I needed Ilse’s kindnesses and ingenuity to help me in my difficult situation, and I knew I could rely on her. She was very soon her calm and practical self.
“You will certainly have to stay here until after the child is born. Then we shall have to decide from there.”
“I have a little money, but it is not enough to keep us and educate the child.”
“We’ll think about that later,” she said.
Ernst came back. His health seemed much better and when he heard the news he shared Ilse’s horror and compassion. They were both very gentle with me and very anxious because they assumed guilt for what had happened.
He and Ilse, I know, discussed my affairs continuously but for me the state of euphoria persisted and every so often I would forget my circumstances and think solely of the delight of having a child. Sometimes I wondered whether Dr. Carlsberg had given them something to put into my food to make me happy. I had a terrible thought once that he might have made me imagine I was going to have a child. I didn’t think this was so as Ilse and Ernst seemed to think it such a tragedy. But once one has been the subject of such an experiment one becomes suspicious.
We all decided that for the time being we would not tell the aunts, and during the next months would think very carefully what we should do.
In the meantime an excuse must be made to keep me with my cousin. Ilse took that into her own hands and wrote to Aunt Caroline to tell her that I was staying on because Ernst had taken a turn for the worse and she needed my help.
“A little white lie,” she said with a grimace.
So I stayed on in Denkendorf and the weeks began to slip by. I no longer felt ill when I arose; and I thought constantly of the baby. I bought material and started to make a layette. I would sit for hours stitching and thinking.
Dr. Carlsberg came to me. He said he was going to pass me over to Dr. Kleine, a doctor friend of his who had a little nursing home in Klarengen, not very far away, and soon he would drive me over and introduce me to his colleague. There, in Dr. Kleine’s clinic, I should have the child.
I wondered about the cost but they wouldn’t discuss it and in my present state I was content to let things go.
Ilse said one day: “When the child is born you can stay with us for a while and perhaps later on you could take a post teaching English in one of our schools. It might just be possible to have the child with you.”
“Do you think there would be such a post?”
“Dr. Carlsberg might be able to help. He and his colleagues know a great deal that is going on. They would find out and if there was anything I am sure they would be only too glad to help.”
“You are so good to me, all of you,” I cried gratefully.
“We feel responsible,” replied Ilse. “Ernst and I will never forget that not only did this happen to you in our country but when you were under our care.”
I was content to allow them to plan for me, which was unlike myself because I had always been so independent. It certainly seemed as though the Seventh Moon had cast a spell upon me and all my actions had become unpredictable.
So I allowed Ilse to cosset me. I was almost unaware of what went on. I stitched at my little garments and delightedly folded them when they were done and laid them away in the drawer I had prepared for them. White, blue, and pink. Blue for a boy, they said. So I would have both pink and blue so that I should not have planned for either sex. I knitted and sewed and read. The summer passed and the autumn was with us.
Aunt Caroline wrote that she was surprised that I should enjoy living with foreigners in some outlandish place rather than in my own home but Aunt Matilda, realizing that my cousin Ernst had a “heart” and hearts being funny things, quite understood that Ilse should want me at hand to help.
Mrs. Greville wrote. She had heard that I was staying on to help my cousin nurse her husband. She thought it would be a good experience for me, but she and her husband as well as Anthony were looking forward to my return.
They all seemed so far away in the world of reality where life pursued an even tenor. The fantastic adventures of the last months had sent me worlds away from them.
One day Ilse said: “Dr. Carlsberg has news. He says that the nuns at your old Damenstift would take you in to teach English to the pupils. You could have the child with you.”
“You do so much for me,” I said emotionally.
“It’s our duty,” replied Ilse solemnly. “In any case we are so fond of you. We must think of the future, you know.”
I was growing obviously larger. I could feel the movement of my child and whenever I did my heart leaped with joy. How could this be so, I asked myself, if this life within me was the result of an encounter with a savage brute in the forest? I would never stop believing in those ecstatic days—no matter what evidence they brought forward to try to convince me that they had never existed.
Ilse introduced me to people in the town when it was necessary as Mrs. Trant, who had recently suffered a bereavement in the loss of her husband and who was shortly to bear his posthumous child. I was seen as a tragic figure and people were very kind to me.
When I went into the market they called to me to ask how I was. I would stop and chat with them and the women would tell me about their childbearing, the men about their vigils during their wives’ ordeals.
Dr. Carlsberg came along one day and drove me into the town of Klarengen where his friend had his nursing home. He thought it was better for me to see the doctor there at this stage.
I did so and Dr. Kleine told me that at the beginning of April I should come into his nursing home to be prepared for the birth of the child. He called me Mrs. Trant and had evidently been told the story about my recent bereavement.
As we drove away Dr. Carlsberg said: “You can rely on Dr. Kleine. He’s the best man in his line in these parts.”
“I’m wondering if I shall be able to pay.”
