Devotion(112)

Anna Maria rubbed Thea’s back. ‘Let him go make himself busy. You’ll be a little while yet.’

Thea turned around, wide-eyed. ‘Is something wrong?’

Her mother smiled. ‘Not at all, my daughter.’


The night passed in an endless outpouring of sound. Hans returned, drenched through, and reluctantly fell asleep by the fire after Anna Maria assured him all was as it should be. I marvelled that the relentless drumming of rain did not wake him. At some point in the near-dawn, as Thea was telling her mother she could not do this, that she would not, I went outside, and it seemed to me that the sky was the sea, that the world had swung upside down and the oceans, now above us in smoky, steeled darkness, were falling upon the earth in revelations of water.

I tilted my face to the sky and opened my mouth, and the sea was upon my tongue.


He was perfect. I watched from the doorway as the baby, his voice all tender vibration of need, was lifted onto Thea’s chest. As she nursed him, Hans and Anna Maria sat on the bed beside her and offered up gratitude to God, each word holding their relief and joy.

‘Johann,’ Thea said, as they lifted their heads from prayer. ‘His name is Johann.’

The rain stopped as he was born, as though it had served only to herald his coming.


I waited until they were all asleep before I stepped to the little wooden bassinet beside the bed.

I was in awe of him. So soon come from the place of creation, he seemed to shiver with the mystery of life. I brought my face to his, heard the strange noises he made, his small, light, rapid breathing.

I placed my palm on his chest, noticed the eyelashes not yet unfurled.

In his sleep the child mouthed at his blanket and, finding no sustenance there, crumpled into a kittenish cry. I stood and saw that Thea was already pulling herself out of bed, hands already reaching for his body. She pulled at her nightgown and brought him to her breast, arms crossed beneath him, eyes half closed, as he set to nursing with little grunts.

I marvelled at him and, in that moment, knew him as my own.





ordinary divinity


The winter passed in milk and love, wet cloths strung before the fire, sleep broken-backed. News travelled to Heiligendorf, and the women of the congregation walked to the cottage with food and gifts and clothing. Anna Maria visited as often she was able, knocking on the door and sweeping in with salves and food and offers to hold the baby so that Thea might sleep. Mother and daughter spent nights going through the Seventh Book of Moses, Anna Maria telling Thea which cures she had found best when Thea was a child. ‘You should plant an oak tree,’ she told Thea. ‘A young oak will be good for broken bones.’

I sat within the cottage, content to behold Johann as he grew, to make sure of his grip on the world. I was overwhelmed by the possibilities of his life. What he might do, how he might die. I could not help but hope that he would be a good man, would be good to women and men and himself, would know how to be silent and when to speak. At nights, I sat by his cradle and wished for him all things that might make a life beautiful. A love of growing things, a noticing of the overlooked. A sturdy, soft heart ever open to ordinary divinity: a ripe apricot half upon the tongue; the nape of a lover’s neck; the sound of a duck landing on water from flight. And I wished that he would see enough sunrises that his last would not be tragic. The hours could never fit all the things I wished for him.


Spring suggested itself to the wind and the valley was splendour-bright in sunlight, a consolation for the fractured nights of feeding and crying and settling. The orchard creeped with green and eddies of wattle blossom from the bush behind the cottage ringed dried puddles in the yard. Johann’s cloths gathered yellow dust on the line. The air was warm.

One afternoon I was sitting cross-legged on the floor, next to Johann in his cradle. He had been screaming for most of the day and Thea was bent over, rocking him with her eyes half-closed, brow creased in frustration. When a knocking came at the cottage door, Thea, exhausted, called out for Anna Maria to come in and did not turn around. It wasn’t until I heard the visitor clear her throat that I looked up and saw Christiana Radtke standing in the doorway.

Thea glanced over her shoulder, then stood up, startled. ‘Oh. Christiana. I wasn’t expecting you.’

‘Congratulations,’ Christiana said, attempting a thin sort of smile. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.’ She pointed at the crying baby. ‘Johann, isn’t it?’

Thea picked him up, and his cries finally eased into a shuddering hiccup. ‘He’s teething, I think,’ she said. ‘None of us are getting much sleep. Oh, Christiana, have a seat. Sorry, here.’ She pulled out a chair from the table with her free hand.

Christiana sat down stiffly, eyes moving over the inside of the little cottage, taking in the bed in the corner, the chair by the fire, the little carved animals lined up on the windowsill. ‘Where is Hans?’ she asked.

‘In Heiligendorf,’ Thea said, easing herself down into the chair opposite. ‘At the blacksmith’s. I expect he’ll be back tonight.’

Christiana said nothing but brought a fingertip to the table and traced the marks left by the adze. ‘I meant to come earlier,’ she said. ‘With Mama.’

‘That’s all right,’ Thea said, voice gentle. ‘You must be busy.’

‘Yes. Laundering for the English.’ She hesitated. ‘Henriette is engaged. Pastor Flügel will read the banns this Sunday.’