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At the Orphanage

Johanna woke to the sound of shouting outside her room.

“What do you mean you did not have time?” Frau Taubman’s voice seemed to bounce off the walls. “When I tell you to do something, I mean do it, and do it now.”

“Yes, Frau Taubman,” a girl said in a quivering voice.

“Why are you standing there, gawking at me?” A loud slap jolted Johanna fully awake. “Now go!”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girl’s sobs faded away down the hall.

Trying to shake off a feeling of foreboding, Johanna stood up and groped for the chamber pot. In the near-dark, she walked to the washstand and poured cold water from the pitcher into the basin. She washed her hands and face, and dried them with the rough linen cloth hanging from a hook on the wall. Johanna shivered. The room still held last night’s chill. She got dressed as quickly as she could. She ran a comb through her thick hair, attached it in the back with a leather clasp, and walked down to the foyer in search of breakfast. Following the clatter of pots and pans and the smell of porridge cooking, Johanna found her way to the spacious kitchen.

A stout woman was standing in front of the stove. She was stirring something in a large copper pot. She looked up and noticed Johanna standing at the door.

“Come in,” said the woman, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “You must be the new girl.”

“Yes, ma’am. My name is Johanna Richter.”

“I’m Frau Hartmann. Sit down over there. I’ll give you your breakfast in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” Frau Hartmann pointed to a rough wooden table with a bench on each side where two girls were already sitting. Monica glanced up at Johanna.

“Johanna!” The other girl said. Her eyes lit up when she recognized Johanna.

“You’re —”

“Cecile.”

The girl nodded. “From the town hall.”

Johanna sat down opposite Cecile. “When did you get here?”

“The day before yesterday. And you?”

“Last night.”

Frau Hartmann placed a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of Johanna. “Here. Eat. It looks like you need some fattening up.”

Johanna remembered the old story of the witch who lured children into her cottage. She fed them cakes and cookies — and maybe oatmeal? — to fatten them up so she could eat them. But Frau Hartmann didn’t look like a witch. Johanna shook off her overactive imagination. She blew on the oatmeal, poured some milk on it, and started eating while Cecile cut slices of rye bread.

“So, what is it like here?” Johanna asked Cecile as she reached for a piece of bread. She felt famished — yesterday she had been too nervous to eat much more than the bit of bread and cheese she’d brought with her.

Cecile glanced towards Monica. “It’s fine,” she said.

“How many babies are there?”

“Ten, so far. Six girls and four boys.”

“Why are there more girls than boys?” Johanna asked.

“I don’t know.”

“I do,” Monica said, banging her spoon on the table. “Because girls aren’t worth as much as boys.”

“What are you talking about?” said Johanna. “Of course we’re worth as much!”

“And more,” added Cecile.

“That’s what you think!” said Monica. “Some people think that girls are only good to get married, do housework, and have babies. Boys can work in the fields, or learn a trade.”

“I wish I could learn a trade,” said Cecile.

“People shouldn’t give their babies away, just because they’re girls,” Johanna said.

“Maybe not, but they do.” Monica shrugged. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. These babies are foundlings. Their parents are dead. Nobody wants them.”

“I don’t think —” Johanna said.

Just then, Frau Taubman strode into the room. She glanced at the half-eaten breakfasts on the table and grabbed a piece of bread. “There you all are. Aren’t you finished yet?” she barked.

Johanna tried to stuff the rest of the bread in her mouth. Mama always said it was a sin to waste food. This is my first day here, and I’m already breaking a commandment.

“Yes, Frau Taubman,” the girls replied quickly, as they stood up.

“Come along then,” Frau Taubman said, gesturing impatiently for the girls to follow her.

“Haste makes waste,” muttered Frau Hartmann as she gathered up the dirty dishes.

The girls followed Frau Taubman along a wide corridor. The keys hanging from her belt jangled with each step she took. At the end of the corridor, they entered what once must have been the grand ballroom. Now it served as the nursery.

Johanna counted six cribs along one wall, six along the other. A wooden partition separated each crib from the one next to it. Babies were crying, some more loudly than others. Three girls were sitting in various parts of the room. They stood up and walked to the door as the group entered.

Frau Taubman dismissed them with a wave of her hand. “Monica,” she said, “tell the new girls what to do. I have other duties to attend to.” She paused. “And remember. No talking to the babies or to each other, no singing or humming. Absolutely not one word.” Frau Taubman left the room in a swish of black silk.

How could I have forgotten? Johanna thought. How can I not talk or sing or hum to the babies? It’s not right. It’s not fair. It’s not even human.

Monica pointed to some shelves. “The wet nurses leave the milk in these bottles for the babies every morning. Diapers, blankets, and clothes are in the linen closet. Each baby has a sign on its bed, showing its name and birth date, if we know it, and its measurements, like weight and height. Doctor Keller measures them every Monday.”

“Who’s Doctor Keller?” Johanna asked. “Does he take care of the babies?’

“Yes,” said Monica. “But it’s really Professor Gottfried Leibniz who’s in charge of this experiment.”

“Experiment?” Johanna’s heart skipped a beat.

“Sure. What did you think this was?”

“I thought …” Johanna said. “I thought this was a regular orphanage.”

“I did, too,” Cecile said, twisting one of her braids.

“Don’t think too much around here,” Monica said. “You’ll be better off.”

“But —”Cecile said.

