Julia Franck - The Blind Side of the Heart

Yes, we can certainly employ your wife, the personnel manager told Wilhelm. You know, she added, we can’t motivate half as many nurses to come and work here as we need. And we’ve just had to dismiss one. A Polish nurse, mixed race in the second degree, they’re supposed to nurse only their own kind. Your wife’s family records, her certificate of Aryan descent, excellent, you’ve brought it all with you. We can make out a certificate of health for her here. The personnel manager looked at Helene’s papers.

Only when she showed Wilhelm and Helene to the door did the woman see the pram standing by the cellar stairs outside the building. I suppose the child’s grandmother will be looking after him?

Wilhelm and Helene looked at the pram. We’ll find someone, said Wilhelm with his confident smile. The personnel manager nodded and closed her door. Helene pushed the pram. Wilhelm strode along beside her. He seemed to take it for granted that he would not go straight back to his car and instead walked to the suburb of Oberwiek with Helene and the baby. The water of the Oder was grey, the wind ruffled it into waves. Wilhelm looked at his watch and announced, glancing back in the direction of his car, that he would have to start straight out now, he was expected in Berlin that afternoon. He was sure the tram would come along soon, she could manage to get back on her own, couldn’t she? Helene nodded.

The baby’s fine, gleaming dark hair had gradually fallen out in his first months of life, until his little head was bald and a pale gold down began to grow on it. It turned into golden curls, he was golden blond like Helene. According to her conditions of employment, Helene was to work sixty hours a week in shifts, but in fact it was more than that. She had a day off every other week. She collected her child from Frau Kozinska and would have a nursery school place for him when he reached his third birthday. She was glad of that, because quite often, when she had knocked on Frau Kozinska’s door, no one had opened it and she could hear her son crying behind the locked door, calling Mother, Mother, and sometimes calling for his auntie, as he called Frau Kozinska. Then Helene had to wait outside the door because Frau Kozinska had just popped out to do some shopping, and sometimes it was an hour before she came back.

When Helene first took him to the nursery school the teacher asked: What is your little boy’s name? Helene looked at his golden corkscrew curls lying softly on his shoulders.

Peter. She had never yet cut his hair.

Well, we’ll look after your son, said the teacher in friendly tones. Such a pretty little boy.

Helene would have to cut his hair now. The teacher stroked Peter’s head and took his hand.

Helene followed them for a couple of steps, crouched down and kissed Peter’s cheek. She hugged him. He was crying and holding tight to her with his little arms.

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.