1952, St Cecilia nunnery, south-west France
She reads to me from the Bible. She has a sweet voice, a quiet lilting accent, and the familiar words wash over me, words that were such a comfort in another life. The extract today is from Exodus; she is retelling the story of Moses, adding little thoughts and prayers of her own as she reads the passages aloud. She knows this chapter so well she could read it fluently without looking at the text, but Sister Marguerite carefully ensures every word is spoken with due reverence.
‘Every son that is born to the Hebrews, you shall cast into the Nile, but you shall let every daughter live.’
I used to find it hard to believe anyone could ever rule in such a way, that a human being could expect people to follow such an absurd order. I don’t think that way any more. I simply wonder why the daughters were allowed to survive. Some men would have wanted to be more thorough.
‘… and she put the child in it and placed it among the reeds at the river’s brink.’
I picture the scene on the muddy bank, the little basket made of bulrushes, a distressed young girl so desperate for her son to survive that she is willing to cast him out into the currents of the river rather than hand him over to the authorities. Surely this desperate act is one only a mother can understand? I never truly loved anything completely and wholly until the day they handed me Paul, wrapped tightly in blankets, his face a violent shade of pink, wailing.
The labour was long and the birth complicated. They used forceps so silvery and alien I felt faint when I looked at them. I was wrenched open, could smell blood, could feel my pulse throbbing in my neck, head, through my limbs, could hear myself screaming as if I was someone else. But all was forgotten once I realized what I had brought into the world. A release, every muscle relaxed, I could feel the mattress beneath me, see my baby swaddled, knew it was over. The doctor later told Vincent that I almost died.
In the days that followed his birth I remember seeing Paul from a distance, too weak to raise my head or hold him for a long time. I strayed from certain bliss to blind panic when I woke, imagining that the birth had never taken place.
After a week I was strong enough to sit up in bed. Paul was placed in my arms and I looked down at him and realized utter perfection. This tiny being, created by me and my husband, was beautifully formed, a life in my arms, the opportunity to become anything, absolutely unspoilt. He looked at me with his wide eyes and all I could see was my own happiness reflected back in them.
His skin was so smooth I spent hours stroking his arms, his chubby legs, tickling his stomach. Neighbours bought us blankets and clothes and I scrubbed the fabrics to ensure they were clean and welcoming. Vincent bought a rocking chair in which I could nurse him and I would quietly hum lullabies from my own childhood as we watched the sun rise in the early mornings. He would sleep with a little screwed-up expression, breathing softly and evenly, and then he would wake fully and look at me, his gaze resting solely on me, his mother. He had wisps of sandy hair, grass-green eyes, and he fitted so neatly into the crook of my arm.
‘… when she opened it she saw the child and lo, the babe was crying.’
So Moses was found but his poor mother, on a distant bank somewhere, would never be sure of his fate. She would simply be praying to someone that her baby would be discovered, saved, taken out of danger. All she would know was uncertainty.
I smile, look down at my son, but something is wrong. He is breathing but his breaths are different, quicker, shallower. He is thinner, his arms and legs longer, no longer the chubby little boy I know. His wisps of sandy hair are darker, cover more of his head. The blanket he is wrapped in isn’t mine. My breathing comes faster, great panicked gasps as my hand reaches out to pull back the blanket from his face. The eyes that look at me are black, the lashes are dark. This is not my baby. What have they done to my baby? What have they done?
Arms shake me awake. Sister Marguerite is by my side, her eyes frantic. ‘What is it?’ she asks. ‘Are you in pain? What is it? How can I help?’
A silent scream.