The woman held her gaze. ‘I didn’t tell you about my daughter, did I?’
‘You did. She . . . died of diphtheria too.’
‘No, I mean Ursula.’ She walked to the wardrobe and revealed a row of dresses.
Elsa slowly stepped forward and watched as Gertrude selected a dress. Her eyes softened as she turned the hanger, twisting the dress beneath as if it danced before them. The fabric slowly stilled as Gertrude paused. ‘This is the last dress I boughther. She never got a chance to wear it. I’m not sentimental but I can’t seem to throw them away.’
‘I thought your children died in childhood. This is a woman’s dress.’
‘Irma and Georg were five. Ursula lived longer. She was twenty-two.’ She hung the dress neatly on the rail and with two sweeps of her hand straightened out the fall of the dress so it would not crease. She stepped back to admire it. ‘We thought we couldn’t have children. Years went by and then my beautiful Ursula arrived, followed by the twins. She was such a happy child.’ She looked at Elsa. ‘I was going to give you some of her dresses, but I don’t think I can.’
Irma, Georg and Ursula. Now the children had names — names that instantly created breath in their bodies, personalities in their characters and turned this woman into a mother. Gertrude had the experience and wisdom of motherhood that no childless spinster like Elsa could.
‘I would have refused the dresses if you had offered them. They bring you comfort. I wouldn’t want to take that from you.’
‘Ursula was mentally disabled. Physically she was perfect, but she was too innocent and precious for this world. She needed us. She would always need us. But we fell ill in the winter of 1940 so we had to send her to an institution to be cared for.’ She stiffened in defiance, answering the charge that she must have felt others whisper. ‘We still loved her. When we were better we were going to bring her home again.’
So guilt along with grief had scarred this woman’s life. No wonder she saw little joy in anything she touched, smelled or saw.
‘I’m sure she knew that.’
Gertrude lifted an eyebrow as if expecting a question. ‘Do you want to know how she died?’
‘Only if you want to tell me.’
‘The institution — the government — considered her “unsuitable to live”.’
Elsa’s mouth dropped open in horror.
‘We knew nothing about it until the deed was done. We went to bring her home and... that’s how we found out. They called it a mercy killing. If that is mercy, then I want no part in giving mercy.’
Elsa had heard a faint whisper of such things years ago, but at the time it was too awful to believe. Back then, Germany was winning the war and the future looked bright. A story about killing disabled men, women and children was just the sort of thing people unhappy with Hitler would spread. The tale had disappeared — disgruntled voices were soon silenced — put firmly to bed along with other negative whispers from the opposition and condemnation from the Church. Yet, if this woman was telling the truth, it really had happened. This mother’s only surviving child’s life had been swept away as if it were dirt. The truth of it was etched into the lines on her face. She had brought this horror out of the darkness and into the light.
Suddenly Elsa felt uncomfortable in her own skin. She had been dropped into this damaged woman’s life and, by her age and sex, was a stark reminder of everything she had lost. She reached out to touch her hand, but Gertrude flinched away.
‘I don’t know what to say to make things better for you.’
‘There is nothing anyone can say.’
‘I could stay a little longer.’
‘There is no need. I have lived with my loss for years now.’
‘You must have hated—’
‘Hated Hitler?’ Gertrude closed her eyes and shut her out. ‘No. Ihaveto believe in him. If I’d lost my trust in him, my pain would have been even harder to bear.’
Elsa left the room, hating herself for not being able to handle this woman’s twisted pain. She might be trying to fool herself, but grief and bitterness were so ingrained in the fabric of the house that it was beginning to suffocate all those who lived there, including herself.
Elsa paused at the bottom of the stairs. Gertrude was a woman, after all, and to walk away from someone who was silently suffering felt like an alien thing to do. She looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Gertrude remained at the top of the stairs, her eyes staring into another time and her lips thinly set. Only the slight tremor of one hand betrayed that she had not become a lifeless statue.
‘Thank you for your help, Gertrude.’
The sound of her name brought the older woman back to the here and now. Her gaze fluttered to land on Elsa and she immediately lifted her arm in a defiant salute. ‘Heil Hitler!’
Elsa shook her head. ‘I can’t, Gertrude. Not any more. I stopped believing a long time ago.’
