moving with me. He lifted an eyebrow. I told him where she was and what my uncle had done.
"I've heard of those places," he said, gathering a handful of gravel and shaking it in his palm. "Lebensborns. You know what they are, don't you?"
"Places for girls to have their babies safely and not be ostracized."
"Not exactly." Isaak sieved the gravel though his fingers. "Not exactly a humanitarian service. Do you know why they do it?"
"She's pregnant by one of them. They're taking responsibility; they want her to be healthy and safe."
"Yes, but why? Think of what the word 'lebensborn' means. Wellspring of life. Source of life."
I felt Isaak studying me, waiting. He always said I should question things to their end. I wanted to please him now, so I thought about it through his mind. And there was the answer: "No."
"Yes," Isaak insisted. "Those are dark cradles.
'Have one baby for the Führer'
is the slogan. All German women, whether they're married or not, are expected to have children. Every place they take over, they will want to fill with their own. And they'll always want troops. Do you know what really frightens me about them? How far ahead they think. Babies aren't babies to the Nazis, Cyrla. They're resources. And now they're taking them from occupied countries."
I pictured the child Anneke was carrying. A little boy, a little girl. The Germans wanted to take Dutch babies the same way they were taking our fuel, our food, and our textiles. A blessing ran through my head, one we had spoken at the naming of my youngest brother, Benjamin:
May you live to see your world fulfilled, may your destiny be for worlds still to come, and may you trust in generations past and yet to be.
I could almost smell Benjamin's soaped neck, could almost feel his rich damp weight on my hip, sleeping with his fingers twined through a loop of my braid so with every step I took, I felt the smallest of tugs. "I'll make her understand," I told Isaak. "She'll come with me."
"She'll do what she wants to do," Isaak said. Bitterly, I thought. "But wait and see. She probably won't be accepted. Most girls aren't. Do you know about the tests?"
I nodded yes, then shook my head.
"They have to prove their lineage. Have to have acceptable hair color, eye color. Aryans, they call them. Desirables."
Somewhere—I didn't know where—they were doing this to my cousin now. Could they measure her sweetness? Would the light she spilled over our family be acceptable? There was nothing more to be said. I was suddenly exhausted, as if I had been holding myself rigid for days. I leaned my head against Isaak's shoulder and felt him tense.
Anneke had said that once two people began to touch each other, they would know how to make love. But Isaak needed to learn the language of touch first. And it would be up to me to teach him. Who else did he have?
I lifted my hand to the base of his neck, where his shirt collar opened, and very gently stroked my fingertips against his throat, warm and smooth and summer-brown over the corded muscle. In an instant the world narrowed, and then poured into this deliberate questioning of skin. I held my breath for his answer.
He took my hand and held it tight, and then pushed it away.
"Cyrla, no. It isn't ... I have to get back." He got to his feet and looked away.
I wanted to reach out and pull his eyes back onto me. I understood, though. He needed time to become comfortable with this new language. But we didn't have time.
That night, when I washed the dishes after supper, I pulled a teaspoon from the hot suds and slipped it into my pocket.
NINE
The person who came home Sunday evening was not my cousin.
When I came up to her, she flinched. She went straight to our room although it wasn't even nine o'clock, and when my aunt and I followed, at first she wouldn't answer our questions, wouldn't look at us with her wounded eyes. Or couldn't.
"All right," my aunt said. She kissed Anneke. "We'll talk tomorrow." She left and I knew
"I've heard of those places," he said, gathering a handful of gravel and shaking it in his palm. "Lebensborns. You know what they are, don't you?"
"Places for girls to have their babies safely and not be ostracized."
"Not exactly." Isaak sieved the gravel though his fingers. "Not exactly a humanitarian service. Do you know why they do it?"
"She's pregnant by one of them. They're taking responsibility; they want her to be healthy and safe."
"Yes, but why? Think of what the word 'lebensborn' means. Wellspring of life. Source of life."
I felt Isaak studying me, waiting. He always said I should question things to their end. I wanted to please him now, so I thought about it through his mind. And there was the answer: "No."
"Yes," Isaak insisted. "Those are dark cradles.
'Have one baby for the Führer'
is the slogan. All German women, whether they're married or not, are expected to have children. Every place they take over, they will want to fill with their own. And they'll always want troops. Do you know what really frightens me about them? How far ahead they think. Babies aren't babies to the Nazis, Cyrla. They're resources. And now they're taking them from occupied countries."
I pictured the child Anneke was carrying. A little boy, a little girl. The Germans wanted to take Dutch babies the same way they were taking our fuel, our food, and our textiles. A blessing ran through my head, one we had spoken at the naming of my youngest brother, Benjamin:
May you live to see your world fulfilled, may your destiny be for worlds still to come, and may you trust in generations past and yet to be.
I could almost smell Benjamin's soaped neck, could almost feel his rich damp weight on my hip, sleeping with his fingers twined through a loop of my braid so with every step I took, I felt the smallest of tugs. "I'll make her understand," I told Isaak. "She'll come with me."
"She'll do what she wants to do," Isaak said. Bitterly, I thought. "But wait and see. She probably won't be accepted. Most girls aren't. Do you know about the tests?"
I nodded yes, then shook my head.
"They have to prove their lineage. Have to have acceptable hair color, eye color. Aryans, they call them. Desirables."
Somewhere—I didn't know where—they were doing this to my cousin now. Could they measure her sweetness? Would the light she spilled over our family be acceptable? There was nothing more to be said. I was suddenly exhausted, as if I had been holding myself rigid for days. I leaned my head against Isaak's shoulder and felt him tense.
Anneke had said that once two people began to touch each other, they would know how to make love. But Isaak needed to learn the language of touch first. And it would be up to me to teach him. Who else did he have?
I lifted my hand to the base of his neck, where his shirt collar opened, and very gently stroked my fingertips against his throat, warm and smooth and summer-brown over the corded muscle. In an instant the world narrowed, and then poured into this deliberate questioning of skin. I held my breath for his answer.
He took my hand and held it tight, and then pushed it away.
"Cyrla, no. It isn't ... I have to get back." He got to his feet and looked away.
I wanted to reach out and pull his eyes back onto me. I understood, though. He needed time to become comfortable with this new language. But we didn't have time.
That night, when I washed the dishes after supper, I pulled a teaspoon from the hot suds and slipped it into my pocket.
NINE
The person who came home Sunday evening was not my cousin.
When I came up to her, she flinched. She went straight to our room although it wasn't even nine o'clock, and when my aunt and I followed, at first she wouldn't answer our questions, wouldn't look at us with her wounded eyes. Or couldn't.
"All right," my aunt said. She kissed Anneke. "We'll talk tomorrow." She left and I knew
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