My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,95

the cries of the baby and the murmurs of the two girls and as she raised herself on the pillows, she found herself wanting to see. ‘What is it?’ she managed to gasp. ‘Can I see?’

‘Are you really sure?’

‘Yes. I have to.’

So Brigitte leant over her with the little bundle wrapped in a towel and Eva took it from her.

‘It’s a girl,’ Sally said. ‘She’s beautiful.’

‘She is, isn’t she?’ Eva said, peeling back the wrapping. As she did so, a little fist grasped her finger. ‘Oh, she’s so strong.’

‘She’s a very healthy baby,’ Brigitte said. ‘She’ll thrive. We’ll sort out a bottle for her as soon as we can.’

Eva continued staring at the new being in her arms. She didn’t look like him. She was not a figure to hate. She was newly made, innocent of all sin, deserving of love. There was a smear of blood on her head, which had a dark slick of wet hair. Eva stroked her cheek and the baby turned towards her, mouth open like an eager fledgling. And instinctively, Eva bared her breast and allowed the baby to begin suckling.

‘Are you really sure you should be doing that?’ said Sally. ‘It will make it much harder for you to part from her.’

‘Let her,’ Brigitte said, putting a hand on Sally’s arm. ‘It’s only natural.’

‘She’s hungry,’ murmured Eva. ‘She needs me. I didn’t know she’d need me.’

Brigitte and Sally looked at each other, but Eva did not notice; her gaze was entirely on the baby held close to her breast. ‘I know I must let her go eventually, but for now, she’s mine. My baby. And I am the best person to care for her.’

67

Wildflecken

1 October 1947

My darling,

I have not felt this much overwhelming love or this much anguish since I was informed of your demise and although this time it is not a death I am mourning, it is painful and distressing in an entirely different way. The child came into this world healthy, I held her briefly and now she has gone to live apart from me.

My head tells me that this is the only solution, that I could not keep her, that it is better she has a good life, not knowing anything of the manner of her conception. But my heart is torn in pieces again after feeling her soft skin, her downy head and hearing her cries.

Although the act of her creation was violent, her birth, albeit painful, was wonderful. She is perfectly formed and though I had expected to feel indifference or even disdain for this child of that terrible man, I could not. I was sure I would not want to look at her or hold her, but when I saw her in Brigitte’s arms I held out my hands to cradle her. Then I looked into her innocent eyes and saw only trust and unquestioning love, which I felt equally in return.

But today, after feeding her from my breast for seven days, I have kissed her for the last time, smelt her milky scent for the last time and let her fingers grip mine for the very last time. She has gone to her new home and I am totally bereft. But, my darling, I will grow strong, for your sake and for the sake of all who have made sacrifices during these difficult and trying years. I have given her away to grow up with loving parents and eventually I will leave this place and never see her or know of her again.

Your loving Evie, xxxx

Ps I love you

68

Eva, 24 December 1950

Christmas is For Children

Eva shrank back into the furthest shadows of the candlelit church, hiding behind the many families gathered for this special service. She could see the little girl chattering to the woman who held her hand. Her blonde hair was twisted into pigtails beneath a woollen bonnet, her chubby legs wrapped in hand-knitted stockings and her body buttoned up in a warm grey coat sewn from a thick blanket. She looked strong, healthy and well cared for, and Eva longed to pick her up, breathe the scent of her skin again and kiss her cheeks.

Eva could not stop watching her, drinking in every second, knowing she should never have put the child born out of hatred to her breast. Ever since her birth, Eva’s head had been filled with thoughts of her daughter, perhaps the only child she would ever bear.

The pain of her first suckling was nothing to the pain I’ve