Wunderland(28)

But it did come on, and of course Rudi released her like a hot plate and all but leapt to attention in his seat.

Thinking back on it now, Renate realizes that she actually almost can understand it, how those nine hundred BDM girls Ilse told her about came back from last year’s Nuremberg Rally pregnant. Nine hundred girls, who simply did with their bodies what her own body seems to be begging her to do.

And those were just the ones who got in trouble from it. The ones who actually did end up propagating.

“What?” asks Ilse, looking up from her history book.

“Nothing,” says Renate, flushing slightly (had she said it aloud?). “Just—this notice. It’s telling us that we have to have babies. I don’t know if they mean when we’re married or not.”

“Does it matter?”

“What?”

“Well, a baby is a baby.” Ilse shrugs. “If the point of having them is to boost the population, it doesn’t really matter what their parents do or don’t do, does it? Just so long as the silly things get born.”

“I feel like I’m talking to Ida Fuchs.” Renate laughs. And then stops, struck by a sudden, stunning possibility. “Hold on,” she says. “You haven’t actually…”

Ilse stares back at her, at first looking confused. Then she laughs. “Oh, good God. Of course not.”

Renate lets her breath out in relief. After the Book Lady incident they’d sworn to share any and all details of their love lives with each other. And to date Renate faithfully has, whispering and giggling and blushing. Ilse, however, has had nothing to report (and for that matter, seems more annoyed than impressed by Renate’s breathless recountings).

Tossing the yearbook back onto the table, Renate flips quickly through a small book of blood purity poetry (Keep your blood pure / it is not yours alone) before abandoning it for the April issue of Das Deutsche M?del, the magazine that published Ilse’s first poem, and for which her friend will now be writing regularly. “Your Duty to Be Healthy!” reads the title article, which turns out to list the steps every Deutsches M?del should take to ensure that her body and mind are primed for patriotic motherhood. Get ten hours of sleep a night. Exercise your body daily. Be domestically capable. Avoid stuffy cinemas and overcrowded smoky bars.

Frowning, Renate rereads the list. She’d expected to have to catch up in things like running and gymnastics. But sleeping? Ten entire hours? For better or worse she is constitutionally a night owl, regularly reading until three a.m. and deeming every moment of exhaustion over it well worth it if the book was a good one. Domestic prowess is equally dubious. She can bake a little—but is only allowed to do so under the careful guidance of their housekeeper, since the one time she and Ilse attempted a Linzer torte they somehow set the oven rack on fire. (“You’re marvels,” Franz told them, with genuine-sounding admiration. “I didn’t even know that was possible.”) But even this skill seems of dubious value given the last “warning” on the list: Be mindful of what you put in your body: too many sweets will make you lazy and plump!

She thinks of Ilse, joyously stuffing her mouth with Herr Schloss’s poppyseed cake. She thinks of their long-lost, quiet moments after school, now so much rarer since Ilse has the BDM and Renate has Rudi (when he doesn’t have Hitlerjugend). Once she’s accepted into the ranks of the BDM she and Ilse will spend more time together. But based on what Ilse’s told her, that time will center on things like flag-toting and hiking…sighing, she slips her blue composition notebook out of her satchel and begins carefully copying down the magazine’s mandates. She might as well begin getting used to them.

After what seems an hour, the examination room door opens and a squat, spotty-faced girl with brown hair steps out, straightening her skirt.

“How was it?” Renate asks her eagerly.

The girl shrugs. “Fine.” She doesn’t look at all like the BDM ideal—the strong, long-limbed, sylphlike Aryan. But it also doesn’t look like that matters—from her sanguine expression, it’s clear that she, at least, has passed the physical exam.

“Did he check how strong you were?” asks Renate. “Ask how fast you can run?”

“Yes,” interjects Ilse. “And he made her climb to the very top of a big rope that hangs from the ceiling—just like the one you couldn’t climb in Athletics.”

The brown-haired girl looks puzzled. “No, he didn’t. Why would a doctor’s office have a climbing rope?”

Ilse bursts into laughter. “Your face!” she says, giving Renate’s narrow shoulder a push. “You really believed it.”

“No, I didn’t,” says Renate, blushing.

“There was nothing like that.” The brown-haired girl is still looking confused. “He checked my height and weight, listened to my heart. Had me cough.”

“That was it?”

The girl nods.

“See? Like I told you,” says Ilse. “Child’s play.”

Renate lets her breath out, relieved. “So I should just go in?”

“I’d knock first,” says the girl, sitting down on the bench by Ilse and pulling her satchel into her lap. “But he’s expecting you.”

Renate turns to Ilse. “You’ll wait?”

Her friend lifts an eyebrow. “For the millionth time: yes!”