his bed and have children with him, that was the bargain I made with God when he was almost dead with typhoid. Just make him well, and I’ll be a good, true wife again. But the heart, you know, the heart’s not logical like that.”
“No,” he says softly. “It’s not.”
“I was in a panic. I knew I couldn’t bear it, I couldn’t bear him as a lover, but what else was there? And then—almost by magic—this door opened before me. And I felt such relief. I felt as if I’d been offered a reprieve from prison. Do you understand what I mean? Do you—do you think I’m dreadful?”
During the course of these few sentences, Wilfred’s risen from the grass and paced a few yards away to stare at the gentle slope of the garden, which ends in a tangle of prickly, marshy wilderness. At her question—Do you think I’m dreadful?—he shakes his head, speechless.
Elfriede rises to her knees. It’s easier to speak to the back of his head, and the words, the terrible confession tumbles forth. “So I called in Gerhard and we had this chat, the three of us. I told my husband he must take responsibility for this child, it was only right, the babe was innocent. I said I would raise the child in our nursery with Johann, just as if it were ours. Of course they were both amazed. A wife isn’t supposed to be so understanding, you know. She’s supposed to dismiss the other woman and pretend the whole thing doesn’t exist. Instead I made my little announcement and left them together in the room.”
Wilfred looks back at her, over his shoulder. “Alone, you mean?”
“Yes, alone. Except at first he couldn’t accept the hint. He’s very rigid, you know, or rather he’s moral, he craves order and nice, clean lines of virtue and sin. Probably he was horrified at himself, at the mess he’d made, at the lust he felt for this woman. She left only a short time later, looking more upset, I think, than before. So I made myself more clear. One night I told him he should go up to Charlotte, to see how she was getting along. He said no, but I insisted. I said it was his responsibility to care for her, this woman who cared so much for him, who was bearing his child. At last he went. He came back down two hours later—I waited up, you see, to make sure—and then I knew it was done.”
“Good God.”
“Of course, he’s very methodical, Gerhard. So he went up to her on Tuesdays and Fridays, like clockwork, whenever he was home. At first he just stayed an hour or two. You know, to satisfy a physical urge, that was all, like an itch that needed scratching. The rest of the time he spent in the ordinary way, with me and Johann or else his own pursuits, and generally ignored Charlotte because, of course, she was only a servant. Then the baby was born. We were all so happy with her, so delighted. Gerhard was enamored. He had always wanted a daughter, you know. He would hold her for hours, he would stay in the nursery and watch Charlotte feed her, he began to talk about having more children. So I suppose I wasn’t surprised when he went up to visit Charlotte’s room again, one night, when Ursula was a couple of months old—”
“My God,” said Wilfred.
“Only it was different from before. He stayed longer this time, and he went up again the next evening. He began to go up to her four or five times a week. By then she’d moved to a separate room on the upper floor, a private room, but next door to the nursery so she could hear the children if they needed her. Eventually he had a double bed put in. He would actually sleep there with her and return at dawn. Just as soon as Ursula was weaned, Charlotte became pregnant with Frederica, like that.” Elfriede snaps her fingers. “Then it was Gertrud.”
“And you never put a stop to it?”
“That’s the trouble. You can’t. What do you say to them, it was all right yesterday but today it’s not? I’ve changed my mind? Anyway, there were the children. I couldn’t help loving them. Here were these beautiful babies, and there was no misery, no blackness, no madness. They call me Mutti, because Johann did and he was their brother. How could I give them