Mother stared in horror at the bloated cerise face in the pram. Beside her Ingrid screamed hysterically.
“What’s wrong with him? What’s happened?”
Mother pulled the tiny, limp body out of the pram in her strong arms and laid it down on the gravel beside Inez’s grave. Kneeling down in the sandy dirt she bent over the moribund infant and began to blow into his nose and mouth. Then she pushed rhythmically on his chest with several fingers in concentrated silence, her face drawn, as first one and then several tears rolled down her rounded cheeks and soaked into the arid soil.
“Mum, what are you doing?” Ingrid asked, clutching a wide–eyed Dieter against her leg.
“Put the pram in the car and get both boys in,” Mother said as she bent down to inflate the infant’s chest once again.
“Is he alright?”
“Just do it, Ingrid, quickly! There is no time to waste,” Mother said sharply.
Ingrid seated the two boys in the back seat. They were both crying and their round faces suffused with a rush of blood.
“Why is Mummy crying?” Dieter asked in between cries.
Ingrid stifled a sob as she tried desperately to reconcile in her young mind what had happened: the sight of that black and yellow scorpion scurrying away burned into her mind.
“We need to get home,” Ingrid said as she loaded the pram into the dusty old black Mercedes 130H, imported to Lüderitz long before the war even began.
Mother was still hunched over the tiny, stricken body, its arms spreadeagled on the infertile desert surface.
“Can you drive the car?” Mother asked without interrupting her attempts at resuscitation.
Ingrid paled. “I’m only fourteen, Mum.”
“Can you do this then?” Mother asked, making brief eye contact with her.
Ingrid cried and sniffled. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”
Mother bent over to breathe into the infant’s lungs before fixing Ingrid with a steely stare, her eyes cold and unsympathetic.
“For God’s sake, Inga, don’t snivel, you are going to have to grow up quickly in the next five minutes.”
“Mum?” Ingrid felt her knees weaken. She was frightened, overwhelmed and felt very alone, the world around her suddenly large and confusing. Urine trickled down her leg.
“Get behind the wheel, I’ll tell you what to do,” Mother said sternly.
Once in the car Mother held the flaccid child in her lap, hunched over it, continuing to compress the chest and breathe into its lungs. Her face was becoming flushed and perspiration dotted her forehead. Dieter’s crying intensified in the warm, claustrophobic cabin of the car.
“Start the car,” Mother said, pointing at the keys in the ignition.
Ingrid’s hands were shaking and she was startled as the engine burst into life, vibrating the car.
“Push the clutch in with your left foot.” Mother paused to breathe into the child’s lungs. “Gear into first.”
The car began to roll backwards.
“I’m scared, Mum, I’ve never done this before,” Ingrid snivelled.
“Listen to me. I need you to grow up right now! It’s only you and me that can do this, understand?” Mother’s tone was unyielding. “There is no–one else.”
“We’re going backwards!” Ingrid wailed, holding the steering wheel helplessly.
Dieter bawled in the backseat, his little fists held aloft in ignorant protest.
“Put your foot on the accelerator and let the clutch out slowly,” Mother yelled as she pressed on the child’s chest.
The car bounced, jerked violently and stalled, almost propelling the infant off Mother’s lap. She yelled at Ingrid, who was crying in unison with Dieter. The car started again and Ingrid tried desperately to get it moving, but with the same failed result. Mother screamed – a cry of frustration and anguish. Her chest was heaving and she looked exhausted. Ingrid watched as she put her ear next to the child’s mouth and then pressed a finger into his blue–black mottled neck. It no longer resembled a little infant boy. Ingrid averted her eyes from its spoiled skin.
Mother leaned back in the seat and let out a moan, an indescribable visceral sound of torment. She closed her eyes, squeezing a large tear out of each, and rested her hands on his chest.
“What is it, Mum?” Ingrid asked apprehensively, almost in a whisper, feeling her heart pounding in her chest.
