Ursula Hegi The Burgdorf Cycle Boxed Set: Floating in My Mother's Palm, Stones from the River, The Vision of Emma Blau. Children and Fire (2 page)

Sister Agathe examines my mother. Warm and dry, her palms move across my mother’s belly. She is a slight woman with patient eyes. Her strong hands have guided many infants from the womb. “The child needs rest too.” She smiles at my mother. “It’s normal.”

My mother has trusted Sister Agathe ever since she was a girl and the sister removed a rusty nail from her bare foot. Twice her parents took her to the Theresienheim with a broken arm, and each time Sister Agathe set her bone without scolding her for being careless. When she became pregnant,
my mother chose the sister instead of going to the midwife.

“It won’t be long now.” The sister’s hand brushes a strand of damp hair from my mother’s forehead.

My mother wants to believe her. Yet, she has felt my relentless movements for months now, growing more powerful with each day. To her, the cessation of my efforts signals something terribly wrong.

“Go home now,” the sister tells her. “Rest if you can.”

It has taken my mother four years of marriage to become pregnant. “But what if something is wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. I wish you wouldn’t worry.”

Though my mother wants to protest, she sits up and lowers her dress. Her steps echo through the tiled halls of the convent. Outside, the spring air is tinged with scents of cinnamon and vanilla. At the corner the Hansen bakery truck stands parked, its side panel open to display loaves of crisp bread, glazed buns, and pastries.

Three days of waiting press my mother into cold swells of fear that she tries to ease with prayers she can’t finish because she keeps forgetting words, entire lines.

“Move,” she whispers to me while my father sleeps next to her.

“Move,” she screams at me when she is alone.

Her hands keep returning to her belly, which is low and massive and still. She tries to paint, but the shapes don’t match her vision, and the colors feel flat. She builds an oak frame for a painting she finished last February of deer grazing among blue winter trees. Bare patches show through the snow-covered ground where the deer search for grass. Their bellies are white reflections of the snow.

When finally she feels the tightening of her uterus—like monthly cramps, only stronger—she envisions the child
within her stirring again. But this feels different, not the shape of a head or limb expanding her abdomen for an instant, but rather an ultimate rising of her center toward something unknown, yet familiar.

It is early, a quarter past six, when she walks back to the convent. Frau Talmeister’s window is closed. The streets are vacant. A few of the buildings are still piles of rubble from the war that ended last year, but most of the houses have been rebuilt. The leaves of the chestnut trees cast long shadows across the sidewalk. My mother walks along Schreberstrasse, past the brook where, as a girl, she used to swing herself across the shallow water, gripping the branches of the willow that grows high and wide above the brook. She passes the playground where empty benches surround the sandbox. Without motion the swings hang from their steel frames.

The Theresienheim is locked. Beams of sun break the chill of morning and strike the stained-glass windows of the chapel, fanning into feathers of blood and sky. My mother rings the bell outside the carved door. Her legs feel cold and heavy. She hesitates before she rings again.

After what seems like a long time, a young postulant opens the door far enough to block it with her body. “The sisters are in church.”

“I need to see Sister Agathe. The child—”

“Can you come back in an hour?”

“—it’s about to be born, I think.”

The postulant averts her eyes from my mother’s belly as if ashamed for her. “The sisters need their breakfast after mass.”

“Sister Agathe would want to know.” Pain presses itself through my mother’s womb, enshrouds her spine—white wafers of fire.

“I’m not allowed to call them out of church.” The postulant falters. “But I’ll let you wait,” she whispers and opens the door further to let my mother in. “Over there.”
She points to the bench under the painting of Jesus exposing his bleeding heart through the blue folds of his tunic.

My mother gathers her hands across her huge belly, as if holding me like this will somehow protect both of us. Carefully, she lowers herself onto the rigid bench. The high voices of the nuns glide through the closed door of the chapel, weightless above the current of the organist’s “Ave Maria,” a river of sound that spills across my mother and makes her wish she could drift within it. But she is seized by another contraction, and despite her bulk, she feels incredibly small, much smaller than the cry that escapes her.

When the nuns file out of the chapel, their black habits swish in soft waves around their shoes. Heads bent, hands tucked into the opposite ends of their sleeves, they walk silently past my mother, whose hands grip the plank of the bench. Her face feels numb from trying to hold the pain within herself.

“Here. Let me.” Sister Agathe separates herself from the line of nuns. Gently, she grasps my mother’s elbow and leads her down a long corridor, past open doors that frame the beds of the old people who live here. In an empty white room, she helps my mother climb on a long table covered with a starched sheet. “I’m sorry you had to wait for me.” Running her hands across my mother’s belly, she stands with her head tilted as if listening for the sound of something far away.

“Can you feel—”

“Wait.” Her palms prod my mother’s sides as though trying to lift the child through the wall of flesh.

Suddenly my mother finds it difficult to breathe. “Sister Agathe—”

“Wait,” the sister says again. “Please?” A fine layer of sweat has formed above her upper lip. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Without looking at my mother, she leaves the room.

My mother guides her hands along the familar outline of
her belly which is taut and still. She draws in a deep breath that makes the skin beneath her fingers expand. Carefully she releases it, then draws in another long breath and holds it.

When Sister Agathe returns, she brings Sister Ingeborg, the supervisor of nurses; she tells my mother to move her palms from her abdomen and replaces them with her own pale hands.

Into the silence my mother blurts, “You must call a doctor. Please!” It takes courage for her to request this. She has grown up in this town. Has grown up with these sisters who teach school and tend to the ill. With these sisters who’ve become accustomed to the obedience they’ve nurtured in women and children.

The sisters glance at each other as Sister Agathe steps back from the table. She pulls a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabs at her upper lip.

