Youāre in the second month, says Dr Herborg, my public-healthcare doctor, and he sits down, while the curtain that is always hanging between me and reality turns gray and perforated, like a spider web. A button is missing from the doctorās shiny white coat, and he has a long black hair sticking out of one of his nostrils. But I donāt want to have this baby, I say emphatically. It was a mistake. I must have put my diaphragm in wrong. He smiles and looks at me unsympathetically. Dear Lord, he says, how many children do you think are born by mistakes? The mothers love them anyway.Ā
I ask carefully, Canāt I have it taken out? and immediately the smile disappears from his face like a rubber band gone limp. I do not do that, he says coolly, and you may know that it is illegal. Then I ask him, following Liseās advice, if he can refer me to someone who does do it. No, he says, that is also illegal.Ā
So I go and visit my mother, who I know will understand. Sheās sitting in the kitchen playing solitaire. Oh, she says, when she hears my reason for coming, itās not so hard to knock it out of there. Just go to the pharmacy and buy a bottle of amber oil. Drink it down and thatāll work. Itās worked for me twice, so I know what Iām talking about. I buy the amber oil and I sit across from my mother on the kitchen chair. When I take the top off the bottle, a nauseating smell surrounds me and I run out to the bathroom and throw up. I canāt do it, I say, I canāt get that down. My mother doesnāt have any other ideas, so I walk to the government office where Lise works and I stand outside against the building, waiting for her. I can see the green roof of the stock exchange, glinting weakly in the twilight, and I remember my walks with Piet through the dark city on the way home from the club meetings. Back then I wasnāt pregnant, and if I had stayed with Viggo F. I wouldnāt have become pregnant either. People go by without noticing me. Women walk past alone, or holding their childrenās hands. Their faces are relaxed and introspective, and they probably donāt have anything growing inside them that they donāt want.Ā
Lise, I exclaim as she walks toward me. He wonāt do it. What in the world am I going to do? On the way to the streetcar I tell her about my motherās horrible amber oil, which is a remedy that Lise has never heard of. I go in with her to pick up Kim from her motherās. Her mother is an authoritative woman wearing a floor-length dress with a cap on her head because she has a bald spot. I recall that she has given birth to ten children, because Liseās father always wanted there to be a baby in the cradle, and no one ever cared what she thought about that. When weāre back at Liseās, she says that I mustnāt panic; there must be a solution. Sheās going to ask a young woman at her office who had a pregnancy terminated illegally about a year ago.Ā
Unfortunately the woman is sick at the moment, but as soon as sheās back at work, Lise will get the address for me. Dr Leunbach isnāt doing them right now, says Lise, because he was just in jail for it. Maybe Nadja knows of someone, she says, but I donāt remember where she and her sailor live. But I canāt just wait around, I say desperately, I have to do something. I canāt work, and Iāve lost all feelings toward Ebbe and Helle. Lise says that there are probably lots of doctors in the same situation as Leunbach. She says that if I have to do something, I could call them one by one from the phone book, and maybe Iāll get lucky. In the meantime, the woman from the office might get better; so I shouldnāt lose hope. She looks at me solemnly: Do you really think it would be so terrible, she asks, if you had another child? Lise doesnāt understand either. I donāt want anything to happen to me that I donāt want, I say. Itās like getting caught in a trap. And our marriage wonāt be able to bear another period of nursing frigidity. I canāt stand it as it is when Ebbe touches me.Ā
