Now the officer slapped her on the arm, took hold of her. Stop it, you must stop pushing or you’ll tear yourself wide open.
Helene heard this, yet didn’t hear it; what if she did tear herself wide open, what did she care? Let what had to tear her do it, let what wanted to tear her have its way, there’d be something left, she must get her baby out. Helene breathed deeply, a good pain, only why did it hurt so much? No, she’d meant to ask that question, she felt her tongue ready against her gums, but she wouldn’t ask it, she didn’t want anyone marvelling at her, ever.
Keep breathing! The military officer was obviously losing her nerve. Scream if you must, go on, now push, yes.
The yes was spoken quickly, the officer’s hands moved fast, the doctor pulled something out between Helene’s thighs, there was a squelching sound. The doctor nodded. Here came the head.
The head? Is the head out? Helene couldn’t grasp it. She felt something thick between her legs, something that wasn’t part of her any more, she felt it for the first time, not inside her now, her baby’s body, hers. The doctor took no notice of her. Helene put her hand down to feel. She wanted to touch the little head. Was that hair, the baby’s hair?
Hands off! Helene’s arm was yanked away, someone was holding her wrist in a tight grip. You just keep on breathing, do you hear? The officer was intervening. And push when the next pain comes. Take a deep breath, breathe in, now. Helene would have had to take a deep breath even without the officer’s commands.
It slipped out all in one movement. The midwife caught it skilfully in her hands.
Her baby was here. What did it look like? Was it grey, was it alive? It was taken away at once. Was it breathing, had it cried? It was crying. Helene heard her baby crying and wanted to hold it tight. Helene turned, trying to catch a glimpse. The nurses’ brown and white aprons were in the way, all she saw was their backs. The baby was being washed, weighed and dressed.
My baby, whispered Helene. Tears were running from her eyes; she saw the nurses’ overalls and the midwife’s. My baby. Helene was happy. The midwife came back and told her to press down again.
What, again?
I thought you were a nurse.
But why again? Is there another one too?
The afterbirth, Frau Sehmisch. Now, give a proper push, Frau Sehmisch. Helene knew that meant her. She did as she was told.
She had to wait for ever before they brought her the baby. Three and a half kilos, a fine little thing. The maternity nurse handed Helene the little bundle. Helene looked at her child, the folded slits for eyes, a tiny mouth, a furrow above the nose, a deep one, and little dots on the nose itself. The baby was crying. Helene held it close. My little one, my dear little girl, said Helene. What lovely long black hair she had, how silky and smooth her hair was.
You have to hold the head like this. The maternity nurse adjusted Helene’s hand. Helene knew how to hold a baby, the nurse telling her made no difference. Let her knead and press her hand. Nothing and no one could touch Helene’s happiness.
Are you going to breastfeed him?
Helene looked at the nurse in amazement. Him?
Yes, your son, are you going to breastfeed your son?
It’s a boy? Helene looked at the grey little face. Her baby opened his mouth and yelled, going dark red. Helene hadn’t expected this. She had never thought of a boy, it was always going to be a girl.
Make up your mind now, or we’ll give him a bottle.
I’ll breastfeed, of course. Helene opened her nightdress to put the baby to her breast, but once again the military officer intervened.
Here, this is the way to do it. The officer took hold of Helene’s breast roughly, with two fingers, and stuffed it into the baby’s mouth. There, like that, see? You must take care the baby’s lying properly. And whether you’ll be able to keep going with those breasts of yours, well, we’ll see.
Helene knew at once what the officer meant. Her breasts had become large and plump over the last few months, in a way that Helene had never dreamed they could be, but still only relatively large. Compared to the breasts of other new mothers they were small, even tiny. Helene knew that.
The baby at her breast swallowed and breathed heavily through his tiny nose. He had attached himself firmly to her breast, he was sucking, tickling her, and sucking in a way that put pressure on her, he was sucking for his life. The baby didn’t open his mouth, but sucked so hard that Helene wondered if he had teeth already.
Name? Someone had come up to Helene’s bed. Why was the military officer so stern? No doubt she had a lot of work to do, there must be reasons. Perhaps Helene had done something wrong. What a humiliation, a nurse lying here in a hospital.
Name?
Sehmisch. Alice Sehmisch.
Not your name, we’ve got that. What’s your son going to be called?
Helene looked at her child breathing through his nose and sucking at her breast as if to suck her up entirely. What delicate, pretty hands he had, tiny little fingers, all those folds, the thin skin, his hand was clutching her forefinger as if it were a branch and he must cling to it at all costs. How could she give him a name? He didn’t belong to her, what presumption to give a child a name. When she didn’t have a name herself any more, or at least not the one that had been given to her at birth for her lifetime. Well, he could call himself something else later if he liked. That made Helene feel better. And she said: Peter.
Only when the nurse had gone away did she whisper to her baby: This is me, your mother. The child blinked, he had to sneeze. How Helene would have loved to show him to Martha and Leontine. Didn’t he look like a girl? My little angel, whispered Helene to his cheek and stroked his long, soft hair.
Wilhelm came home before Christmas. They had sent telegrams in the meantime. He was not surprised that she had had her baby. A boy. Wilhelm nodded; he had expected no less. Peter? Why not? She ought to feed the boy properly, he told her, a few hours after arriving. The baby was hungry, didn’t she hear him crying? And why did it smell like this in the apartment, was it the baby’s nappies, he asked, and his eye fell on the yellow-stained nappies hanging on a line to dry. What’s the matter with you, have you forgotten how to wash clothes? Can’t you see those nappies are still dirty?
They won’t come any cleaner, said Helene, thinking that if the sun would shine she could have bleached them in the sunlight. But it hardly got light outside all day; it had been snowing for weeks.
When little Peter cried at night and Helene got up to take him into bed with her, Wilhelm said, with his back turned to her: You’re coddling yourself, if you ask me. Go and sit in the kitchen if you must feed him. A working man needs his sleep.
Helene obeyed his order. She sat in the cold kitchen with her baby and fed him there until he went to sleep. But as soon as she put him back in his little basket he woke up again and cried. After two hours she slipped into the bedroom, exhausted. Wilhelm’s voice came out of the dark. Get that baby to shut up or I’m leaving again tomorrow.
Not all babies sleep through the night.
You know best, I suppose, do you? Wilhelm turned round and shouted at her. You listen to me, Alice, I’m not having you tell me what’s what.
In the dark, Helene dabbed the spray of his spit off her face. Had she ever tried to tell him what was what?
It’s time you were back at work, he said more calmly as he turned his back to her again. We can’t afford any parasites.