‘This all seems very irregular.’ Dankmar pursed his lips. ‘Can I see your authorisation papers?’
‘Of course,’ said Clara. ‘They are all there in the file.’ She nodded towards the desk.
The nurse quickly shuffled through the paperwork and handed Dankmar the transfer request and authorisations. ‘I will need to verify this.’
‘Naturally,’ replied Clara, although her heart sank at the development. ‘In the meantime, I need to prepare my patient for transportation.’
‘But I need to verify this first,’ protested the doctor.
‘Whilst I appreciate your need to do that, I don’t have time to waste,’ replied Clara, standing straighter and looking directly at Dankmar. ‘As I explained to your nurse, we are on a tight deadline before the request expires. I’d sooner not have to explain to the authorities in Berlin that I was held up so much, I couldn’t take my patient and that I’ll have to return again tomorrow.’
‘Hmm, I would prefer it if—’
Clara cut him off. ‘I do understand your position, and I hope you can appreciate mine. Phone calls through the bureaucracy are rarely a quick procedure and as I said, I am on a tight schedule. By the time you’ve finished your call, I’ll probably be ready with the patient. We can meet back here afterwards.’
Dankmar didn’t appear to like the suggestion, but he grunted his agreement before striding back down the corridor with paperwork in hand.
Clara turned to the nurse. ‘Hannah Rothstein, please, Nurse.’
Clara and Paul followed the nurse down a corridor that stretched longer than any hospital she’d known. Doors lined both sides, bearing numbers but no nameplate or medical chart hanging outside.
There was a silence that felt wrong. She couldn’t place it at first but then she realised. There were no crying babies, no murmured conversations between mothers, just the hollow echo of their footsteps and the squeak of the wheelchair on the polished floor.
They turned a corner onto another corridor, just like the one before. Sterile. Silent. Unwelcoming.
The only difference was a stream of light coming through the glass door at the end of the corridor. Clara caught a glimpse of well-maintained gardens beyond, although somehow she couldn’t imagine patients being allowed out to enjoy the fresh air.
Her nurse’s instincts screamed warnings. Where were the midwives bustling between rooms? Each step she took only served to heighten that sensation. She had to force herself not to turn and run back to the exit.
The nurse came to a stop outside of room fifteen halfway down the corridor.
‘Thank you,’ said Clara. She made a point of not moving. The nurse hesitated as if deciding whether she should accompany Clara into the room or not. ‘I’ll return to the reception foyer when I’m finished.’ Clara still didn’t move.
Finally, the nurse relented and made her way back down the corridor. Clara waited until she had turned the corner, then she knocked gently on the door and stepped into the room.
The first impression was a functional, sterile room. A hospital bed, bedside table, a nursing chair on the other side and a small locker in the opposite corner, next to a medical trolley. The blinds were tilted allowing the daylight to filter into the room.
Hannah was sitting in bed, her hands resting on her swollen belly. Over eight months pregnant. Her face was pale, hollow. When she looked up and saw Clara and Paul, her eyes widened.
‘Clara?’ Her voice was barely above a whisper and almost cautious.
‘We’re getting you out,’ said Clara quietly. ‘Right now. Can you walk?’
Hannah nodded but her face was one of disbelief. Clara went over and pulled the bedclothes back. ‘Come on. There’s no time to lose. Get into the wheelchair.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Hannah.
‘I promised I would help you,’ said Clara. ‘I’m not leaving you here. It’s not what you think this place. They want to take your babies from you.’
This seemed to shock Hannah into action, and she slipped out of bed, pulling on her slippers. ‘They told me this was just a temporary arrangement, and I’d be able to go home afterwards.’
Paul made a scoffing noise. ‘You should know better than to believe anything they say.’
‘They might let you go home but not your babies,’ said Clara, taking the blanket from the bed and placing it over Hannah’s legs. She grabbed a cardigan from the back of the chair and helped Hannah slip it on.
‘Quickly,’ said Paul from the doorway. He came over and took the wheelchair from Clara.
They moved fast. The wheelchair squeaked on the polished floor. Too loud. Everything was too loud.