When I get home, Ebbe tells me that heās contacted the resistance and heās going to be trained as a freedom fighter, to prepare for the day when the Germans capitulate and pull out of the country. No one thinks it will happen without a fight. No one thinks theyāre going to win either, not after their defeat at Stalingrad. I could not care less, I tell him irritably, if you want to play soldier; I have other things to deal with. Ebbe says he isnāt so crazy about the idea of getting rid of the baby. People can die from that, he says, and in any case he wonāt help me find a doctor to do it. I canāt be bothered to talk to him. He doesnāt understand. I donāt know what I ever saw in him.Ā
The next day I begin my doctor odyssey. I can only do a couple of visits a day, because they all have consultations at the same times. I sit across fromĀ these white coats in my worn-out trench coat with my red scarf around my neck. They look at me coldly and in disbelief: Who in the world took it upon themselves to give you my address? Dear woman, there are women who are much worse off than you. Youāre married and you only have one child. One of them says, You donāt want me to commit a crime, do you? Thereās the door. I return home, miserable and humbled. I pick up Helle from Ebbeās motherās house and I nurse her, without paying her any attention. I put her in bed, and then pick her up again.Ā
The telephone rings and a voice says, Hello, this is Hjalmar, is Ebbe home? I hand Ebbe the phone, and he answers with one-syllable words. Then he puts on the coat he inherited from his father with the silly strap in the back. He slips on his high rubber boots because itās raining and a cap that he otherwise never wears, pulled down over his forehead. Under his arm he is holding a briefcase uncomfortably, as if it were filled with dynamite. His face is pale. Do I look suspicious? he says. No, I say flatly, though even a child would think there was something fishy about him from miles away. After he leaves, I scan the telephone book some more, page after page. But finding an abortion doctor this way is like trying to find a needle in a haystack, and I give up after a couple of days. I realize Iām in a race against time, because I know no one will do it if Iām more than three months pregnant. Itās not easy to see Lise in the evening, because sheās with her lawyer after work, and she doesnāt think we should ask Ole, because he has the same attitude as Ebbe.Ā
Men seem to be excluded from my world right now. Theyāre foreign creatures, itās as if they came from another planet. Theyāre not in touch with their bodies. They donāt have any tender, soft organs where a blob of slime can attach itself like a tumor and, completely independent of their volition, start living its ownĀ life.Ā
One evening I go to visit Nadjaās father and ask where she and her sailor live. Itās a basement apartment in Ćsterbro, and I go right over there. Theyāre sitting eating, and Nadja kindly asks if I will join them. But the smell of food makes me nauseous, and I can hardly eat anything these days. Nadja has had her hair cut, and sheās affected a swinging gait, as if she were on the deck of a ship. The sailorās name is Einar, and he repeats the same phrases again and again: Thatās right, thatās the way to do it, etc. Nadja talks like that too. When she finds out why I came by, she says that she can get me some quinine pills. She used them for a miscarriage herself once. But it could take a couple of days to work, she says. Itās not that easy. But I know where youāre coming from, she says. You hate the thought of it growing eyes and fingers and toes and you canāt do anything about it. You stare at other children and you donāt see any redeeming qualities in them. You canāt think of anything but being alone in your own body again. Slightly relieved, I tell Lise that Nadja has promised to get me some quinine pills, but Lise isnāt so enthusiastic. She says, Iāve heard that some people go blind and deaf from those. I say that I donāt care, as long as I get rid of this. Finally, the young woman we had been waiting for comes back to work at the office, and Lise gets the address of the doctor who helped her. For the first time in a long time I feel happy, walking home with the note in my hand. The manās name is Lauritzen and he lives on Vesterbro Street. People call him āAbortion-Lauritzā, so it must be right. I can look at Helle and Ebbe again. I put Helle on my lap and play with her, and I say to Ebbe: When you go out and meet Hjalmar, donāt wear a cap and you should hold that briefcase as if it had books inside. You are so bad at that. But he calms me down by saying that heās not going to be taking part in any sabotage operations, so thereās not much chance the Germans will capture him. Tomorrow at this time, I say, I will be happier than I have ever been in my entire life.Ā
