My Name is Eva An absolutely gripping and emotional historical novel - Suzanne Goldring Page 0,96

felt since giving her away. No mother, anywhere, under any circumstances in the world, can ever find it easy to abandon their own offspring. Parents in London evacuating their children to unknown families in the countryside, far from the threat of bombs, persecuted Jews in Europe waving goodbye to the Kindertransport, not knowing whether they would ever meet again. But none of them could have done it without stifling their cries as their hearts tore into pieces.

She continued gazing at this little blonde being of her own flesh and blood, born through sweat, agony and tears, born out of a brief but unforgettable moment of brutal hate. She was not to blame. She was innocent, oh so innocent, from her very first breath.

I thought it would be easy. I thought because she wasn’t Hugh’s child and, especially because she was the product of such a cruel attack, I could discard her, give her away without a second thought. But she looked at me with her puzzled eyes when she was born, when I held her for the very first time. I should never have held her, never put her to my breast, never felt the softness of her skin, the warmth of her breath and her sweet scent, but my instinct was to protect her; she was so new and so vulnerable.

It was Christmas again and snow had fallen, just as it did every year at that time. In the camp there were freshly cut fir trees, excited children and the smell of that year’s batch of plum liqueur. And in the local Catholic church in Gemünden on that Christmas Eve, where Eva watched from her dark corner, there was the perfumed haze of incense mingling with musty woollens as people came to prepare for the celebratory feast that awaited them later that night.

But I should never keep coming back to see her. I knew from the very start I should have just turned my head away from that plaintive newborn cry, but it was so needy, so pitiful. But I looked and I touched and then I couldn’t pretend she didn’t exist. And now I long to slip her hands out of her red mittens, just for a moment, so I can look again at the perfect pearls of nails on every finger. I wonder, if I tipped her chin, are her eyes still blue? And I yearn to take off her bonnet, uncoil her plaits and feel the silk of her hair in my fingers.

If she had been stillborn or had died soon after her birth, it would have been easier. That would have saddened me, a new life so quickly gone, but then I could have forgotten about her. Then she would never have been more to me than a tiny crumpled newborn, not this laughing dimpled child, growing more full of life with every day, every month, every passing year.

And of course my biggest mistake was pressing Brigitte to tell me where she had been taken. I should never have asked, but I simply had to know. I had to be sure she would be safe and would be loved. And once I knew she was so nearby, I couldn’t help walking past their cottage, strolling beside their fence to see her in the garden playing with a ball or singing to herself. And in the summer, I saw her pick raspberries with the woman she calls Mutti, eating the berries that stained her mouth and her white dress. It saddens me that she can never speak to me, kiss me or call me Mummy.

Eva stayed at the back of the church, hidden partly by the dim light and also by the heavy scarf pulled low over her forehead and tied tight under her chin. She didn’t speak to the child, nor to her adopted parents, but she heard them speaking to the little girl, just as she had many times before. That was how she knew the name they had given her daughter. ‘Lieselotte,’ she mouthed. That’s what they named her. Sometimes they called out ‘Lottie’, too, and ‘liebchen’.

She watched the little family greeting neighbours with warm smiles, shaking hands with the priest and then departing. They appeared to have no other children, just Lieselotte, who grasped the hands of her adoptive parents and trotted between them, chattering about the supper of carp, fried potatoes and Lebküchen she had helped to make. And I will never share her Christmas celebrations, show her how to roll