My Enemy's Cradle (40 page)

"Karl searched for you. He tried everything to find you."

I almost break down at this. "I've been searching, too."

"How did you find us?"

"I looked in Munich first. No Karl Getz. Well, there were—but none were him." I pause, overwhelmed by the inadequacy of these words. So many street corners. So many registries and so many clerks.
Look again. Please. Look again.

"
Ja,
" she said. "It's still so hard to find people."

"After that, I came to Hamburg. All I knew was that he had grown up outside of Hamburg somewhere on the Elbe. I searched every village on the river—I've been here almost a month. I asked about Karl. I asked about you. And then I asked about Lina."

The little girl's head turns at the mention of her name. She studies her mother and then me, decides there's no risk, then goes back to her dolls.

"I went to every school in every town along the river. I didn't know your last name, but I asked for a little girl of six named Lina, with a mother named Erika. And an uncle. No luck. Until today. Lina's teacher didn't want to give me your address at first, but I convinced her. I told her the girls were related."

"They almost were. No, they
are,
" Erika says. "Karl searched for months. He wrote to every town in the Netherlands. He didn't think to look in England."

I look up, surprised, until I remember that my daughter has spoken a few words. "Yes, England. I've been working in an orphanage there."

"How did you get there?" she asks.

"I went to Isaak's synagogue as soon as I could. I had to find out."

Erika leans over and covers my hand with hers. "Isaak? The father? Is he.... "

I shake my head and look away, waiting for the tears to fill my eyes and then retreat. "Buchenwald."

"I'm sorry."

I wait until the tightness in my throat eases. I didn't go to the shed. I will be haunted by that forever. "He had taken care of things for me before he ... new papers, complete identification. I was a woman with connections in England. With those, I was able to get passage. Isaak hadn't counted on the baby—he thought I would be leaving months before she was born—so that was difficult, but I managed. Well, it doesn't matter now."

Only one thing matters now. In this room, I'm so close to him, at last. But not close enough.

I lift a letter. "May I?" I take a pen and a little notebook from my purse and copy down the return address.

"He'll be so happy. You'll write at once?"

"No. I'm not going to write."

She looks at me, puzzled. "But he should know. He deserves to know."

"I need to see his face. I need to see what's in his eyes that first moment." Because I've remembered the last thing Anneke told me—what I would find in them if he were the one. Erika is a woman. She understands. Anneke and I make our good-byes and then get back on a tram for Hamburg. It's still early enough. We ask directions to the nearest travel agency.

"I can get you berths on a steamer on the nineteenth."

"No," I decide suddenly. "We must leave tomorrow."

The woman checks a schedule, a register. "It will cost a lot more, such short notice."

The tickets cost almost all the money I have left.

My first view of him, after all this time: at the keel of a sailboat, his skin the same color as the sleek wood gleaming in the hot sun. He bends to dip a brush into a pail of varnish. I remember him bent over exactly like this, in the parlor in Steinhöring. I know his back now. And even at this distance, I can see what they did to his hands. I walk closer, the sand silencing my steps. I can barely breathe, but I hold Anneke and wait, whispering to her to be still.

She can't. Where I see only one thing, she sees water in a color she's never known before, black and white birds tumbling in a line along the shore, palm trees—which must look like giant green umbrellas waving to her—spilling from the cliffs.

I drop her to the sand and she runs.

He straightens, watches her. I imagine he's smiling faintly, as people do. I imagine he's picturing Lina there at the shore, picking up shells. Then, as people do when they see a child alone, he scans the beach for a caretaker. Children can't be left alone.

He turns.

I have a sudden instant of panic: We have been apart so long! People can be lost to each other in so many ways ...

The brush drops from his hand.

And in his eyes I see my home.

The birthrate in Germany had plummeted after the First World War—the male population had been decimated, the country was in financial ruin, and abortion was available, although illegal. In 1935 Heinrich Himmler set up the Lebensborn (Wellspring or Fountain of Life) Organization, under the umbrella of the Nazi SS Race and Resettlement Office, whose goal was to increase the population of the "Master Race."

The program consisted of three phases. First was a massive public-relations campaign to encourage all "racially valuable" women and girls to have as many children as possible, with or without the benefit of marriage. It was not uncommon for fanaticized German girls as young as fifteen to have relations with SS men in order to present their country with new citizens and future soldiers. Maternity homes were set up throughout Germany, mostly in confiscated Jewish spas, resorts, and villas, where girls and women could go through their pregnancies and give birth in comfort, secrecy, and safety.