The next day I put on the lined fustian jacket that I bought from Sinne, because itās getting cold out. Sinne had it sewn from some old comforters from her family, but when everyone and his brother started wearing fustian jackets, she didnāt want it anymore. Iām also wearing long pants. I bicycle to Vesterbro Street, which is already decorated for Christmas with pine garlands and red ribbons along the sidewalk. Iāve been told not to tell anyone and not to say where I got the address from. There are a lot of people in the waiting room, mostly women. A woman in a fur coat is pacing, wringing her hands. She pats a little girl on the head as if it were something her hands did all on their own, and then she continues pacing. She turns and approaches a young woman and asks, May I please go in before you? Iām in a lot of pain. Okay, says the woman amenably, and when the door to the consultation room opens and someone yells: Next! she runs inside and slams the door shut. A few moments later the woman comes out a changed person. Her eyes are beaming, her cheeks are red, and there is a strange distant smile on her lips. She pulls aside the curtain and looks down at the street. How beautiful, she says, to see all those decorations. I canāt wait until Christmas. Amazed, I watch her go. My respect for the doctor has grown. If he can help such a miserable person in just a couple of minutes, who knows what he could do for me.Ā
What seems to be the trouble? the doctor says, looking at me with his tired, friendly eyes. He is an older, gray-haired man with an undefinable, slovenly appearance. Thereās a salami sandwich on his desk, with both ends of the bread curled up. I tell him that Iām pregnant but that I donāt want another baby. Well, he says, rubbing his chin, Iām sorry to disappoint you. Iām not doing that for the time being, because itās getting hot around here. My disappointment is so immense, so paralyzing, that I bury my face in my hands and burst out crying. But youāre my last chance, I sob; Iām almost three months pregnant. If you donāt help me, Iāll kill myself. Thatās what so many women say, he says quietly, removing his glasses to get a better look at me. Now, he says, youāre Tove Ditlevsen, arenāt you? I admit it, but I donāt see that it makes any difference. I read your last book, he says, it was good. Iām an old Vesterbro boy myself. If youāll just stop crying, he says very slowly, I might be able to whisper an address to you. I am about to hug him in gratitude when he writes an address down on a slip of paper for me. You can get an appointment with him, he says. All he does is poke a hole in the amniotic sac. If you start to bleed, you have to call me. And if I donāt start bleeding? I ask, anxious that this is going to be more complicated than I thought. That wouldnāt be good, he says, but it usually does. Weāll cross that bridge when we come to it. When I come home I tell Ebbe about it, and he pleads with me to give up my mission. No, I say vehemently, I would rather die. Ill at ease, he paces the living room, looking at the ceiling as if he could find a convincing argument up there. I call the doctor, who lives in Charlottenlund. Tomorrow six oāclock, he says in a grumpy, toneless voice. Just come right in; the door will be open. Bring three hundred kroner with you. I tell Ebbe not to worry. If anything happens Iāll be at the doctorās, so heāll be careful. When itās all over, I say, things will return to normal, Ebbe. Thatās why I need to have this done.
