The Orphan's Tale(54)

“You hate it,” he says, running his hand over the chest and sounding disappointed.

Yes, I want to say, though I had vowed after what happened in Darmstadt that I would never hide again. “Not exactly,” I reply instead, not wanting to hurt his feelings when he meant well. “It’s perfect,” I add, too quickly. In truth, it is smaller than the hiding place in Darmstadt. I could scarcely manage it now, much less when my stomach grows larger.

“Then what is it?” he asks, cupping my chin in his hand and studying my face. “You’re so pale. Are you ill? Did something happen?” His face creases with concern as he sees through my facade, sensing something wrong.

Terror seizes me then. Not at my pregnancy or the danger of being caught by the police, or even the SS. No, I am petrified of this...this thing between me and Peter. It started as two people who were lonely, drawn to each other to fill a void. And it was meant to stay that way. But at some point when I was not paying attention, it had turned into so much more—for me as well as for him.

I hesitate. Telling Peter will change everything. But I cannot worry him like this by remaining silent. And there is a part of me that desperately wants to share the news with him. Tell him, a voice more Noa’s than mine seems to say inside my head. He loves me and that will be enough.

I take a deep breath, exhale. “Peter, I’m pregnant.” I hold my breath waiting for his reaction.

He does not answer but stares at me blankly. “Peter, did you hear me?” I ask. The walls seem to draw closer and the air is suffocating. “Please, say something.”

“That’s impossible,” he says, his voice filled with disbelief.

“It’s true,” I reply weakly. What did he think we had been doing all of those nights in the winter quarters?

He stands up and begins to pace, running his hand through his hair. “I mean, it’s possible of course,” he continues, as though I had not spoken. “Just hard to believe. And with everything that is going on right now, it complicates things.”

My heart sinks. Telling him had been a mistake. “You don’t sound pleased,” I say, and my cheeks burn, as though I have been slapped. “I didn’t plan this. I’m sorry to inconvenience you.”

He sits again and takes my hands. “No, darling, it isn’t that at all,” he replies, his face softer now, tone gentle. “Nothing would make me happier.”

“You mean, you want to be a father?” I ask, surprised.

“No,” he says quickly and my heart sinks. He does not want this after all. “It’s that I already am.” His voice is slow and scratchy, every word hard-fought.

“I don’t understand.” The room around me begins to spin and bile rises in my throat once more. I will myself to take short, shallow breaths. “What are you talking about?”

“I had a child.” Had. His face is more pained than I have ever seen it.

“Oh!” I gasp. I am stunned. I had assumed Peter had a life before me, but a child? Suddenly it seems I do not know him at all.

“I was married to a ballerina from Moscow named Anya,” he says, looking away, his voice hollow. I try to picture his wife, and imagine with more than a little jealousy someone tall and willowy, with long graceful limbs. Where is she now? “We had a little girl, Katya.” His voice cracks as he says her name. He tries to continue, moving his lips, but no sound comes out.

“What happened?” I ask, dreading the answer but at the same time needing to know.

He sits mutely for several seconds, unable to go on. “Spanish flu. The best doctors and hospitals couldn’t help her.”

“How old was she?”

“Four.” He buries his head in his hands, his back shaking with silent sobs. I sit helplessly beside him, my mind reeling as I try to process it all. A few minutes later, he lifts his head, wiping his eyes. “I suppose I should have said something sooner, but it’s just so hard.

“Anya died shortly after Katya,” he adds. “The doctor said it was also flu. I think it was a broken heart. So it was all gone, you see.” His voice catches and I wonder if he might break down once more.

“I’m sorry.” I throw my arms around him and rest my head against his shoulder. But my sympathy is inadequate and it is impossible to ease a pain I did not share. I understand so much more about him then, his dark moods and his drinking.

“This brings painful memories for you,” I add.

He shakes his head. “No, it is good to remember both of them. But you see why I am nervous.”

“I understand.” He is afraid, I realize, of having another child, loving as deeply as he once had. Then, he had all of the money and privilege in the world and it had not been enough. How could he possibly protect and care for a child now? “It will be fine,” I say, forcing conviction into my voice to cover my own doubts. “We can do this.” Now it is my turn to be strong.

“Yes, of course we can,” Peter replies, forcing a smile. He kisses me once, then again. He brings his mouth to my eyelids, lips, cheeks, breasts. His weight pushes me back against the bed and for a second it seems he will try to take me. But he simply rests his head on my belly, not speaking.

“Before you, I had given up hope,” he says finally. “I don’t know what I would do without you. I love you,” he adds. The feelings that he has kept pent up since we’ve been together seem to bubble forth. And though I once longed for them, I am overwhelmed. It is too much now, to carry him and the child.