized man should be once he entered the room.

The door opened and a too-young looking blond man made half a step forward, then froze, big-eyed shock directed at my gun. ‘Why are you pointing this at me?’

If that wasn’t an inexperienced physician, I’d eat a broom handle. ‘My apologies. I believed you were someone else. Come in and lock the door.’ I lowered the revolver, but left it cocked; I leaned against the bedpost and huffed through another contraction.

Obstetric instruments, 1830s. (20)

The man sorted his utensils on the nightstand, muttering, ‘And I didn’t believe the porter’s warning.’

 
I tried to ignore the large forceps, the dilator and speculum, the cranial perforator, and the blunt hook — tools to extract the child at any cost, no matter the bloodshed. ‘What warning?’

‘He said the police are involved. What have you done?’

The next contraction demanded my attention. Once it subsided, I barked, ‘What have
I
done? Wouldn’t you think the police to be present if it was I whom they sought?’

Embarrassment heated his face. ‘I’ll examine you now.’ His hands were compacted to fists, his knees vibrated.

‘Who called for you?’

‘The hotel manager. He said your husband—’

‘How many births have you attended so far, Dr Lehmann?’

He cleared his throat. ‘Four.’

‘And how many of these were demonstrations during medical school?’

‘Four.’

‘You will not examine me. Pack your things and make yourself comfortable on the other side of this door,’ I pointed him out of my room. ‘I’ll let you know should I need you.’

‘Madam, the labor overwhelms your delicate constitution. You are out of your mind should you keep rejecting the help of a trained medical—’

‘Remember the revolver, Dr Lehmann.’ I held up the gun.

He straightened up, declared me insane, shoved his utensils back in his bag, and left the room.
 

I uncocked the gun and placed it on the nightstand, after having blocked the door again.

Despite him leaving me in peace, my restlessness grew. Soon, the room seemed too small, the air too stuffy. I lay down, only to peel myself from the bed a few minutes later. I urgently needed to use the lavatory.
 

I cocked the gun again and opened the door. The good doctor sat on the floor leaning on the wall opposite my room.
 

‘Excuse me,’ I muttered, then waited for the next contraction to come and to go so I’d be able to walk faster.

Down the corridor I went and into the bathroom. The wood panels on the wall swallowed my groans. The slick edge of the washbasin cooled my sweaty hands. I hurried to open the window. It faced out into a courtyard. With the breeze cooling my face, I felt better at once.

When the weight on my lumbar region grew too heavy, I leaned on the reveal, shutting my eyes and listening to the chirping of sparrows, the chatter of children. As long as I heard them, I told myself, Moran couldn’t be down in the courtyard. With each contraction, the band around my stomach seemed to pull in tighter and more painfully.

One of Berlin’s many courtyards and back alleys. Berlin, 1891. (21)

I paced, sat on the toilet bowl, paced again, then leaned on the reveal, swallowing fresh air, laboured pacing, laboured resting, until the toilet bowl took all contents of my stomach and then those of my bowels. Staring down at the mess, I finally accepted that my child was on its way. What impeccable timing!

With labor picking up speed and force, I wanted to be back in my room where I could lie down and be comfortable between contractions. The gun in my hand provided only small reassurance while I walked along the corridor, expecting Moran and Parker to appear from nowhere. Lehmann sitting cross-legged, his face showing annoyance, indicated that all was quiet. I reached my room without surprises.

After having blocked the door once more, I undressed completely and slipped into my nightgown. The loose cotton felt wonderful on my taut body. I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes. Contractions were washing over me, through me, taking me away, up to frightening heights, only to leave me stranded and panting in anticipation of the next contraction.
 

The pain wasn’t what I had expected. It didn’t feel like hurt, like an injury. It felt more like very hard work while falling off a tall building. And I learned quickly that pain came fast when I didn’t move about. I pictured the child descending more easily when my hips rolled from side to side from my restless pacing.

I felt as though hours had passed when a noise pulled me out of my rhythm. ‘Anna, it is I. Can you unblock the door?’

It took a while for me to cross the room.
 

‘Are you alright?’ Sherlock asked.

‘Where’s Moran?’

‘Gone. Don’t think of him now. I’m here. You are safe.’

‘You seem more nervous than I.’

He laughed and said that I might possibly be correct.

‘I noticed you disposed of the physician.’ He helped me back to the bed, where I kneeled down and laid my head on the mattress, grunting. ‘Do you want me to call for a midwife, or a more experienced doctor?’

I nodded. I had never attended a birth from this angle. He rang the bell and I was astounded at my own ignorance. How could I have forgotten about the maids providing almost anything one asks for? For once in my life, I lived in isolation where consciousness had energy only for contraction and no-contraction, of inching a small human out of my body.

