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The Experiment

As the weeks passed, the babies started to die. George, one of Cecile’s babies, was the first. For days, he lay in his crib, without crying, without even whimpering. Most of the time, his eyes were closed. But even when they were open, he stared straight ahead, as if he wasn’t seeing anything. He sucked listlessly on his bottle, and eventually he refused to eat at all. After a few days, he was dead. Cecile wrapped him in a linen sheet and placed his tiny body into a plain wooden coffin. Since then, Cecile’s eyes were always red from crying. She kept saying she wanted to go home.

Stephanie, one of Monica’s babies, died a few weeks later. Monica walked around all day long, a scowl on her face and angry words on her lips.

Now Angela was very ill. Johanna had trouble concentrating. She was constantly spilling milk, breaking things, tripping over her own skirts.

Frau Taubman became more and more demanding. She blamed the girls for the babies’ deaths and had no patience for even the smallest matters.

With each sick baby, Doctor Keller tried every remedy he knew. He prescribed medicines and tonics. He bled them to rid them of bad humours. He placed leeches on their thin tummies and legs. He put hot glass bottles on their backs. They screamed in pain, but nothing helped.

One day, Johanna was returning from the bathroom when she heard Doctor Keller and the scientist, Professor Leibniz, arguing in the hallway outside the nursery. She hid in a doorway as she listened.

In spite of his fashionable clothes, Professor Leibniz didn’t make a striking impression. He was a thin, middle-aged man whose long nose jutted out from a face as pale as a turnip. His limbs were crooked and ungainly; he carried his head far forward of his hunched shoulders.

It was said of him that he often stayed in his chair for days at a time while he was working on his various theories and projects. It was whispered that he was brilliant, ambitious beyond reckoning, and an inveterate liar.

“I must know what is wrong with the babies,” Leibniz was saying.

“I cannot understand what is making them so sick,” said Doctor Keller. “They do not seem to have an illness that I can diagnose. They are simply not growing as normal babies should.” He paused. “I wonder why they do not thrive.”

“Thrive?” Leibniz said, straightening his black wig. “You did not obtain this position to ask questions. Only to follow orders.”

“Listen to me for a moment,” said Doctor Keller. “The babies have little appetite. They are not gaining weight. They lie listlessly in their beds and show little curiosity about the world around them. I cannot but think that the babies have given up the will to live.”

“You must find out what is wrong with them,” said Leibniz. “You must bring them back to health. They are vital for my experiment.” Leibniz paused and rubbed his hands together.

“Experiment?” Doctor Keller said. “The babies are dying. Whatever it is, you must stop this experiment at once.”

“That is impossible,” said Leibniz, sniffing. “The price of knowledge is unfortunately sometimes very high.”

“But Professor … this price is far too high.” Doctor Keller took a large handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his sweating face. “What kind of experiment are you conducting, Professor Leibniz, that makes it worth the lives of these poor babies?”

Johanna’s heart was pounding as she eavesdropped. She was terrified that she might be discovered.

“I have a theory that all languages come from one and the same language — what I call a ‘proto-language.’” Leibniz said.

“A proto-language?”

“Yes. I believe that all languages have one common ancestor — not Hebrew or Swedish, as some people propose. Something else.” He paused. “I am certain I will discover it through this experiment.”

“I see,” said Doctor Keller. “But … what about the babies?”

Now Johanna was sure. This was no ordinary orphanage, but the setting for an experiment — one that was proving deadly. No one has the right to experiment on human beings, Johanna thought. Does Leibniz think that science is more important than people? She felt she would burst with the effort of keeping silent.

“It is your responsibility to see that my subjects receive the very best of care — food, shelter, clothing.” Leibniz raised his voice. “Do you perhaps think that the caregivers do not tend to them properly?” Johanna pressed herself against the wall.

“Not at all,” said Doctor Keller. “The caregivers are competent. The babies must also be talked to and held and loved. It is only common sense. You are denying the babies their emotional needs.” He paused. “Your theory,” Doctor Keller said scornfully, “your theory prevents me from treating them properly.”

Leibniz wagged a finger at Doctor Keller. “And you prevent me from conducting this important experiment. Do not forget: the duke has agreed. He is my sponsor.” He sniffed unpleasantly. “Doctor, if you cannot determine what is wrong with these foundlings, then we will find someone who can.”

“As you wish,” said Doctor Keller, bowing. “Do so. Seek another physician. I am done with this wretched business.” Johanna heard his footsteps and peeked around the corner.

“Wait, doctor!” called Leibniz, lurching after Keller. “Please come back! I did not mean that you should stop caring for these babies.”

“Then what did you mean?” asked Doctor Keller. His usually red face was becoming redder; his waistcoat buttons seemed about to pop.

“Only that we must both work together for … the welfare of these poor unfortunate babies.”

“It is obvious that our ideas about their welfare differ in the extreme,” said Doctor Keller. He was almost a head taller than Leibniz and stared down at the ugly scientist with disdain.

“That may well be true. But we can still work together, can we not?”

“Perhaps.”

“Of course we can! After all, are we not both learned men of science?”