“But nothing.” Monica continued with her instructions. “There’s lots of other things you need to know. So be quiet and listen. We’re each assigned our sections. That’s Johanna’s,” she said, pointing to the far end of the room, “and that’s Cecile’s,” pointing to the middle section. “Mine’s here near the door. You can sit or stand or walk around, whatever you want. When a baby cries, you take care of it. Change its diaper, feed it, things like that. Just remember —”

“No talking,” both girls said at the same time. They started to giggle until Monica gave them a hard look.

“Stop it. It’s not a joke,” Monica said. “Now let’s get to work.”

They walked to their sections. Johanna read the names of her babies: Rebecca, Angela, Gertrude, and Joseph. They were all about the same age, between one and three months old.

During the next few hours, Johanna learned more about her charges. Rebecca was the oldest and the most restless. She liked to lie on her stomach, raise her head, and look around her with big, blue eyes. Wisps of thin blond hair covered her almost-bald head and she held onto Johanna with a fierce grip. Joseph and Gertrude cried almost constantly. Angela lay quietly in her crib, and didn’t seem interested in anything.

Johanna was determined to take good care of her babies, but it was harder than she had expected. No sooner was one baby quiet than another one would begin to fuss and cry. She felt like the juggler she had seen at the fair last year. She wished she could work on her lace, but at first she was too busy and then she was too tired.

A servant brought them lunch — bread, cheese, and milk. Later, another maid came into the nursery and took out the baskets of dirty diapers and clothes for washing. Johanna felt as if the day would never end. Finally, as it grew dark, the night girls arrived and the day girls were allowed to leave the nursery. They walked to the kitchen for the evening meal.

They washed their hands at the washbasin and sat down at the table. Johanna was amazed by the luxury she saw around her. Water was piped into the kitchen, and a huge earthenware stove called a kachelofen was used instead of the fireplace and hearth Johanna had at home.

“What do you think?” Cecile asked, looking around to make sure Monica was out of the room.

“It was a long day,” Johanna said.

“For me, too,” Cecile said. “It doesn’t seem natural, to be so quiet around babies.”

“I know. I wanted to talk to the babies. I had to stop myself every minute.”

“I felt the same. You know, I’m used to talking a lot. Mother calls me a regular chatterbox.”

“Not me. I like to read or work on my lace,” Johanna said.

“Then this place must be perfect for you.”

“I guess. But it’s hard for me to be so quiet with babies, too.”

Just then, Monica walked into the room. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Nothing.” Cecile said.

“Well, in that case,” Monica said. She sat down on the bench opposite the girls, a sullen look on her face.

“Here’s your supper,” Frau Hartmann said.

“What’s this?” Johanna asked, poking at a pale object in her stew.

Frau Hartmann answered, “Why, they’re potatoes, my dear. Have you never eaten ’em before?”

Johanna shook her head. “At home, Mama made stew with cabbage and onions, and sometimes turnips or carrots.”

“Try them. They’re delicious,” Frau Hartmann said. “My cousin grows them on his farm in Alsace. He says they’re like manna from heaven.”

“This stew isn’t manna, and this orphanage isn’t heaven,” said Monica. “Anyway, potatoes give me gas.”

“Watch your tongue, young lady,” said Frau Hartmann. “In my kitchen, I expect good manners.”

“Sorry.” Monica glared at Frau Hartmann, lowered her eyes, and picked at her food with her spoon.

“Try it,” Cecile urged. “We grow them in Denmark, too. They’re good.”

Johanna had heard people talk about potatoes. They said you could get sick from eating them; that you might even catch leprosy. She looked over at Cecile and decided. “All right. I will.” She picked up a chunk of potato with her spoon, blew on it, and chewed it slowly. “It’s delicious!”

“It is delicious,” said Cecile, between bites. “Frau Hartmann, is this pork? It’s my favourite!”

“Why yes, my dear. I was lucky this morning. Those were the last pork hocks the butcher had.”

Johanna choked on the food in her mouth. She started to cough.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Cecile. “You look green.”

“It’s nothing,” said Johanna, putting down her spoon. “It went down the wrong way.” Vomit rose in her throat. How could I have been so stupid? she thought. How could I have forgotten that the food here wouldn’t be kosher? I can’t eat pork. It would break all the rules I grew up with. But if I don’t eat it, they’ll know I’m Jewish. Only one day had passed, but she wanted to get up and run away and never see this place ever again.

Monica was looking at her strangely. “You act like you’ve never eaten pork before.”

“Of course I have,” said Johanna. She could feel her face getting red. “It just went down the wrong way.”

“Well, if that’s all it is,” said Monica. She leaned forward and waved her spoon in Johanna’s face. Johanna could smell the sour sweat from her unwashed body. “You’d better not be one of those Christ-killing Jews.”

“Leave her alone,” said Frau Hartmann. “Eat your supper.”

Johanna couldn’t speak. She could only shake her head. She felt ashamed — not because she was Jewish, but because she was pretending not to be. She sighed. She suspected that pretending not to be Jewish would be more exhausting than she had imagined.

“My brother says you can’t trust Jews,” said Cecile. “That they’re always trying to cheat him.”

“I hate Jews!” said Monica. “They’re dirty and always smell horrible.”

“I heard,” Cecile whispered, “that they have horns and a devil’s tail.”

“That’s so backward!” Monica sniffed. “People don’t believe that anymore. Shows you’re from the country.”

“I’m not! I’m from Altona!”

“Country enough.”

“It’s not!” said Cecile.

“That’s enough chatterin’ like a bunch of foolish birds!” said Frau Hartmann. “Be quiet and eat this good food I cooked.”

Johanna couldn’t listen to the horrible things they were saying about her people any longer. “I’m not hungry,” she said as she stood up. “I’m going to my room.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Monica said as Johanna hurried away.