was mute. The idea was to avoid her having deaf mute children. Why was it so bad for someone to speak in sign language instead of sounds? Why should that girl’s children be any unhappier than Peter, who didn’t get answers to all his questions either? Later, when the girl had come round, Helene had gone to see her and taken her an orange. She was not supposed to have done that; the oranges were meant for other patients. Helene had given it to the girl in secret. She had held the retractor, she had finished the stitching. If the surgeon had told her to make the incision, she would probably have cut the tubes herself. Helene felt the cool glass against her forehead.
Mother, aren’t you listening? Peter pinched her hand. He looked desperate, almost angry. Obviously he had been trying to attract her attention for some time.
I’m listening, said Helene. Peter was telling her something, saying the other children had throwed marbles.
Thrown, said Helene, thrown marbles, and she thought of that young girl again.
Thrown. Peter’s eyes were shining. He could talk very clearly when she reminded him. The girl would be alone in her bed in the ward now, with the thirty-eight other women patients. Had she been told what the operation on her was for? Helene could tell her next morning, she had to tell her. The girl mustn’t be left wondering later, she should at least know. But perhaps she would no longer be there in the morning.
Hungry, Peter was complaining now. It was time to get out of the tram. Helene remembered that she hadn’t done any shopping first thing in the morning. What shops were open before the beginning of her shift? Perhaps she could ring the grocer’s doorbell. His wife didn’t like it when people rang their bell in the evening, but often Helene had no other option if she hadn’t been shopping earlier, and today she had nothing to eat in the house.
She bought two eggs, quarter of a litre of milk and a whole pound of potatoes from the grocer’s wife. The potatoes were beginning to sprout shoots, but never mind. Helene was pleased to have them.
Don’t like tatoes, complained Peter as Helene put a plate of potatoes in front of him. She didn’t want to lose her temper, she didn’t want to shout at him and tell him he ought to be glad to have them, he’d better eat up. She’d rather say nothing.
Don’t like tatoes, said Peter again, letting a piece of potato fall off his little spoon and drop on the floor.
Helene snatched the spoon away from him and felt like banging it down on the table. She thought of her mother, the angry light in her eyes, her unpredictability. Helene laid the spoon gently on the table. If you’re not hungry, she said, keeping her voice down, you don’t have to eat. She took Peter’s wrist and led him over to the washbasin. He was crying as she washed him.
Eat rinje, whimpered Peter. Eat rinje. He pointed to the picture hanging over the chest of drawers. It showed a basket full of fruit in glowing colours. Did he mean the orange it showed? Should she have brought that orange from the hospital home for him? The girl needed the orange, Peter had potatoes.
Rinje! Peter was shouting now, deafening Helene. She bit her lip, she gritted her teeth, she didn’t want to lose patience, patience was all that mattered, it gave shape and form to life. Helene picked Peter up, turned the picture to the wall as she passed it and carried him to her bed.
Another day, she whispered. There’ll be an orange another day. Peter calmed down. He liked to be caressed. Helene stroked his forehead and pulled the blanket up over him.
Mother sing?
Helene knew she couldn’t sing well, she stroked him and shook her head. A woman in the hospital had taken her arm today with a bony old hand and told Helene she wished she would just let her die. Please, I just want to die. Go to sleep, Peterkin.
Sing, please sing! Peter didn’t want to close his eyes.
Perhaps she just had to make a bit of an effort. Helene would have liked to sing, she simply couldn’t. Could she think of a song? Mary and Joseph walked in a garden green, but Christmas was over long ago. Her voice was scratchy, the musical notes wouldn’t come. Peter was watching her. Helene closed her mouth.
Sing.
Helene shook