The second phase was an expansion of the program to occupied countries. Maternity homes were set up where "suitably Aryan" girls pregnant by occupying forces could have their babies. These children were considered German citizens at birth and were taken to be raised in Nazi homes or institutions. In all, homes were set up in seven countries, but girls from virtually every Western European country, including the British Channel Islands, were involved and lost their children.

The third phase consisted of the wholesale kidnapping of children from eastern occupied countries—over 200,000 children from Poland alone. The vast majority were never returned to their families after the war.

Mothers who had given birth in Lebensborn homes who tried to find their children after the war were unable to; records were deliberately kept secret and, in many cases, destroyed. Babies and children still in the Lebensborn homes or in orphanages or institutions were often abandoned. In the occupied countries, these children bore the stigma of their conception and suffered from neglect and abuse. Disproportionate numbers of them grew up autistic or were incorrectly labeled as mentally deficient and institutionalized. Even today, as older adults, they suffer elevated rates of depression, alcoholism, and suicide.

The tragedy of the Lebensborn experience is incalculable and affected women and children across Europe. Yet it remains one of the least-known aspects of World War II history.

A book is never written alone. For six years, whenever I mentioned the project I was working on, people invariably responded, "I might be able to help you"—during the writing of this book, I discovered as much about human generosity as I did about the history I was researching. Because I had so much to learn before I could tell the story, I am indebted to literally hundreds of people; it would be impossible to thank them all, but I would be remiss not to try.

First, I wish to thank the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. For three years, they have granted me fellowships during which I worked on major parts of this book. By providing space, freedom from responsibilities, and a supportive environment, they created for me a heaven—the safe place from which I could write along the borders of hell. For the same reason, I wish also to thank the Ragdale Foundation and the Vermont Studio Center, each of which granted me a residency during which I worked on this book.

Tom Gallen. We took a walk, you mentioned the Lebensborns and then patiently answered my questions about them ... seven years later, look what's come of that. My writing group ... words fail. Maureen Hourihan, Rose Connors, Pauline Grocki, Penny Haughwaut ... smart, talented, big-hearted women who nourish and inspire and inform me week after week, and then do me the enormous favor of cutting the crap out of my pages.

Shana Deets, poetess and force of nature, who generously provided the poetry and the poet's soul of my character. In the same manner, Brad Pease, of Pease Boat Works in Chatham, MA—who answered my many questions about boatbuilding and, more important, gave me an insight into the passionate heart of someone who loves the art. Thank you to Harm de Blij, the renowned geographer and historian, who sat in my living room and painted pictures of Occupied Holland for me. Thank you to so many people who—in person, in their books and diaries and online journals—shared their memories when that was difficult. Pauline and Siggi, especially ... I hope you smile when you see the details you contributed. And thank you to the Netherlands Institute for War Documentation for their careful read and their insightful feedback.

In my research I drew on a great deal of resources and historical matter; these are a few of those which I found most helpful: "Hitler's Perfect Children," a video from the History Channel, transcript: 20/20, air date: 00/04/26;
Wartime Encounter with Geography
by Harm de Blij, The Book Guild Ltd, 2000;
Of Pure Blood,
by Marc Hillel and Clarissa Henry, Pocket Books, 1978;
The Holocaust Chronicle,
various contributing authors, Publications International, Ltd., 2000;
Master Race
by Catrine Clay and Michael Leapman, Hodder & Stoughton, Ltd.;
WWII—Time-Life Books History of the Second World War,
Prentice Hall Trade, 1989.

So many readers to thank: the wonderful writers Anne LeClaire, who looked at the rough pieces I had in the beginning and told me she believed I could do this thing, and Jackie Mitchard, who took a look at the end and told me she believed that I had. The Tideline Writers for weighing in with wisdom on many of the chapters; Jebba, Ginny, and Ann for doing the same for the book as a whole.

And then it was a manuscript ... which it would be still if it weren't for my agent, Steven Malk. As always, I am so grateful for your belief in me and for your integrity, and for what a relief it is be able to hand over a stack of pages and know that you will see it as a book. Thank you next to Jenna Johnson, my editor at Har-court, who took a chance on the possibility and then wisely showed me the final form this novel should take ... it's been a pleasure.

And finally, my love and gratitude to my children, Caleb and Hillary—for all the times I was writing this book instead of being with them. And for everything else.