Out on the tidal flats Lotte Jansen kisses the top of Wilhelm’s head and beseeches God to tell her what she’s done wrong. “Because if there’s a reason you took them, my children, took them, there must be something I can do to get them back from you.”
But God, he is silent—as silent as the darkening shapes of the boats on the sea; and when the boats return without her children and her husband steps ashore, it’s up to her to barter with God.
She draws the cross where she knows Wilhelm’s heart to be, kisses his lips and his belly. Whispers, “Forgive me forgive me” against his damp skin.
He coos. Pats her cheeks—
—oh—
—and she—
—howling—
—howling and praying and howling and praying, casts him into the sea. “Take him, God, in return for my other three—”
The crowd pitches forward as if one body, but gives way to Kalle who hauls his lastborn from the sea, reclaims his son who smells of salt and of water, of salt and of earth. When he refuses to hand Wilhelm to his wife, people speculate he’ll never forgive her. But the Old Women understand the measure of Lotte’s sacrifice, understand the courage it takes to offer your child to God, understand they’ve witnessed the collapse of her faith. They know what that’s like. Not everyone finds the path back to God.
The Old Women have seen many misfortunes, learned to survive the most terrible heartbreaks, and sleep with the fear of forgetting the faces of those they lost. They feel ashamed of their gratitude that their grandchildren and great-grandchildren have been spared. To ward off fate and to honor tradition, they draw close and coordinate what each will cook for the Jansen family in the weeks to come.
“Losing one husband to the sea is not as terrible as losing three children.”
“Losing one husband and one son to the war is not as terrible as losing three children.”
“Losing one daughter to childbirth…”
“… one son to influenza.”
Winning land and losing land again. Losing lives.
Losing—
The Nordsee has a great appetite for sacrifice. Today it seized three lives because the people raised the dikes again to hinder the flooding of Neuland—new land. In ditches they trapped the sea, isolated it in long solitary fingers until it could no longer gather force but fizzled out its rage, stagnant while sediment accumulated on the Meeresboden—sea floor. They consider it their birthright to defend what they’ve preserved. But the Nordsee remembers. Retaliates. Swells once again. To keep Hochwasser—high water—from invading their houses, people fill burlap sacks with sand and heap them outside their doors where they slump like new kittens.
After dark and after the islanders scrub off the gray-black sludge that clogs the wheels of their carriages, the priest holds a Mass for the Jansen children. But their parents are not in church. I nudge Heike into a pew, follow her.
“I want to play with Hannelore,” she cries.
Parishioners turn. “Ssshhhh…”
Sobbing, the priest is sobbing as he clambers up to the gold and black pulpit to recount the freak wave that launched the children into heaven. “Hannelore Jansen six years old—”
“I want to play—”
I press one finger across my daughter’s lips.
The priest’s chin quivers. “Bärbel Jansen two years old.”
“I want to play with Hannelore’s baby.”
“Tilli’s baby?”
“Ssshhhh … Ssshhhh…”
“Martin Jansen four years old—”
A child is a child till you are dead. You. Not your child. Especially a child who’s not safe in the world. Who doesn’t understand why she can’t take what she likes; why she’s forbidden to sit on the laps of strangers. She’ll be up half the night, exuberant with ideas of what she wants to do, and as her voice revs up, I can predict the fall when she’s motionless in bed or by the window, barely speaking or eating. Once again I straddle the chasm, feet dug into both rims, to keep myself from going down and up with Heike’s moods, help her find the way back to herself. To me.
“Three children before the age of knowledge,” says the priest. “A sign how precious their lives are to God. That’s why He sent the immense wave.”
Today I’ve witnessed how quickly you can lose a child, three children, and I’m terrified more than ever. At least Lotte and Kalle have each other. But Heike only has me. Even if I live to be old, I must find a husband for her, a kind husband to keep her from harm. Since she is without fear, I carry it for both of us, her fear and mine. He, too, didn’t know fear, Heike’s father. Or remorse. The Sensational Sebastian was a dazzling man with long arms and an easy laugh, a trapeze artist who was convinced he must keep moving to prevent his body from turning to stone.
“And we have proof,” says the priest, “that the wave delivered the Jansen children directly to God. Because once the sun set, the clouds grew darker, but not solid, revealing flashes of heaven that streaked the sky crimson and yellow.”