‘I cannot even dress the child,’ I cried, once I had some air to spend on speaking. ‘What a chaotic and naive person I am! I didn't purchase one thing in preparation for this.’

A kiss on my forehead softened the worries. ‘I’ll ask the maids to get whatever you need.’

His fingers combed through my hair and I felt myself relax. Then the next contraction hit. After it had passed, I said, ‘I’ll need plenty of towels. Ask Dr Lehmann for a pair of sharp scissors should the other doctor arrive too late, and… and iodine. Tea. I’m very thirsty. Clothes for the child. Blankets…’

Again, a long time seemed to have passed before the maid arrived, left, and finally returned with the requested items.

Sherlock placed the stack of towels on the bed, tapped a reminding finger on Lehmann’s scissors on the nightstand, and handed me a cup of tea while I resumed my pacing. By now, I was as slow as a snail.

He peeked through a gap in the curtains. ‘A midwife and a physician will arrive shortly.’

I couldn’t answer immediately. My back hurt so badly. My tailbone was about to pop out, or so it felt. This contraction took too long.
 

‘Good,’ I grunted. ‘Leave now.’

‘I’ll be right outside your room.’ He patted the revolver in his pocket. ‘Moran will not set foot in here. The police are guarding the hotel.’

‘Thank you.’

‘M’lady,’ he said with a bow and exited.
 

I laughed at his attempt to cheer me up until I felt something soft and pliable descend halfway through my vagina. An inaudible but tangible
pop
and the water bag broke, gushing its contents over my legs. An overwhelming contraction followed and a burning that shocked my core. My body was being split like an overripe melon. I bit into the headrest of the chair I held on to, muffling my scream, pressing and pushing because the urge to do so was uncontrollable.

So quick! I reined in my panic, urged myself to remain calm, to breathe, to relax my clenched limbs.

The next contraction came and I greeted it with a low and powerful growl. Wave after wave followed, tossing me about like a nutshell on an angry ocean. I let myself be carried away, pushing when my body commanded me to, resting when it allowed me to.

The child’s descent was exhilarating. I put my hand between my legs and felt a smooth wet patch. I laughed again, bringing on another wave, pushing the child down farther.
 

The head squeezed itself through that too-small opening of mine, setting my lower body on fire. Maddening elation came crushing down once the head was born. I sobbed when I heard a small noise like a kitten meowing. My fingers slid over its nose and chin, felt for the umbilical cord, and found it wound around its neck. I gingerly pulled the loop over the head, probed again, but the next contraction demanded my full attention.

I noticed the presence of strangers in my room. With my hand on the gun, I turned my head. A man and a woman, their eyes taking in the room. They moved towards me. Sherlock waved from afar, then closed the door. Everything felt oddly dream-like.

I grunted and pushed once more, caught the child, and placed it on the towel between my knees. I was trembling hard. My body was about to buckle. I gazed down at the small and wrinkled child, who now twitched a little. The thought of a naked bird that had just fallen out of its egg touched my mind.

‘A girl,’ I sobbed. ‘I don’t even have a name for her.’

‘Now, now.’ A woman’s soft voice.

When I picked up my daughter, she began to squirm. ‘Help me up, please.’

Two sets of hands supported me and the newborn in my arms, then laid us down on the bed. The midwife pushed a towel between my legs and one under my buttocks, and the doctor covered the two of us with a blanket.

The clinking of medical utensils startled my daughter. She crinkled her nose. The midwife drew the heavy curtains aside while the doctor approached with a small tray, scissors, thread, and iodine.

‘Wait with the cord-cutting,’ I said. I had noticed that newborns recovered quicker when the umbilical cord was cut after it had stopped pulsating.

I lifted her onto my stomach to keep her warm. ‘She’s so small.’ I was concerned she would become ill because I hadn’t carried her to term.

Eyes squeezed shut and mouth searching, the tiny girl moved her head a little. Gently, I pushed her up farther until she found the offered nipple and closed her lips around it. I gasped at the force. She pulled in a mouthful of breast and sucked with such strength as though she had practiced for months.

And I was shocked at her appearance, so unlike her father. Her hair was swirls of black, stuck to her head by mucous, water, and
vernix caseosa
— the protective layer of white fat.

How curious! Although I had held many newborns in the past years, I feared to break her. With soft touches, I massaged her ashen skin until it turned a healthy pink. She smelled so sweet.
 

My uterus contracted again. I inched my hand between my legs and carefully tugged at the cord. The placenta had detached and slipped out onto the towel without effort.