‘What’s wrong?’ She crouched down to check the contents of her bag. ‘It’s lucky I’m not working until this evening.’
‘One of the mothers is having shooting pains, bad ones, in her stomach,’ said Paul. ‘She’s six months pregnant.’
Clara looked up at him. ‘One of the mothers?’
‘We have three pregnant women we are keeping safe. They were supposed to be relocated last week. We need to move them, but one of them isn’t well.’ He shuffled from one foot to the other and back again. ‘Please, come quickly.’
Clara had taken to keeping her bag stocked with as much as possible, although given the restrictions on medical supplies this wasn’t a lot. She closed her bag and was just about to leave when she remembered the documents Friedrich had prepared for her. She rushed into the study and took them from the top drawer, dropping them into her handbag.
‘What is the address?’
Paul relayed the information with his usual efficiency. Their established routine was simple but effective. Clara would follow at a safe distance while Paul navigated the route ahead. As a precaution, he always provided her with the address beforehand, ensuring that if they became separated in the crowded streets, she could still find her way to the patient who needed her care.
She committed the address to memory. Another layer of safety, to avoid having it written down in case she was stopped and searched.
The December air bit at Clara’s cheeks as she stepped out onto the street. Snow had fallen during the night, leaving a thin layer of white across the cobblestones which had already turned to grey slush under the wheels of the early-morning traffic. The temperature hovered just below freezing, making the damp settle on her hair and shoulders.
Clara pulled her scarf tighter around her neck and tucked her gloved hands deeper into her pockets as she hurried towards the tram stop. The short December days meant that even at mid-morning the pale winter sun struggled to penetrate the heavy grey clouds that seem to press down on the city like a suffocating blanket.
The weather perfectly matched the bleakness of her journey. Everything about Berlin in these dark winter months felt harsh, unforgiving and dangerous.
Some forty-five minutes later, Clara was being ushered into a building on a side street in the Prenzlauer Berg district. An area she was becoming increasingly intimate with.
As they entered the foyer of the courtyard, Clara got the distinct feeling she was being watched. In all likelihood, she probably was.
Once she was inside the foyer, the door to her right immediately opened, confirming her suspicions that someone had been watching their arrival. It was Max.
‘You weren’t followed?’ he asked Paul.
‘No.’
He turned to Clara. ‘Thank you for coming.’
‘Where is the patient?’ asked Clara. On the journey over she had run through all the possible reasons the pregnant woman might be experiencing abdominal pains. The obvious one, early labour but at just six months pregnant this was not good.
‘This way,’ said Max, opening a door beside the main staircase that Clara had assumed was merely a cleaning cupboard. Max stepped inside, paused and beckoned Clara to follow.
It was indeed a cleaning cupboard – mops and buckets crowded the narrow space, with shelves along the back wall housing bottles of vinegar and carbolic soap. Broken furniture and household detritus had been crammed into every corner. However, Max moved to the heavy wooden shelves and pulled them aside like a door, revealing a set of stone steps descending into darkness.
He tugged the cord of a bare bulb overhead, casting harsh shadows down the rough, stone steps. A frayed rope had been strung along the damp wall as a makeshift banister, its fibres slippery under Clara’s gloved hand.
With each step downward, the temperature dropped, and the air grew thick with the smell of unwashed bodies, stale bread and the musty dampness of earth and stone. The walls wept moisture, and Clara could hear the faint drip of water somewhere in the dim light of the basement.
‘It’s me,’ Max called softly as they descended. The sound of rustling fabric and hushed whispers drifted up from below.
They reached the foot of the steps, Clara squinted as her eyes adjusted to the soft lighting, which revealed a cramped cellar space lined with wooden crates and abandoned furniture. Three women, all clearly pregnant, were huddled together on a thin mattress that had been laid directly on the stone floor. Two women were sitting, while the third was lying down. A small girl, perhaps two years old, clung to one woman’s lap. Beside them sat a dented water canteen and several empty cans – the remnants of whatever food they had been managing on.
Clara had to force herself not the gasp aloud at the wretched conditions. Movement in her peripheral vision made her turn sharply. Three men emerged from the deeper shadows of the cellar, and with them came a small boy of about four years old, gripping his father’s hand.
‘The Angel of Life,’ said one of the women softly.
Max nudged Clara, nodding towards the woman lying on the mattress. ‘That’s Anna.’
Clara jolted herself from her thoughts, reminding herself what she was here for and hurried over to the woman.
The two other women and the child moved from the mattress. Clara hesitated, looking around at the concerned faces who didn’t seem to appreciate the need for privacy. She picked up one of the blankets and held it out to the two women. ‘Could you hold this up to give Anna some privacy while I examine her?’
‘Here, I have some coffee,’ said Max, going over to the men and indicating to the boxes they had been using as makeshift seats and table.
