‘Of course, Herr Müller,’ Clara replied, fighting to keep her voice steady.
Hans stepped aside, but Clara felt his eyes following her as she moved towards Ursula. She glanced at her patient, trying to read her expression, but Ursula’s face revealed nothing beyond the strain of labour.
‘Come on,’ Clara said gently, taking Ursula’s arm. ‘Let’s get you upstairs.’
As they made their way up to the first floor, Clara whispered, ‘Thank you.’
Ursula paused at the top of the stairs, her breathing laboured. ‘All children need to be protected,’ she replied quietly, her eyes meeting Clara’s with fierce determination, before gripping Clara’s arm as another contraction began. Clara wanted to say more, but at that moment, Ursula’s waters broke. There was no time for coded and not so coded conversations. They had a baby to bring safely into the world.
Three hours later, Clara placed the newborn baby boy in Ursula’s arms. The infant’s fingers curled around his mother’s thumb and his eyes blinked slowly in the soft lamplight.
‘He’s perfect,’ Ursula whispered, tears streaming down her face. ‘Look at his little nose. And his hands, they’re so tiny.’
Hans sat on the edge of the bed, his finger gently stroking his son’s cheek. ‘He’s beautiful. Just like his mother.’
Clara watched the tender scene, her heart swelling with the familiar joy that came with every successful birth. No matter how many babies she delivered, this moment – when a new life entered the world and parents held their child for the first time – never failed to move her.
‘What will you call him?’ Clara asked softly.
‘Wilhelm,’ said Ursula, not taking her eyes off her son. ‘After Hans’s father.’
‘Speaking of my father, I should call him and let him know the good news. And, of course, your parents.’ Hans leaned over and kissed his wife on the head. ‘I won’t be long.’ He got to his feet and walked across the room, pausing as he reached Clara. ‘Thank you, Frau Bergmann.’ Then he was gone.
The baby made a soft mewing sound and Ursula adjusted her hold, bringing him closer to her chest. ‘How can anyone look at something so innocent, so pure and not want to protect it?’ she murmured, her voice thick with emotion.
Clara nodded, thinking of all the babies she’d delivered in secret, all the mothers who would never have this moment of peace and joy.
Ursula looked up at Clara, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘Every baby deserves to be safe, don’t they? Every mother deserves to hold her child like this.’ She paused, studying Clara’s face. ‘Some women, they don’t get this chance. Some mothers need special help to ensure their babies are born safely.’
Clara’s breath caught, understanding the deeper meaning behind Ursula’s carefully chosen words.
‘Yes,’ Clara said quietly. ‘Every mother deserves that chance.’
Ursula smiled, a knowing look passing between them. ‘Then it’s good that there are people like you, Clara. People who understand that some kinds of help, well, they’re more important than following every rule.’ She kissed her baby’s forehead. ‘I think mothers like that are very fortunate to have someone they can trust.’
Clara felt tears prick her eyes. In her own gentle way, Ursula was telling her that she understood, that she knew what Clara had been doing and that she wouldn’t betray her.
‘Thank you,’ Clara whispered, the words carrying far more weight than their simplicity suggested.
Ursula nodded, then turned her attention back to her son. ‘Welcome to the world, little Wilhelm. May you grow up in a world where all babies are cherished.’
Chapter 30
May 1940
The next couple of weeks moved with the strange, suspended quality of a held breath. To anyone watching from the outside, Clara and Friedrich maintained the careful choreography of a contented marriage. They left for work each morning with a kiss, returning home to share quiet dinners, moving through their evening routines with practised ease. But beneath this performance, Clara felt as though she were living in a house of glass, fragile and transparent, where any sudden movement might shatter everything.
The routine with Max had continued as normal where each week after her home visits to the Müllers, Clara would go to the church and slip into the pew at the back, before tucking a new list of names into the hidden prayer book.
The sense of being watched had become a constant companion. Every footstep behind her on the street made her pulse quicken. Every shadow in a doorway demanded a second glance.
At home the familiar sounds of their apartment building took on sinister undertones. The creak of the stairs, the slam of a door somewhere below, the shuffle of feet in the hallway, each noise made her freeze, waiting for the inevitable knock that would bring her world crashing down.
Their evenings had developed a new rhythm. Friedrich would settle beside her on the sofa, drawing her close with a protectiveness that was both comforting and heartbreaking. She would curl into his warmth, feeling the steady rise of his chest as they read or listened to the radio. But even in those moments of apparent peace, she could sense his vigilance in the way he held her, always alert, always ready.
Since the night with Fuchs, they had made love with an intensity that surprised them both. Each time, Clara felt pieces of herself being carefully gathered and reassembled by Friedrich’s gentle hands, replacing fear with tenderness, violence with love.
Unusually, Paul hadn’t been to the apartment asking her to come and help a pregnant woman, or mother and child. It was a relief but at the same time a worry.