I take the streetcar to Charlottenlund, because I donāt want to ride my bicycle, not knowing what kind of condition Iāll be in after my appointment. Itās two days before Christmas, and people are loaded down with packages covered in bright wrapping paper. Maybe this will all be over by Christmas Eve, so we can have Christmas at my parentsā house again. I would love that. Iām sitting next to a German soldier. A heavy-set woman with packages has just made a big show of getting up and moving over to the opposite side. I feel bad for the soldier, who probably has a wife and children at home, where he would rather be, instead of traipsing around in a foreign country that his leader decided to invade. Ebbe is sitting at home, more nervous than me. He bought me a flashlight so I can find the address in the dark. We looked in a book to find out what an amniotic sac was. When it breaks, the book said, the water comes out and the birth starts. But thereās supposed to be blood, not water. Neither of us really understands.Ā
The doctor greets me in the entry, where a bare lightbulb dangles from a hook in the ceiling. He seems nervous and grouchy. The money, he says flatly, holding out his hand. I give it to him, and he nods toward the examination room. Heās about fifty, small and shriveled, and the corners of his mouth droop, as if he has never smiled. Come on up, he says, slapping his hand on the examination table with the hanging straps for patientsā legs. I lie down with an anxious glance at the side table which has on it a row of shiny pointed instruments. Will it hurt? I ask. A bit, he says, only a second. He talks like a telegram, as if heās trying to limit the use of his vocal cords. I shut my eyes, and a sharp pain darts through my body, but I donāt make a sound. Done, he says. My insides are as quiet as a cathedral; thereās no sign that a deadly instrument has just penetrated the membrane which was supposed to protect what wants to live against my will. When I get home Ebbe is sitting there, feeding Helle. Heās pale and nervous. I tell him what happened. You shouldnāt have done that, he says repeatedly. Youāre putting your life in danger and thatās wrong. We lie awake most of the night. Thereās no sign of blood or water, no fever, and no one has told me what to expect. Then the air-raid siren sounds. We carry Helle down to the cellar in her bed; this never wakes her up. People are sitting there, half asleep. I talk to the woman who lives downstairs; sheās stuffing the mouth of her sleepy, cranky child with cookies. Sheās young, with a weak, immature face. Maybe she tried to have an abortion too, with that child, or a later one. Maybe lots of women have done what Iām doing now, but no one talks about it. I havenāt even told Ebbe the name of the doctor in Charlottenlund, because I donāt want him to get in trouble if something happens to me. He helped me as my last resort, and I feel a solidarity with him, even though he was an unpleasant man.
I get cold sitting down here, and I button my fustian jacket up to my neck. Iām so cold my teeth start chattering. I think I might have a fever, I say to Ebbe. The air-raid siren stops, and we go back up to the apartment. I take my temperature, which reads 40Ā°C. Ebbe is beside himself. Call the doctor, he says vehemently. You have to go to the hospital right away. The fever makes me feel like Iām tipsy. Not now, I laugh, itās the middle of the night. Then his wife and children will find out. The last thing I see before falling asleep is Ebbe pacing the floor, furiously running his fingers through his hair. I canāt believe this, he mumbles in despair, I canāt believe this. Meanwhile Iām thinking: your buddy in the resistance, Hjalmar, he puts your life in danger too, you know. Early the next morning I call Dr Lauritzen to tell him my fever is 40.5Ā°, but thereās no blood or water. Itāll come, he promises. Go to the clinic right away; Iāll call and tell them youāre on your way. But not a word to the nurses, okay? Youāre pregnant, you have a fever, thatās all. And donāt be scared. Itāll all work out. Itās a nice clinic on Christian IX Gade. The head nurse receives me ā a nice, motherly older woman. We might not be able to save the baby, she says, but weāll do what we can. Her words make me wonder, and when Iām shown to a double room, I prop myself up on my elbow and look at the woman in the other bed, who is five or six years older than me and has a sweet, trusting face above the white shirt sheās wearing. Her name is Tutti, and to my surprise, sheās Morten Nielsenās girlfriend. Heās the father of the baby she was going to have. Tuttiās divorced, an architect, and she has a six-year-old daughter. Within an hour itās like weāve known each other our whole lives. A little Christmas tree stands in the middle of our room with tinkling glass decorations and a star on top. It seems ludicrous, given the circumstances.Ā
