nights in a dormitory, Michal was transported to a small village in the vicinity of Poznán, Poland. She was very frightened. She had already been caught in one false-pregnancy scheme, and now she was on her way to a maternity hospital, where they would certainly know she was not pregnant. It was the winter of ’44. The transport was a small, freezing bus. It took her east, where she could see what the war had done. Ruins, cold, somewhere in Poland—she was sure she was going to her death.
When she got to the hospital, of course the doctors knew immediately she was not pregnant. But instead of the transport to Auschwitz she expected, the doctors were surprisingly casual about the whole thing, saying something like, Oh, well. Such a pity you lost that pregnancy. It is too common these days. No fruits and vegetables. The stress of the war. Here you can rest and get a proper diet.
Just what sort of “hospital” was this? Michal wondered. It was a large stone structure, columns at the entry. There were extensive grounds around it, now covered with snow. Tall trees. Linen-wrapped hedges to protect them from the cold. When she had first arrived, she followed a nurse across the sprawling main floor, to a registration room, where they took down her particulars. She gave her name as Maria Gerstner, of course. Then the nurse walked her through a library, a drawing room, a solarium. They took an ornate ironwork lift to the third floor—Michal took particular care in describing it; something from the “before time.” Then the nurse brought her to what she said was Michal’s bedroom. A private room with two floor-to-ceiling windows draped with silk brocade, warm brown, tied back with gold tassels. Michal also described this in detail, again saying it reminded her of the “before time.” The bed was wider than any she had ever seen before. There were many pillows, and a bedspread made of the same brown silk.
She went to dinner in a dining hall with white-tile walls. Hard walls that echoed the voices of the women. She thought there were thirty, maybe thirty-five women. They were called “patients.” Michal noticed that the other “patients” were all blond, blue-eyed women like herself. Everyone spoke at least a little German. But many were comfortable only in Polish, or Czech—they were called Sudeten Germans by the staff. The women at the table did not speak among themselves except for the most commonplace things—How did you enjoy breakfast? Is your room warm enough? Do you need salt? A rule, evidently, because Michal noticed certain glances in the direction of the thin-faced matron who sat at the head.
Doctors examined her daily and found her to be in “excellent Aryan health.” Despite the rules, the women found ways to tell her just what sort of hospital she was in.
It was a tranquil place. The women had soft beds, well-heated rooms, trees near the windows that would give shade come spring. They ate the finest foods. Entrecôte, veal, capon, trout. Buttered potatoes, spinach, kale, carrots, peaches, oranges—Michal described these foods in detail—fresh fruits and vegetables in the midst of war, rationing, hunger. The miracle was the fresh oranges, the mysterious golden oranges.
And then, to repay the good offices of the Reich for its munificence, if they were not currently pregnant, it was generally known that these pampered women should not be averse to enjoying the company of visiting Nazi officers. It was something called Lebensborn, meaning “life spring,” a nasty little Nazi eugenics program to ensure the future of the master race.
The therapist gasped.
This is … unexpected, Dr. Schussler said.
Yes, said the patient. A shock.
121.
(Please God, no, I thought, as I sat listening. Lebensborn! How could I have known?)
Lebensborn, said the patient. I had no idea beyond what Leni told me later. But even then, she was sketchy, talking only about how it affected her life and Michal’s. No background, nothing about why no one seems to know anything about it. When I got back home, before this session, I went to the library. Nothing, just a newspaper article from a small town in Kentucky that called it all bunk. It said Lebensborn centers were maternity hospitals. The story that they were brothels: bunk.
She paused, then said:
Do you know anything about it, Dr. Schussler?
The doctor said nothing, then:
I know it is … controversial.
You mean the argument over maternity hospital versus whorehouse.
No, said the doctor. Whether Lebensborn existed at all.