What will become of my daughter if I die tomorrow? Or ten years from now? It’s inside your fear where a child who’s not safe without you will nest, mistaking it for love. Even I mistake it for love. Heike bounces between impulses, between bliss and desolation. Himmelhoch jauchzend, zu Tode betrübt. In her bliss, she gets too affectionate. Men sniff around the big tent, rattled when the Ludwigs and I chase them off. I must be with her every moment, but of course she gets away. One already scraped from her womb before she turned fifteen. Blood, so much blood I feared she was dying. Six months later another pregnancy. When the nurse whispered she could fix Heike, I let her. Because I need my strength for my daughter alone. If Heike had a child, she’d forget to feed it. Forget it’s there.
“And purple,” adds the priest. “Purple the color of remorse, the color of forgiveness. Purple is in the sky often enough with yellow to make it true for today.”
Still in their mud-caked clothes, the children’s parents sit in their kitchen where the smell of applesauce is thicker than this morning when Lotte boiled apples with water and cinnamon. Too hot to taste, she warned her children who clamored for a spoonful. After we get home from the Zirkus, she promised.
But they didn’t come home.
A promise broken.
Wilhelm’s mouth tugs at her breast. Dry, she’s gone dry. Her body has forgotten how to keep children alive, the same body that used to make plenty of milk, so much that she needed the nursing as much as her babies. If she waits too long, her breasts swell, harden, a pain so urgent that Kalle has to relieve her. He adores her milk. Once, she pulled him into the church, into the empty confessional, and let him. Lighten her. Push himself inside her as they braced against the latticework.
Wilhelm whimpers against her skin, too tired to scream any longer; and Kalle fetches a saucer with sheep’s milk, dips a finger into it. When he slides it between his son’s gums, Wilhelm bucks, coughs. Again, Kalle tries.
“Applesauce,” Lotte says. “Use applesauce.”
Sucking cooled applesauce from his finger, the boy. And swallowing. His eyelids flutter.
Lotte props her elbows on the table. The rim of her clavicle rises. And Kalle knows he has to get away to stop himself from admitting he’s brought on their children’s deaths with his illusions of leaving his family behind and traveling with the Ludwig Zirkus, adventurous and unencumbered. Wanderlust.
If Lotte finds out, she’ll send me away. As children they all played Zirkus. Lotte, too. Strung rope between posts and practiced tightrope walking till they toppled. Inspired by Zirkus animals, they taught dancing to their dogs whose herding instincts bewildered them so that they yapped and whimpered, agitating sheep and cattle. And the sheep did not obey when taught to be ponies and gallop in a wide circle. It took just one to kneel, for the others to stumble into one pile. Lotte was part of all that—except for her it has stayed in childhood. It’s like that for girls. They grow into the dreams of women, while boys still wait for the Zirkus and adventure, so close in dreams and yet out of reach. Except for now—
From the table he picks up Hannelore’s doll that he and Lotte made together: he carved the trunk and limbs, while Lotte crocheted a yellow dress, embroidered the linen face, attached yarn braids.
Talking, Lotte. She’s talking about a horrendous bargain. And how it came to her and how she gave shape to it by promising God—
“What?” Kalle asks, startled. “Promising what?”
Her palms prop up her face, stretch all flesh away from her jawbone and cheeks. “The one in my arms for the other three.”
“I would.” Kalle tries to pull his finger from his lastborn who only sucks harder, all his life-power concentrated in his mouth. “Even for two. I’d trade this one for two. If we could bring two of the others home in return for Wilhelm, I would.” As long as I don’t have to choose.
But what if I must? Hannelore with the gap between her front teeth, tongue probing where her baby teeth used to be? Martin, sturdy and fast, who can fly from good-natured to sullen in a second? Bärbel who gets dirty so quickly, who loves exuberantly, noisily?
The queasy strength of the boy’s suck. Always needing more than his share. Kalle would offer him up for just one. If only Lotte had let go of the lastborn instead—Lotte grips Hannelore’s free hand, makes a circle, saves the three. Or saves two, at least two. Even if the girls can’t hold on to Martin, Lotte has her fingers around the girls’ wrists, yes, tight, so tight they leave marks. When she carries them home, Kalle tends to his daughters’ wrists—don’t think about Martin don’t—smears lanolin on their chafed skin. Sticky and smelly. Extracted from sheep’s wool.
Hannelore rubs it off. Bärbel drops asleep in his arms, instantly heavy.
“Don’t make me lose them again,” Lotte whispers.
Dreaming of traveling with the Zirkus is not half as terrible as what you did.
But to say those words aloud will devastate her. He waits for the lastborn to exhale, then yanks his finger from the greedy mouth that’s already snapping for more.