“We are taking care of that,” he said.
“I can’t accept . . .”
“It’s easy to give,” he said ruefully. “So difficult to receive. But it is you who must give us the satisfaction of helping you out of this situation. I know your cousin is filled with self-reproach. She and her husband can only regain their peace of mind if they do everything possible for you. As for me, you have helped me in my work tremendously. You have given me an opportunity to prove a theory. I can’t thank you enough. Please tell me—have you now come to accept the truth?”
I hesitated and he said: “I see that you cannot give up your belief in the dream.”
“I lived it,” I said. “Of the other . . . I remember nothing.”
He nodded. “It is even better than I thought. And now that you are to have the child you believe that child is the fruit of your marriage, and that is the reason why you feel ready to welcome it. Had you thought . . . but no matter. This is good. Anything we can do for you we shall be delighted to do, rest assured of that.”
Sometimes, looking back, I ask myself: Why did you accept this and that? Why did you not inquire more closely into these strange things that happened to you? I suppose the answer is: I was very young and I appeared to have stepped into a world where strange things seemed the natural course of events.
I was brought down to reality one day in February. I was visiting Dr. Kleine once every three weeks and Ilse used to drive me into Klarengen; she would put the trap in an inn yard and shop while I went to Dr. Kleine’s nursing home.
He was satisfied with my progress and he did pay very special attention to me on Dr. Carlsberg’s instruction. I had had a shock, Dr. Carlsberg had told him—Dr. Kleine believed this to be the death of my husband—and in the circumstances might have a difficult confinement.
On this February day the sun was brilliant and there was a frost in the air. As I came out of the nursing home a voice behind me startled me as it took me right back to Oxford.
“If it isn’t Helena Trant!”
I turned and there were the Miss
es Elkington who ran a little tea shop near the Castle Mound, which was only open during the summer months. They sold tea and coffee with homemade cakes besides egg cozies, tea cozies, and embroidered mats which they made themselves. I had never liked them. They were constantly apologizing for selling their wares and making sure that everyone knew it was something they were not used to as they had come down in the world, their father having been a general.
“Oh, it’s Miss Edith and Miss Rose,” I said.
“Well, fancy meeting you here of all places.”
Their little eyes scrutinized me. They must have seen me come out of Dr. Kleine’s nursing home and would be wondering why. But not for long. Although I wore a loose coat my condition could not but be perfectly obvious.
“And what are you doing here, Helena?” Miss Elkington the elder was roguishly censorious.
“I’m staying with my cousin.”
“Oh yes, of course, you’ve been away some months.”
“I daresay I shall soon be back.”
“Well, well. It is a small world. So you are really staying here?”
“Not exactly. I’ve come in with my cousin. I’m joining her now.”
“I’m so glad we saw you,” said Miss Elkington.
“So nice to see people from home,” added her sister.
“I must hurry. My cousin is waiting . . .”
I was relieved to get away from them.
I looked at my reflection in a shop window. I didn’t think there could be much doubt of my condition.
The weeks had passed and my time was getting near. Ilse fussed over me; often I would find her seated in silence with a worried frown on her forehead and I knew she was concerned for me.
She had consulted both Drs. Carlsberg and Kleine and they had decided that I should go into Dr. Kleine’s nursing home a week or so before my child was expected. As for myself I continued in my state of placid euphoria. I could think of nothing but my child.
“You will have to wait until the baby is about a year old before you go to the Damenstift to teach English,” said Ilse. “Dr. Carlsberg has not mentioned your name, but on his recommendation no obstacles would be put in the way of your going there.”
How strange that would be! I thought. I remembered the old days (good heavens! It was not two years ago) when I had been a pupil—Helena Trant who had always been in trouble through her irrepressible spirits and love of adventure. How strange that I might go back a mother.
I pictured Schwester Maria taking sly peeps at the baby and trying to spoil it, and Schwester Gudrun saying: “Where Helena Trant was, there was always trouble.”
Then sometimes I would think of those three days and my love was as strong as ever making the longing to see Maximilian unbearable. Only the thought of our child could comfort me and I eagerly waited for the time when I should hold it in my arms.
On a bright April day Ilse drove me to the nursing home. I was taken to a private room, apart from the other patients. Dr. Carlsberg had asked that this should be so in view of the circumstances.
It was a pleasant room, everything gleaming white, yet seeming clinical in its cleanliness. There was a window from which I could look down on a lawn, which was very neatly bordered by flower beds.
Dr. Kleine introduced me to his wife, who expressed concern for my comfort. I asked how many other mothers were in the nursing home and I was told that there were several. They were constantly coming and going.
On the first day I looked through my window and saw five or six women walking about the lawn—all in various stages of pregnancy. They were chatting together and two of them sat side by side on one of the wooden benches near the flower beds; one was knitting, the other crocheting. They were joined by another woman who took out her sewing; and they talked animatedly together.