Mother wiped one eye. “I’ll drive, you come and sit here and hold him.”
“But I don’t know how to…”
“You don’t need to anymore.”
Mother drove slowly and in silence, both boys in the back crying lustily, Ingrid sobbing almost hysterically with the dead infant in her lap, unsure where to put her hands, astonished by its floppiness, the little dry mouth hanging open. How could such a thing happen so quickly? A few times she swallowed bile.
Back at home on Bülow Street Mother wrapped the infant in a towel and placed it in Father’s study, locking the door. She put on her apron and moved through the house with a steely purpose, silently, wiping her eyes occasionally but not uttering a sound. Ingrid kept the boys busy, leaving Mother undisturbed in the kitchen, slicing vegetables, boiling meat, buttering bread and setting the table. She fed the children, though neither she nor Ingrid ate very much, and then instructed Ingrid to put the boys to bed.
When Ingrid returned to the living room she found Mother sitting in darkness, her face buried in her hands, a glass of brandy beside her. Ingrid hesitated, feeling that she was intruding upon something beyond her comprehension, something not meant for her to witness.
“Come, sit,” Mother said, sniffing away tears and patting the seat beside her.
Ingrid sat and straightened her skirt. Mother took a deep breath and took hold of her hand.
“Your father cannot find out about this.” She paused, looking into Ingrid’s eyes. “Do you understand?”
Ingrid nodded, though her childlike comprehensions were being extended to the limit.
“You and I will have to do this together, Inga, in it for as long as you live.” Mother took both of Ingrid’s hands and held them firmly between her calloused, dry fingers.
“I’m scared Mum. What will happen?”
“That is up to us, dear. Your father is away for a long time. He doesn’t need to know about this.”
“But how?”
Mother bit her lip and looked upwards, as if searching for divine inspiration. “I have already lost one child this week. I’m damned if I’m going to lose another.”
Ingrid started to cry again, reminded of losing her big sister Inez, the one person in the world who understood, the friend to whom she could always turn.
“We should bury him in the garden, that way he will always be close to us. Think of it that way,” Mother said softly, looking into Ingrid’s eyes again.
“But Mama—”
“Hush, Inga. Listen to me. Just like you, I do not wish to forget Inez forever. But your father’s wishes will have to be respected in this house. That does not stop you and me from having our own secrets.” Mother patted her hand and tried to smile.
Ingrid sniffed and swallowed. “What do we do?”
“We bury him next to the new camelthorn tree – the ground is freshly dug there – and we pretend nothing ever happened.”
“But when Dad comes home—”
“You and Dieter and Otto will be here, just like before.”
Ingrid stared at her mother in horror and bewilderment. “But—”
“If we act normally your father will never suspect – or know – anything otherwise,” Mother said, smiling tautly.
Ingrid blinked a few times, her sobbing now reduced to the occasional shudder. “Are you sure, Mum?”
Mother reached for her brandy and took a generous mouthful. She swallowed and appeared to struggle for breath. “You need to promise me, Inga, that you can keep this a secret – from your father, from the boys, from everyone. No–one will benefit from knowing about this tragedy.”
Ingrid stared fearfully at her mother and nodded.
“Tell me you promise,” Mother insisted.
“I promise, Mum,” Ingrid said, nodding effusively.
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
“Good girl. Here, drink this to seal our word.” Mother passed the goblet of brandy to her.
Ingrid drank a little and coughed so dramatically that she thought she might choke. Her throat burned worse than the time she had accidentally bitten a chilli. Mother smiled at her and squeezed her hand.
“Now, we have work to do.”
The two of them spent most of the night digging a hole beside the camelthorn. Ingrid was so terrified of being caught, of being seen, that she nearly vomited several times. In the morning she awoke to find Mother asleep in the living room, still wearing the same black dress from the previous day, torn and soiled with dust, just like a peasant. Beside her was an empty bottle of brandy.