Wilhelm whimpers against her skin, too tired to scream any longer; and Kalle fetches a saucer with sheep’s milk, dips a finger into it. When he slides it between his son’s gums, Wilhelm bucks, coughs. Again, Kalle tries.
“Applesauce,” Lotte says. “Use applesauce.”
Sucking cooled applesauce from his finger, the boy. And swallowing. His eyelids flutter.
Lotte props her elbows on the table. The rim of her clavicle rises. And Kalle knows he has to get away to stop himself from admitting he’s brought on their children’s deaths with his illusions of leaving his family behind and traveling with the Ludwig Zirkus, adventurous and unencumbered. Wanderlust.
If Lotte finds out, she’ll send me away. As children they all played Zirkus. Lotte, too. Strung rope between posts and practiced tightrope walking till they toppled. Inspired by Zirkus animals, they taught dancing to their dogs whose herding instincts bewildered them so that they yapped and whimpered, agitating sheep and cattle. And the sheep did not obey when taught to be ponies and gallop in a wide circle. It took just one to kneel, for the others to stumble into one pile. Lotte was part of all that—except for her it has stayed in childhood. It’s like that for girls. They grow into the dreams of women, while boys still wait for the Zirkus and adventure, so close in dreams and yet out of reach. Except for now—
* * *
From the table he picks up Hannelore’s doll that he and Lotte made together: he carved the trunk and limbs, while Lotte crocheted a yellow dress, embroidered the linen face, attached yarn braids.
Talking, Lotte. She’s talking about a horrendous bargain. And how it came to her and how she gave shape to it by promising God—
“What?” Kalle asks, startled. “Promising what?”
Her palms prop up her face, stretch all flesh away from her jawbone and cheeks. “The one in my arms for the other three.”
“I would.” Kalle tries to pull his finger from his lastborn who only sucks harder, all his life-power concentrated in his mouth. “Even for two. I’d trade this one for two. If we could bring two of the others home in return for Wilhelm, I would.” As long as I don’t have to choose.
But what if I must? Hannelore with the gap between her front teeth, tongue probing where her baby teeth used to be? Martin, sturdy and fast, who can fly from good-natured to sullen in a second? Bärbel who gets dirty so quickly, who loves exuberantly, noisily?
The queasy strength of the boy’s suck. Always needing more than his share. Kalle would offer him up for just one. If only Lotte had let go of the lastborn instead—Lotte grips Hannelore’s free hand, makes a circle, saves the three. Or saves two, at least two. Even if the girls can’t hold on to Martin, Lotte has her fingers around the girls’ wrists, yes, tight, so tight they leave marks. When she carries them home, Kalle tends to his daughters’ wrists—don’t think about Martin don’t—smears lanolin on their chafed skin. Sticky and smelly. Extracted from sheep’s wool.
Hannelore rubs it off. Bärbel drops asleep in his arms, instantly heavy.
“Don’t make me lose them again,” Lotte whispers.
Dreaming of traveling with the Zirkus is not half as terrible as what you did.
But to say those words aloud will devastate her. He waits for the lastborn to exhale, then yanks his finger from the greedy mouth that’s already snapping for more.
4
Invisible
The couple so eager to adopt Tilli’s baby rush to the St. Margaret Home but must wait outside the infirmary.
“A very hard labor,” Sister Franziska whispers, “because Tilli is still a child herself.”
Herr Lämmle groans. “And if she can’t?”
“Kaiserschnitt.”
“Cut her open?” Frau Lämmle cries.
“It may not be necessary.”
“I have to see Tilli,” says Frau Lämmle.
Sister Franziska hesitates.
“I won’t do anything to upset her,” Frau Lämmle promises, and already she’s at the door, tiptoes in, crying without a sound.
Sister Franziska follows. “But if I ask, you must leave right away.”
Tilli is screaming, throwing herself from side to side.
“Does she have to suffer like this?” asks Frau Lämmle.
Tilli waves her close. “What if it’s born without a face?”
“It’ll have a beautiful face.”
“What if it’s born with a harelip?”
“Oh, Tilli—” Sweaty curls stick to Frau Lämmle’s temple. “My husband and I will love our baby, no matter what.”
The Lämmles used to visit the St. Margaret Home, holding and rocking babies. Wrapping them and unwrapping them. Practicing so they’d be competent once they found the right child. Yet always leaving without one. Until they met Tilli. They’re old enough to be her parents, at least thirty, apricot freckles and hair so much like Tilli’s that she can picture the child they’d make if they could.
“Yours is one of the lucky babies,” they say to Tilli.
“Already chosen before birth because you have good posture.”
“And good sense.”
It matters to Tilli how much the Lämmles want her baby—no matter how hideous. “What if it’s born … with just one arm?” she asks Frau Lämmle.
“We already love—”
“I want it to be a boy. I’ll name him Alfred. You can change the name. But not right away. Where will you take him?”
“Oh … three hours on the train from here. That’s why we arrived early. To be here when our baby is born.”
“But where do you live?”
“Hush now … hush…” murmurs Sister Franziska.
“South,” says Frau Lämmle.
Tilli wheezes.
“And a bit to the west. I’m not supposed to tell you.”
Then the pain again—a spooked horse into white-blinding ruckus that slams you to the ground—
“I wish I could suffer this pain for you,” Frau Lämmle cries.
That’s when Tilli knows the woman is crazy or lying because no one sane chooses—
* * *
—to ride your pain that rears up like a spooked horse and lets you crawl into your exhaustion before it rears up with you again and again till a rag on your nose your mouth—nasty nasty—spins you into disgust and fury spins you spins and—
* * *
—in that twilight of retching and spinning one fist one empty fist empty clenches your insides with each heave and the taste as nasty as the smell retching from the empty—
* * *
All St. Margaret Girls have been forewarned not to see their newborns, but when Tilli pummels her breasts and howls till she can’t breathe, Sister Franziska brings a red-fisted baby wrapped in white—
—when did that happen? when—
“If you promise to calm yourself, I’ll let you hold her.”
Her— As if the two of us were not enough, Alfred, there has to be a third. A girl—
“You are very brave, Tilli.” Sister Franziska wishes she could do so much more for her Girls. First teach them to prevent pregnancy. And then not wound them again by taking their babies away. Still, it would be worse for a baby to be raised by such a young mother. Sister Franziska understands about succumbing to the urgency of her body—to passion and to shame; understands about being banned from her newborn. Forty-one years since—