When I was a child, I say to Tutti in my fevered reverie, I thought that stars really had five points on them. The light goes on, and a nurse arrives with two trays for us. I still canāt take the sight or smell of food, so I donāt touch it. The nurse asks, are you bleeding? No, I say. Then she leaves a pail and some pads, in case it starts during the night. Dear God, I think in desperation, just let me bleed one drop of blood. After they take away the trays, Ebbe arrives, and then Morten. Hi there, he says, surprised. What are you doing here? Then he sits down on Tuttiās bed and they disappear, whispering and embracing. Ebbe has brought me twenty quinine pills which he got from Nadja. Only take them if you have to, he says. After he leaves, I tell Tutti that Nadja once forced a miscarriage by taking quinine. She doesnāt see any reason not to take them, so I do it. The night nurse comes in, turns off the ceiling light and turns on the nightlight. Its blue glow illuminates the room with an unreal, ghostly hue. I canāt fall asleep, but when I say something to Tutti, Iām unable to hear my own voice. Tutti, I yell, Iām deaf! I can see Tutti moving her lips, but I canāt hear anything. Say it louder, I tell her. Then she shouts, You donāt have to yell; Iām not deaf. Itās those pills, but I think itās just temporary. Thereās whooshing in my ears, and behind the whoosh there is a cottony, charged silence. Maybe Iāve become permanently deaf, for no reason, because thereās still no blood. Tutti gets out of bed and walks over to me and shouts in my ear, They just want to see blood. So Iāll give you my used pads, and you just show it to them tomorrow morning. Then theyāll scrape you out. Talk louder, I say, and finally Iām able to understand what she said. During the night she walks over and places her used pads in my pail. When she passes the Christmas tree, the glass decorations clink together and I know theyāre tinkling, but I canāt hear them.Ā
I think about Ebbe and Morten and their desolate expressions amid this womanās world of blood, nausea and fever. And I think of my childhood Christmases, when we walked around the tree singing: Out of the depths we come ā instead of singing psalms. I think about my mother. She has no idea Iām lying here, because she can never keep a secret. I also think about my father who has always been hard of hearing, because it runs in his family. Deaf people must live stifled, isolated lives. I might need a hearing aid. But my deafness doesnāt mean much next to Tuttiās act of mercy. She shouts in my ear, They know full well whatās going on here. They just have to keep up appearances.Ā
Towards morning I fall asleep, exhausted, until the nurse comes in and wakes us. My oh my, youāve been bleeding a lot, she says with fake worry, looking down into the pail with the nightās harvest. Iām afraid we wonāt be able to save the baby. Iāll call the doctor right away. To my relief, I realize that my hearing has come back. Are you sad? asks the nurse. A little, I lie, trying to put on a downcast face. In the afternoon the doctor comes in, and Iām wheeled to the operating room. Donāt feel so bad, he says cheerfully. At least you have one child already. Then they place a mask over my face and the world fills with the smell of ether. When I wake up, Iām lying in bed with a clean, white shirt on. Tutti smiles over at me. Well, she says, are you happy now? Yes, I say. I donāt know what I would have done without you. She doesnāt know either, and she says that itās all behind us now. She says Morten wants to marry her. Sheās madly in love with him and she adores his poetry, which has just been published and has been praised everywhere in the press. Besides you, she says tactfully, heās the most talented young person today. I think so too, but Iāve never been close to him.Ā
Ebbe arrives with flowers like Iāve just given birth, and heās so happy, because now itās over. We have to be more careful in the future, he says. I go and ask Dr Lauritzen to show me how to put my diaphragm in correctly. Still I harbor a strong resistance to that piece of hardware, a resistance that will remain with me my whole life. My temperature drops quickly to normal, and Iām ravenously hungry now that my nausea has disappeared, as if by a stroke of magic. I miss Helleās little pudgy body with the dimples on her knees. When Ebbe brings her in to me, I think with horror, what if it were her that we had just denied access to life? I bring her up into the bed with me and play with her. She is more dear to me than ever. In the evening the doctor comes into our room without his coat on, holding two children by the hand. They are ten or twelve years old. Merry Christmas, he says jovially, and squeezes our hands. The children shake hands with us too, and when theyāre gone, Tutti says: Heās so nice. We should be thankful that someone dares to do this. On Christmas Eve I wake up, take out a pencil and paper from my bag and write a poem in the weak glow of the nightlight: You who sought shelter with one weak and afraid, For you I hum a lullaby between the night and day.
Ditlevsen, Tove. The Copenhagen Trilogy. Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kindle Edition.Ā
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