“The child—” Sister Ingeborg shakes her head. “It’s too late. You’ve carried the child too long.”

My mother feels her womb tighten in protest under the nun’s touch. She raises herself on her elbows, searches Sister Agathe’s face for some signal, some promise, but the sister’s eyes flicker away, and her fingers stray to the rosary hanging from her belt.

“The child’s soul is with the Lord now.” Sister Ingeborg’s voice is calm. Assuring. “Your body will expel it whenever it is ready.”

During my first year of life, when she nurses me, my mother will often recall the rage that sprang up within her at the nun’s words, a rage that gave her the courage to hoist herself from the white table and walk from the room, from the hospital and into the street where the Hansen bakery truck was parked. She persuaded the driver, Herr Meier, to close the side panel and drive her to the midwife’s house. Inside the white truck with the blue lettering, surrounded by the fresh dough smell of the morning loaves, she felt her
contractions become a pulse independent of her own, swallowing her own, a red pulse of rage that sustained the only faith she was capable of—that the child within her was alive.

  
Trudi Montag’s Romantic Episode

I
don’t know how often our housekeeper told me the story of Trudi Montag’s fall—perhaps only once. All I remember is that I grew up with her story and imagined her many times as an infant falling from her mother’s arms. Each time I pictured the fall in slow motion, Trudi landed on her head with a soft, sick plop—never on the side or the back of her head, always the top. And then she rolled over and lay still. Very still.

The accident, I believed, stunted her growth and destroyed her mother’s sanity. She refused to touch the child at all and took to hiding behind St. Martin’s Church, pressing herself against the arched door of the sacristy with her arms flung out as if waiting for someone to drive nails through her palms and into the oiled wood. The pastor would call her husband, who’d pry her off the door and carry her home. But he couldn’t stay with her every moment, and soon she’d be back at the sacristy door, taller than the priest and certainly more impassioned, barring his entrance to the sacred chalices and vestments. After she was sent off to the Grafenberg asylum, Trudi was raised by her father who ran the pay-library, where, for a few
pfennige, the people in Burgdorf could borrow romances, American westerns, nurse-and-doctor novels, mysteries, and war novels—books that the church library refused to have on its shelves.

Between the stacks of books the child played with dolls whose heads were well-shaped and in the right proportion to the rest of their bodies. Customers occasionally picked her up and stroked her silver-blond hair, telling her what pretty curls she had, while over her shoulder they whispered to her father, “The poor little thing.”

By the time I was twelve, Trudi Montag had inherited the pay-library. Though she was in her early forties, she was less than one meter twenty tall. Her shoulders were broad, her head too large. I have pictured her as a girl, growing until she was ten or eleven. Perhaps something at the top of her head had closed her off where her mother had dropped her, while inside her body the growing continued. Where could it go except spread outward? Into her face, her shoulders, her hips. Sideways. Into her legs, her fingers, stretching her skin until it was tight.

She knew everything. As soon as it happened. Before it happened. She had the dubious gift of guessing what went on behind closed doors. These insights she embroidered into stories which she circulated around town. Bearer of news—good and bad—she walked through the streets of Burgdorf on O-shaped legs, wearing cardigans that never quite closed over the wide bosom of her striped house-dresses, moving with the assurance one usually sees in women who are truly beautiful. To each encounter she brought her friendly curiosity; yet, when people saw her advancing toward them, they expected the worst; even good news barely made up for that first sense of dread they’d felt at the sight of her.

On the surface Burgdorf was a town of great virtues
while underneath all kinds of transgressions were hushed up. It was a town of pretend where many adults, after tremendous failings, would fabricate proper lives, and the town would pretend along with them, protecting that shallow veneer of respectability. Herr Pastor Beier, who listened to the confessions of countless sins, could be counted on to whitewash them all through absolution, but Trudi Montag would not let the town forget any of its flaws.

Every day at noon, as soon as the bells from St. Martin’s rang, she closed her library for two hours, ate a slab of black bread with Dutch cheese and sliced tomatoes, and set out to carry the morning’s gossip through town. Taking up most of the sidewalk, she took strategic sweeps past those places that enriched and distributed her supply of information: Becker’s grocery store, the midwife’s house, Frau Talmeister’s window, Anton Immers’s butcher shop, the Hansen bakery truck.… Like an ancient trader, she bartered until she had extracted a piece of new gossip from her listeners.

Our housekeeper, Frau Brocker, was one of Trudi’s reluctant messengers; she liked to pretend she’d known about something all along. It irritated her to be fed a generous amount of local news; yet, she would have complained had Trudi Montag excluded her. My mother, who considered gossip cheap, said it was the one side of Frau Brocker she didn’t like.

In her pay-library Trudi Montag told me that my mother had stopped going to church after my brother, Joachim, had died, that our housekeeper’s son, Rolf, was illegitimate, and that my great-uncle Alexander had leapt from the attic window of the four-story house he had built, the house that my mother had inherited and where we still lived in a large apartment on the first floor. As a young man Alexander had lost his wife to tuberculosis, and he’d never
remarried or had children. Though Trudi Montag hadn’t actually witnessed his fall, she’d seen the spot on the sidewalk where he’d landed, and she’d talked with Frau Talmeister who’d seen it happen from her window across the street.

“He wore his best suit,” Trudi Montag said, “and a white carnation in his lapel. He opened his arms as if to fly.” Her words painted him for me, the unsmiling man I’d seen only in faded sepia photos, his sandy hair cut close to his skull, standing rigidly in formal clothes as he stared into the camera.
He climbs out of the attic window. Stands on the flat section of tiles four stories above the street. The air feels cool against his face, and he smoothes his Kaiser Wilhelm mustache. Spreading his arms in the prelude to an embrace, he leaps out of those posed photographs
.