The Midwife's Child

THE MIDWIFE'S CHILD AN UTTERLY HEART-WRENCHING AND GRIPPING WORLD WAR II HISTORICAL NOVEL AMANDA LEES BOOKS BY AMANDA LEES WW2 Resistance Series The Silence Before Dawn Paris at First Light The Midwife’s Child AVAILABLE IN AUDIO WW2 Resistance Series The Silence Before Dawn (Available in the UK and the US) Paris at First Light (Available in the UK and the US) CONTENTS Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty-One Twenty-Two Twenty-Three Twenty-Four Twenty-Five Twenty-Six Twenty-Seven Twenty-Eight Twenty-Nine Thirty Thirty-One Thirty-Two Thirty-Three Thirty-Four Thirty-Five Thirty-Six Thirty-Seven Thirty-Eight Thirty-Nine Forty Forty-One Forty-Two Forty-Three Forty-Four Forty-Five Forty-Six Forty-Seven Forty-Eight Forty-Nine Fifty Fifty-One Fifty-Two Fifty-Three Fifty-Four Fifty-Five Fifty-Six Fifty-Seven Fifty-Eight Fifty-Nine The Silence Before Dawn One Hear More from Amanda Books by Amanda Lees A Letter from Amanda Paris at First Light Acknowledgements For Ann In memory of Frankie and Arthur PROLOGUE 29 DECEMBER 1944, AUSCHWITZ-BIRKENAU She was laid out on the brick stove in the centre of the block, her breath coming in short gasps, forming clouds in the freezing air. The stove was never lit, which made it the perfect place to deliver a baby. Especially a baby like this – a Jewish child. The yellow triangles on the mother’s tattered clothing had the letter F in the centre of them. A French Jew. A countrywoman. Her eyelids were fluttering as she drifted in and out of consciousness, the bones in her chest protruding above her belly, her lips moving as she muttered a name. ‘Antoine. Mon cher. Antoine. Aide-moi.’ Help me. ‘It’s breech,’ said the nurse. At least, that was what she’d been in a former life. Now, like the midwife, she was assigned to Mengele’s squad, forced to report a baby like this so it, too, could be taken and killed. Or worse. Except that, somehow, they had managed to conceal this pregnancy. It helped that the mother was young and strong. It also helped that she was so thin her bump barely showed beneath her baggy striped uniform, the baby in her womb as undernourished as she. The midwife felt for the baby’s feet, tucked by its bottom as it sat, cross-legged, reluctant to enter the world. ‘I don’t blame you, little one,’ murmured the midwife. What kind of world was this to enter anyway? A rat-infested concentration camp riddled with disease and ruled by cruelty. The baby was better off dead, even if it somehow managed to survive the birth. The mother, though, that was a different story. She could still be saved so long as she looked fit for work. She was muttering again in French, her eyes open now, staring somewhere beyond the filthy hut, seeing someone who wasn’t there. ‘Antoine.’ She smiled, in spite of her agony. ‘You came.’ ‘She’s delirious,’ said the midwife. ‘Feel her skin – she’s burning up. We need to get her to the infirmary.’ ‘No!’ The woman was staring at her now, lucid, eyes focused, pain creasing her brow. ‘Don’t take me there. They’ll kill my baby.’ The midwife looked at her, taking in the blue eyes, the hair that was stuck to her forehead with sweat, darkened by it, although beneath it looked blonde. The short curls that sprang from her head appeared to be about six months’ growth from when they’d been shaved off. She must have been pregnant when she got here. The midwife unconsciously touched her own curls, shaved when she’d arrived back in August, copper bright still in spite of the grey numbness that lay all around. Most of the inmates gave in to it, the fight seeping from them. That was when you knew they were done for, halfway to the gas chambers and the crematoria that belched death into the sky. This woman wasn’t like that. She was still fighting. Delirious with pain and fever, yes, but crying out for her beloved while she did all she could to save their child. ‘What’s your name?’ asked the midwife. ‘Eva. My name is Eva.’ ‘And your husband’s name?’ Although she already knew, she wanted to keep her talking, keep her conscious. ‘Antoine.’ The midwife smiled. ‘I have a friend called Antoine. Back in Lyon.’ ‘You do?’ She was drifting again, her eyes sinking back in her head. ‘Stay with me,’ commanded the midwife. ‘Come on, Eva. For Antoine. For the baby.’ She looked at the nurse. ‘I should really perform a caesarean, but if I do that, she’ll almost certainly die, one way or another.’ The nurse stared back at her helplessly. ‘So what do we do?’ ‘There’s nothing else for it. I’m going to have to get this baby out. Let’s sit her up so you can support her.’ Cradled in the nurse’s arms, Eva looked little more than a child herself, so thin was she from the months spent surviving on watery soup and a tiny morsel of bread each day. Emaciated as she was, the midwife could see that she had once been beautiful, that she still was, perhaps even more so now. The spark was back in her eyes, and there was a determined set to her mouth. She was back with them, back with her baby. ‘When I say, I want you to push,’ said the midwife. ‘Push as hard as you can.’ She felt for the baby’s feet, pulling them gently, seeing the grimace on Eva’s face as she bit back a howl of agony. ‘Hush now,’ the nurse soothed her, terrified the guards would hear and come running. ‘That’s it, Eva. And again.’ She knew what to do. It was clear this wasn’t her first baby, but the midwife knew better than to ask about her other children. If they weren’t here with her then they were gone, turned to grey dust like the other innocents. All the more reason to make sure this one lived, that Eva had at least one child remaining. ‘Oh God. Antoine.’ A scream stifled by the