‘One of the babies isn’t moving,’ said the woman.
Clara was now just a few feet away from the group. She came to a halt, next to Marie who had come out of the ward to see what was going on. She exchanged a look with Clara but didn’t speak.
The nurse was talking to Matron. ‘She’s Jewish. I said we couldn’t help her.’
‘This can’t be right,’ said the man. ‘My wife has been coming here for her antenatal appointments. She’s registered with you.’
Matron looked at the file the nurse handed her, before looking up at the couple. ‘I’m sorry, my nurse is right. You are no longer entitled to receive any medical care at the hospital.’
‘You have to see me,’ said the woman. ‘My babies. I can’t feel one of them moving.’
‘You need to see your own doctor from now on,’ said Matron, closing the file and handing it back to the nurse. ‘I suggest you go there straightaway.’
‘But he sent us here,’ said the husband, desperation and frustration hanging on his every word.
‘I’m sorry. There’s nothing we can do for you here.’ Matron stood firm.
The woman looked around the corridor, her eyes stopping at Clara and Marie. ‘Please, help me,’ she begged.
‘You need to leave,’ said Matron.
The woman rushed over to Clara, grabbing her hand and pulling it to her belly. ‘My baby isn’t moving.’
Clara’s automatic response was to begin to feel the woman’s stomach but before she could even move her other hand, Matron was pulling the woman away. ‘Nurse Bergmann, please leave. Go to the staffroom. Now!’ She had to raise her voice to be heard above the increasing commotion.
There was more disruption in the corridor as a doctor appeared on the other side of the pregnant woman. Clara couldn’t believe what she was seeing – they were physically manhandling the poor woman out of the hospital. Her husband was trying to stop them. He was shouting at them. They were shouting back. The pregnant woman was crying, her arms were outstretched towards Clara.
All Clara’s instincts screamed silently at her to help the woman, but she knew it wasn’t possible. Not here. Not in the hospital.
She looked over at her colleague who dropped the woman’s medical file on the desk and went to the aid of Matron and the doctor, to help extract the woman from the hospital. Clara rushed over to the desk and before she had time to think about what she was doing, she whipped out the front sheet with the woman’s name and address. She stuffed the piece of paper into the pocket of her apron.
As she turned away, she saw Marie watching her. Clara shook her head sending a silent plea for her friend not to say anything. Marie looked at her long and hard before turning and going back to her ward.
Clara took her tea break, which unsurprisingly was in silence since no one attempted to engage in conversation with her and awkwardly avoided eye contact. She returned to the stockroom as soon as she could and, closing the door behind her, she looked at the piece of paper she had taken from the file.
Hannah Rothstein, a twenty-three-year-old woman, living in the Prenzlauer Berg district which was north-east of the hospital. First pregnancy. Twins.
Clara knew the Nazi regime had been restricting the movement of the Jewish people and making it increasingly difficult for them to access healthcare but that was the government. How could a nursing professional turn away a woman who was clearly in distress? How could one woman do that to another?
For the rest of the morning all Clara could think about was Hannah Rothstein and by the time her shift at the hospital was over, she had made up her mind what she was going to do. On the dot of two o’clock, Clara left work and hurried to the nearest tram stop, her coat draped over her arm to hide the bag she had smuggled out of the hospital.
Some fifteen minutes and two tram rides later, Clara was standing outside the apartment building where the Rothsteins lived, her bag in her hand containing a fetoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a measuring tape, a small vial of antiseptic solution and a few clean dressings she had carefully taken from the medical supplies cupboard she had been organising that day. Friedrich’s position had taught her that taking only small quantities meant it wouldn’t immediately, if ever, be noticed. Equipped with a small medical bag of basic supplies, she now had everything she needed to adequately assess whether the unborn baby was truly in danger.
It had been easy for Clara to make the journey as she had access to public transport, but even travelling around the city was becoming increasingly difficult for the Jewish community. Clara hoped the young woman hadn’t been made to walk too far. She could only imagine how desperate she must have been to make the journey in the first place.
Clara entered the building and after climbing two flights of stairs, found apartment six.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
David Rothstein opened the door. ‘Yes?’ he asked, looking Clara up and down.
‘I’m a midwife at the Charité Hospital,’ said Clara. ‘I was there earlier when you and your wife were turned away.’ She unbuttoned her coat, to reveal her nurse’s dress. She’d taken off her hat and apron before leaving.
‘I don’t understand. Did the hospital send you?’
Clara shook her head and checking no one was about, she spoke in a low voice. ‘I have come of my own accord to see your wife. To check on the babies.’ She held up her medical bag.
David looked at her for several long seconds before opening the door wide and ushering her in, checking the landing before closing the door behind them. ‘This way,’ he said.