I was sorry they had decided to isolate me. I wanted to be down there with those other women.
I had been told that I could use the Kleines’ little garden to get some fresh air, but this was not the one where the women met. I went down to the Kleines’ garden and sat for a while on a garden seat but there was no one there and I wanted to talk about babies, to compare knitting.
While I was in the garden Frau Kleine came out to me and I told her I had seen another garden from my room. “There’s a lawn and there were several expectant mothers there. I should like to talk to them.”
She looked alarmed. “I think the doctor doesn’t feel that would be wise.”
“Why not?”
“I suppose he thinks it might upset you.”
“Why ever should it?”
“They all have homes and husbands. I think he thinks it might depress you.”
“It wouldn’t,” I cried vehemently. And I thought then I would not change the father of my child for any respectable husband these women might have. Then I knew that the reason I could be so happy was that I still believed that one day Maximilian would come back for me and then I should proudly show him our child; and within me there flourished still my childish dream that we should live happily ever after.
When I went back to my room the first thing I did was look out of the window. The lawn was deserted; they had all gone back to their rooms. But I determined to go down to the lawn.
Dr. Kleine now knew my story (Dr. Carlsberg had thought it wise to tell him) but it had been agreed that for the purposes of preventing gossip—which would have been magnified in any case and no doubt distorted—I was to be known as Mrs. Trant, a widow who had lost her husband some months before.
It was early afternoon, the siesta hour, when I decided to find my way down to the lawn. The house appeared to have been built round the garden which contained the lawn, and the women I had seen there had come from a door completely opposite the wing in which I had my room. I would have to work my way round to it so that I could come out by the door through which I had seen the women emerge.
I opened my door quietly. There was not a sound in the corridor. I went swiftly to a flight of stairs, descended it and found myself on a landing. I went along this in what I thought was the right direction and I came to a short flight of stairs which led to a door. As I approached I heard the sound of sobbing. I paused and listened.
There was no doubt that someone was in great distress.
I hesitated, wondering whether it would be better to find out if I could be of use or to ignore what I heard. Then, on impulse, I went up the three or four stairs and knocked on the door. The sobbing stopped. I knocked again.
“Who’s there?” said a high-pitched frightened voice.
“May I come in?” I asked. There was a sound which could have been an affirmative so I opened the door and entered a room rather like my own but smaller, and hunched on the bed was a girl of about my own age, her face swollen with crying, her hair in disorder.
We stared at each other.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Everything,” she replied bleakly.
I approached the bed and sat on it.
“I feel so terrible,” she said.
“Should I call someone?”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. I wish it were. It’s long overdue. I know I’m going to die.”
“Of course you won’t. You’ll feel better when the baby comes.”
Again she shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. Last night I thought of jumping out of the window.”
“Oh no!”
“It’s different for you. You’ve got a husband and a home and it’s all going to be wonderful.”
I didn’t answer. I said: “And you haven’t?”
“We should have been married,” she said. “He was killed six months ago. He was in the Duke’s Guard and the bomb was meant for the Duke. He would have married me.”
“So he was a soldier.”
She nodded. “We would have been married if he’d lived,” she reiterated.
In the Duke’s Guard, I was thinking. Duke Carl of Rochenstein and Dorrenig,
Count of Lokenburg.
“Your family will look after you,” I soothed.
Again the doleful shake of the head. “No they won’t. They won’t have me back. They brought me to Dr. Kleine but when it’s over they won’t have me back. I tried to kill myself once before. I walked out into the river but then I was frightened and they rescued me and brought me here.”
She was small and very young and frightened and I longed to help her. I wanted to tell her that I myself had a future to face which might not be easy, but my story was so fantastic, so different from one of a soldier lover who had come to an untimely end.
She was only sixteen, she told me. I felt so much older and protective. I said it was always wrong to despair. I was of some use to her, I believe, because of my recent suffering. I could recall, because it was so recent, the terrible desolation which had swept over me when I had been told that my romantic marriage was nothing but a myth.
At least I thought this girl had a plausible tragedy to relate.
I made her talk and she told me about the town of Rochenberg, the chief city of Rochenstein, where she had lived with her grandmother who remembered the day the present Duke’s father died, and he became the head of the ruling house. He had always been a good and serious-minded Duke—rather different from his son Prince Carl who was notoriously wild. Her grandmother had been a great loyalist and she would have welcomed a soldier of the Duke’s Guard into the family, but if he had been one of Ludwig’s men she would never have accepted him. But that made it all the more terrible because if they had not forestalled their marriage vows, if they had waited, they could have been respectably married in due course. But fate had gone against them. Their child was conceived just before the bomb intended for the Duke had destroyed her lover, leaving her desolate forever—and with a double burden for to her grief was added shame. She could not endure it, nor would her grandmother. She had no notion how she was going to fend for herself and the child, and the river had seemed an easy solution.