My Name is Eva(74)

‘Let her,’ Brigitte said, putting a hand on Sally’s arm. ‘It’s only natural.’

‘She’s hungry,’ murmured Eva. ‘She needs me. I didn’t know she’d need me.’

Brigitte and Sally looked at each other, but Eva did not notice; her gaze was entirely on the baby held close to her breast. ‘I know I must let her go eventually, but for now, she’s mine. My baby. And I am the best person to care for her.’





67





Wildflecken



1 October 1947



My darling,



I have not felt this much overwhelming love or this much anguish since I was informed of your demise and although this time it is not a death I am mourning, it is painful and distressing in an entirely different way. The child came into this world healthy, I held her briefly and now she has gone to live apart from me.

My head tells me that this is the only solution, that I could not keep her, that it is better she has a good life, not knowing anything of the manner of her conception. But my heart is torn in pieces again after feeling her soft skin, her downy head and hearing her cries.

Although the act of her creation was violent, her birth, albeit painful, was wonderful. She is perfectly formed and though I had expected to feel indifference or even disdain for this child of that terrible man, I could not. I was sure I would not want to look at her or hold her, but when I saw her in Brigitte’s arms I held out my hands to cradle her. Then I looked into her innocent eyes and saw only trust and unquestioning love, which I felt equally in return.

But today, after feeding her from my breast for seven days, I have kissed her for the last time, smelt her milky scent for the last time and let her fingers grip mine for the very last time. She has gone to her new home and I am totally bereft. But, my darling, I will grow strong, for your sake and for the sake of all who have made sacrifices during these difficult and trying years. I have given her away to grow up with loving parents and eventually I will leave this place and never see her or know of her again.



Your loving Evie, xxxx Ps I love you





68





Eva, 24 December 1950





Christmas is For Children





Eva shrank back into the furthest shadows of the candlelit church, hiding behind the many families gathered for this special service. She could see the little girl chattering to the woman who held her hand. Her blonde hair was twisted into pigtails beneath a woollen bonnet, her chubby legs wrapped in hand-knitted stockings and her body buttoned up in a warm grey coat sewn from a thick blanket. She looked strong, healthy and well cared for, and Eva longed to pick her up, breathe the scent of her skin again and kiss her cheeks.

Eva could not stop watching her, drinking in every second, knowing she should never have put the child born out of hatred to her breast. Ever since her birth, Eva’s head had been filled with thoughts of her daughter, perhaps the only child she would ever bear.

The pain of her first suckling was nothing to the pain I’ve felt since giving her away. No mother, anywhere, under any circumstances in the world, can ever find it easy to abandon their own offspring. Parents in London evacuating their children to unknown families in the countryside, far from the threat of bombs, persecuted Jews in Europe waving goodbye to the Kindertransport, not knowing whether they would ever meet again. But none of them could have done it without stifling their cries as their hearts tore into pieces.

She continued gazing at this little blonde being of her own flesh and blood, born through sweat, agony and tears, born out of a brief but unforgettable moment of brutal hate. She was not to blame. She was innocent, oh so innocent, from her very first breath.

I thought it would be easy. I thought because she wasn’t Hugh’s child and, especially because she was the product of such a cruel attack, I could discard her, give her away without a second thought. But she looked at me with her puzzled eyes when she was born, when I held her for the very first time. I should never have held her, never put her to my breast, never felt the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath and her sweet scent, but my instinct was to protect her; she was so new and so vulnerable.

It was Christmas again and snow had fallen, just as it did every year at that time. In the camp there were freshly cut fir trees, excited children and the smell of that year’s batch of plum liqueur. And in the local Catholic church in Gemünden on that Christmas Eve, where Eva watched from her dark corner, there was the perfumed haze of incense mingling with musty woollens as people came to prepare for the celebratory feast that awaited them later that night.

But I should never keep coming back to see her. I knew from the very start I should have just turned my head away from that plaintive newborn cry, but it was so needy, so pitiful. But I looked and I touched and then I couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist. And now I long to slip her hands out of her red mittens, just for a moment, so I can look again at the perfect pearls of nails on every finger. I wonder, if I tipped her chin, are her eyes still blue? And I yearn to take off her bonnet, uncoil her plaits and feel the silk of her hair in my fingers.

If she had been stillborn or had died soon after her birth, it would have been easier. That would have saddened me, a new life so quickly gone, but then I could have forgotten about her. Then she would never have been more to me than a tiny crumpled newborn, not this laughing dimpled child, growing more full of life with every day, every month, every passing year.