they smelled like blood . . .”
His head lolled to the right, and he passed out.
I shook his shoulder but was unable to revive him. I dutifully cleaned and rebandaged his wound. I didn’t think he would last much longer. He had that smell about him—that acrid smell of illness, sharper than sweat. I’d smelled it on sick cattle, on Frau Miller before she died.
Frau Miller had been pregnant, about to deliver. My mother and I had gone over to the Miller house to help, with kettles for boiling water and clean towels. The midwife, Frau Gerlach, greeted us at the door with worried eyes. Frau Gerlach never looked worried. She was always starched, prim, proper, and in control. That morning her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and deep circles ringed her eyes.
“She’s been in labor all night,” the midwife said. “All night with no progress.”
My mother and I climbed the stairs to Frau Miller’s bed. She was covered in a sheen of sweat that stuck her nightgown to her chest. Her long hair was strung out on the pillow behind her. She did not look like the glowing picture of motherhood that I expected. She looked pale, sick, exhausted.
“The baby’s a breech,” Frau Gerlach said. “I’ve tried to turn the baby as much as I can, but she needs to go to the hospital.”
My mother knelt down beside the bed, took the other woman’s hands in hers. “You must go to the hospital. You’ve tried, but you can’t do this alone.”
Frau Miller shook her head. Her expression was peaceful but pained. “The baby will come.”
“You’re too exhausted to push any longer.” My mother wiped her face with a cool washcloth.
At the foot of the bed, I saw her leg twitch and Frau Miller’s face cringe as a contraction overtook her. The midwife bustled me out of the way, but I saw a runnel of blood dripping down the edge of the bed.
“Oh no,” the midwife said. “It’s coming. Coming all wrong.”
Frau Miller turned her face to the pillow and howled as the flow of blood thickened and tapped on the wooden floor. I backed away from the widening puddle. My mother and the midwife were up to their elbows in it, shouting instructions. I grasped Frau Miller’s hand. Her nails chewed into my palms like talons, and I did the only thing I could: I recited the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.
My mother finally fled to the door, her sleeves and front of her apron soaked in blood. She looked as if she’d been butchering. She shouted down the steps: “Someone get an ambulance! Now!”
But it was too late. I felt Frau Miller’s hand loosening in mine, saw her blank stare. She didn’t blink.
And there was no lusty cry of a baby. The midwife was unable to wrestle the baby free before it suffocated with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. I learned later that the child would have been another son. An unbaptized son who would never join his brothers or parents in heaven.
The birthing room held the same acrid smell of death about it that I smelled now in the barn. It had taken days to air the Millers’ room out and scrubbing the floor with lemon juice to release it.
I sat back on my heels. Light had drained from the day, darkening the barn, and there was little else I could do for Alex here.
He needed medicine. He needed it or he was going to die. Of this much, I was certain.
I trudged back across the field, my gait and heart heavy. I had interfered in things I should not have. This was an ongoing struggle for me. For the others in our community, following the Ordnung was a reflex, like breathing. It was almost as if . . . they were moved by others. Others’ interpretation of the Ordnung. Not self-controlled, not their own interpretation. I knew that, deep down, I was not like that. I had to mull things over. I followed what I understood. And for that, I was both grateful and afraid.
Something pale moved across the meadow, like a sheet blown by the wind. I squinted at it, shading my hand from the last of the
His head lolled to the right, and he passed out.
I shook his shoulder but was unable to revive him. I dutifully cleaned and rebandaged his wound. I didn’t think he would last much longer. He had that smell about him—that acrid smell of illness, sharper than sweat. I’d smelled it on sick cattle, on Frau Miller before she died.
Frau Miller had been pregnant, about to deliver. My mother and I had gone over to the Miller house to help, with kettles for boiling water and clean towels. The midwife, Frau Gerlach, greeted us at the door with worried eyes. Frau Gerlach never looked worried. She was always starched, prim, proper, and in control. That morning her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, and deep circles ringed her eyes.
“She’s been in labor all night,” the midwife said. “All night with no progress.”
My mother and I climbed the stairs to Frau Miller’s bed. She was covered in a sheen of sweat that stuck her nightgown to her chest. Her long hair was strung out on the pillow behind her. She did not look like the glowing picture of motherhood that I expected. She looked pale, sick, exhausted.
“The baby’s a breech,” Frau Gerlach said. “I’ve tried to turn the baby as much as I can, but she needs to go to the hospital.”
My mother knelt down beside the bed, took the other woman’s hands in hers. “You must go to the hospital. You’ve tried, but you can’t do this alone.”
Frau Miller shook her head. Her expression was peaceful but pained. “The baby will come.”
“You’re too exhausted to push any longer.” My mother wiped her face with a cool washcloth.
At the foot of the bed, I saw her leg twitch and Frau Miller’s face cringe as a contraction overtook her. The midwife bustled me out of the way, but I saw a runnel of blood dripping down the edge of the bed.
“Oh no,” the midwife said. “It’s coming. Coming all wrong.”
Frau Miller turned her face to the pillow and howled as the flow of blood thickened and tapped on the wooden floor. I backed away from the widening puddle. My mother and the midwife were up to their elbows in it, shouting instructions. I grasped Frau Miller’s hand. Her nails chewed into my palms like talons, and I did the only thing I could: I recited the Lord’s Prayer, over and over.
My mother finally fled to the door, her sleeves and front of her apron soaked in blood. She looked as if she’d been butchering. She shouted down the steps: “Someone get an ambulance! Now!”
But it was too late. I felt Frau Miller’s hand loosening in mine, saw her blank stare. She didn’t blink.
And there was no lusty cry of a baby. The midwife was unable to wrestle the baby free before it suffocated with the umbilical cord wrapped around its neck. I learned later that the child would have been another son. An unbaptized son who would never join his brothers or parents in heaven.
The birthing room held the same acrid smell of death about it that I smelled now in the barn. It had taken days to air the Millers’ room out and scrubbing the floor with lemon juice to release it.
I sat back on my heels. Light had drained from the day, darkening the barn, and there was little else I could do for Alex here.
He needed medicine. He needed it or he was going to die. Of this much, I was certain.
I trudged back across the field, my gait and heart heavy. I had interfered in things I should not have. This was an ongoing struggle for me. For the others in our community, following the Ordnung was a reflex, like breathing. It was almost as if . . . they were moved by others. Others’ interpretation of the Ordnung. Not self-controlled, not their own interpretation. I knew that, deep down, I was not like that. I had to mull things over. I followed what I understood. And for that, I was both grateful and afraid.
Something pale moved across the meadow, like a sheet blown by the wind. I squinted at it, shading my hand from the last of the
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