I’ll soon be back, Helene promised. I’ll come for you after supper.
Peter shook his head. He didn’t believe her. He didn’t want to stay here, he screamed, he clung to her with tears flowing from his eyes and bit her arm to make her either stay or take him with her. Helene had to conjure up a smile quickly and stand up straight to shake him off, turn her back and hurry out. She mustn’t cry in front of Peter. That made it even more difficult.
When Helene collected him, he gave her a strange look. Where were you, Mother? he asked.
Helene was thinking of the injured nurse from Warsaw who had lost both her legs. She had been brought in only a few days ago and was the first of the war wounded that Helene saw. Her lymph nodes had swollen all over her body, and in many places she had the copper-coloured nodules typical of the condition. They had developed into large papules in the folds of her skin. Helene had to wear gloves and a protective mask over her mouth when she was treating the nurse’s sores, because the papules were already weeping and could be infectious. It was lucky that the patient’s skin was not itching. Thanks to the Prontosil antibiotic, the stumps of her legs were healing well, but her heart muscle wasn’t used to her lying down for a long time, with poor circulation of the blood as a result, and she suffered from insomnia. Medical opinion was that antibiotics might perhaps be useful in treating syphilis too.
Where were you, Mother? Helene heard Peter ask. They were sitting side by side in the tram. Should she tell him she’d been to the observatory or the butterfly house, make up a pretty story? But that would make it even harder for him to understand why she’d left him for twelve hours.
Mother, say something. Why don’t you say anything?
I’ve been at work, said Helene.
Doing what? Peter tugged her sleeve and she wished he would stop it. Doing what?
Couldn’t he give her any peace, must he always be asking questions? Don’t ask so many questions, Helene told Peter.
An elderly lady rose from the seat in front of Helene, probably to get out at the next stop, and held on to the pole. The woman patted Peter’s recently cut hair. What a smart little fellow, she said. Helene looked out of the window. Not many of the wounded came as far as Stettin; most of them stayed in field hospitals and it was only because Helene had a child that she had not been transferred to one of those. Apparently nurses were in short supply; in desperation the authorities were looking for volunteers to work in the field hospitals after a reduced period of training. Unmarried nurses were sent to work in the field hospitals, married women were needed to keep the municipal hospitals going. One day two nurses were sent to Obrawalde and the question of sending Helene as well arose. They could do with an experienced nurse like her there. But Helene was in luck; a doctor made it known that experienced nurses were also urgently needed in the Stettin Women’s Hospital, and the management realized that it would be difficult for Helene to take her child to Obrawalde. Rain beat against the window. Dark had fallen long ago and the lights of the cars looked blurred.
I must say, thank God women like you are still having children. The woman nodded appreciatively.
Helene looked at her only briefly. She didn’t want to nod, she didn’t want to say anything, but there was no stopping the woman.
Briefly, Helene thought of the girl she’d seen at noon today. What lovely auburn hair she’d had. Eyes as brown as almonds under red-gold lashes. Her breasts were apple-sized. She had a smile like the morning sun, she had only just come in, aged sixteen. In sign language, the girl had made gestures before she was anaesthetized and Helene guessed what they meant. She was asking questions, and frightened questions too. She had been given a general anaesthetic. Helene had held the retractor. No one had hands as steady as hers. The surgeon cut the Fallopian tubes. You had to be very careful of the tubes when stitching them up. The surgeon had asked Helene to hold the needle while he sneezed and blew his nose. She was always to be relied on, the surgeon had told her, and he asked her to finish the stitching.
She should be proud of herself, said the elderly woman, changing hands and holding the pole with her other hand as the tram went round a bend. Really proud, added the woman with a kindly nod. She was clearly referring to Peter. Helene did not feel proud. Why should she feel proud of having a child? Peter didn’t belong to her, she had given birth to him but he was not her property, not her own great achievement. Helene was glad when she saw Peter laughing, but she didn’t see very much of him and usually he was asleep when they were together. He slept in her bed; he was often frightened at night and didn’t want to be alone. After all, human beings were mammals, weren’t they? Why should a human child sleep alone while all other mammals kept their young with them for the sake of warmth? Helene did not often see Peter awake, and even less often did she see him laughing.
We’d all die out otherwise, you know.
Helene stared through the glass at the street. What did the woman mean by we? The Nordic race, humanity itself? The girl whose tubes had been cut today was a healthy, cheerful girl. Only she was mute. The idea was to avoid her having deaf mute children. Why was it so bad for someone to speak in sign language instead of sounds? Why should that girl’s children be any unhappier than Peter, who didn’t get answers to all his questions either? Later, when the girl had come round, Helene had gone to see her and taken her an orange. She was not supposed to have done that; the oranges were meant for other patients. Helene had given it to the girl in secret. She had held the retractor, she had finished the stitching. If the surgeon had told her to make the incision, she would probably have cut the tubes herself. Helene felt the cool glass against her forehead.
Mother, aren’t you listening? Peter pinched her hand. He looked desperate, almost angry. Obviously he had been trying to attract her attention for some time.
I’m listening, said Helene. Peter was telling her something, saying the other children had throwed marbles.
Thrown, said Helene, thrown marbles, and she thought of that young girl again.
Thrown. Peter’s eyes were shining. He could talk very clearly when she reminded him. The girl would be alone in her bed in the ward now, with the thirty-eight other women patients. Had she been told what the operation on her was for? Helene could tell her next morning, she had to tell her. The girl mustn’t be left wondering later, she should at least know. But perhaps she would no longer be there in the morning.
Hungry, Peter was complaining now. It was time to get out of the tram. Helene remembered that she hadn’t done any shopping first thing in the morning. What shops were open before the beginning of her shift? Perhaps she could ring the grocer’s doorbell. His wife didn’t like it when people rang their bell in the evening, but often Helene had no other option if she hadn’t been shopping earlier, and today she had nothing to eat in the house.
She bought two eggs, quarter of a litre of milk and a whole pound of potatoes from the grocer’s wife. The potatoes were beginning to sprout shoots, but never mind. Helene was pleased to have them.
Don’t like tatoes, complained Peter as Helene put a plate of potatoes in front of him. She didn’t want to lose her temper, she didn’t want to shout at him and tell him he ought to be glad to have them, he’d better eat up. She’d rather say nothing.
Don’t like tatoes, said Peter again, letting a piece of potato fall off his little spoon and drop on the floor.
Helene snatched the spoon away from him and felt like banging it down on the table. She thought of her mother, the angry light in her eyes, her unpredictability. Helene laid the spoon gently on the table. If you’re not hungry, she said, keeping her voice down, you don’t have to eat. She took Peter’s wrist and led him over to the washbasin. He was crying as she washed him.