“We are.” Doctor Keller’s voice shook.

“Good. Then we are agreed.” He cleared his throat. “By the way, have you heard about the new Academy of Sciences in Berlin? I am its first president, you know. And have I told you about my plan to drain the canals in Venice…? No? Have you been to the Gänsemarkt, the new opera house? Tomorrow, I plan to see the debut of that young composer — Handel, I believe is his name.”

Their voices faded as they walked down the hall away from the nursery. The strong scent of Leibniz’s cologne lingered in the air. Johanna waited until they had gone and hurried back to the nursery.

The situation at the orphanage continued to worsen. The babies had little appetite, so they lost weight and weakened. Some of the babies were listless and apathetic; others were angry and irritable. No matter how they acted, the result was the same. The undertaker’s wagon became a familiar sight at the orphanage.

One of the night girls quit and had been replaced. An air of despair and depression filled the grand rooms and corridors of the mansion. Once this must have been a place of joy and laughter, Johanna thought. Now it is a place of death.

It was not the kind of death that takes a person at the end of a long, well-lived life. These small, helpless babies died before they had a chance to live. What would they have become? Johanna wondered. Whom would they have married? What good work would they have accomplished? She felt sick when she thought of these needless deaths. She wished she could do something, but felt paralyzed with fear and doubt.

Autumn dragged slowly into winter. Johanna knew she was a liar for hiding her identity. But now she had also become a thief.

Yesterday, when she had finally visited Mama, they talked for a long time. Mama looked older somehow, with deeper lines on her face and more grey hair sprinkled among the black. They sat in the dingy room and drank tea while Johanna told Mama about the babies.

“It is a terrible thing to see babies die,” Mama said. She closed her eyes and leaned her chin on her hand. Johanna knew she was thinking about her own children that she’d lost. Suddenly, Mama opened her eyes and grabbed Johanna’s arm. “Are you lighting the Sabbath candles? Are you keeping the commandments?” She sighed and dropped her hand onto her lap. “I worry what will become of you in that place.”

“I try to, Mama. I try, but I can’t always do it.”

Mama pursed her lips. “It is Hanukkah this week. Have you been lighting the candles?”

Johanna shook her head.

Mamma stood up, rummaged on a shelf, and grabbed something. “Here. Take these,” she said as she dropped nine small candles onto the table. “Light these, at least. Tomorrow is the last night.”

“I will, Mama,” said Johanna. “I will.”

The sun was setting as Johanna crept up to her room the next night. She had stolen an old pan from Frau Hartmann’s kitchen. She took the pan and set it on the table. She placed eight candles in a row on the pan, struck a match and lit the ninth candle, then used that candle to light the other eight. She said the blessing and gazed at the candles, their light shimmering in the dark room.

Johanna loved the story of Hanukkah; how it represented rebellion against great odds; how the Jewish people had always yearned for freedom against oppression. The story told of a miracle that had taken place in Jerusalem a long time ago. I can’t expect miracles here, Johanna thought. The only miracle will be one that I make for myself.

Johanna heard steps outside her room and voices whispering. She imagined they were talking about her; suspecting her of being Jewish; declaring that she had no right to work at the orphanage, to live in Hamburg, to be free. The voices were coming closer. Johanna sighed, took a deep breath, blew out the candles, and hid the stolen pan under her bed.

The months passed. After baby Angela died, Doctor Keller ordered all the windows shut to avoid drafts. Johanna felt smothered in the closed atmosphere of the nursery. She needed to get away from the noise of crying babies. She needed to breathe fresh air.

One day in early spring, Johanna walked out to the garden at the back of the house, where the land sloped gently downwards. Birches, oaks, and chestnut trees dotted the hill. Delicate green buds were bursting on the trees. Birds of all kinds — sparrows, finches, and larks — sang in the trees as they looked for morsels of food and choice materials to build their nests.

Those birds act like Mama on market day, choosing only the best quality the merchants have to sell, thought Johanna. It had been months since she’d felt her mother’s arms around her. The work at the orphanage was exhausting. She rarely had the energy to go home during her days off anymore. But she wrote to Mama regularly, enclosing money each time.

Johanna couldn’t forget what Doctor Keller had said to Leibniz months earlier. Lately, she’d tried an experiment of her own. She wondered whether she could reverse the effects of Leibniz’s experiment; whether she could help a baby thrive. When no one was looking, she held baby Rebecca longer than she was supposed to. She cuddled her, and gave her hugs and kisses. She sang a lullaby she remembered Mama singing to her:

Sleep, little baby, safely sleep.

The birds are singing in the woods.

They sing and hop in the grass so green.

They’ll bring the baby something good.

Like a wilted flower opening to the gentle rain, Rebecca began to respond. She made cooing and gurgling noises. She stared at Johanna as she listened to her whispered words. Her big eyes were like a bird’s, alert and curious. Rebecca was growing prettier, too. Her hair was becoming softer and her skin was losing its pallor. Every day, Johanna looked forward to seeing Rebecca, to holding her in her arms and whispering to her.

Johanna knew she was breaking the rules but she no longer cared. No amount of money was worth seeing the babies die. Nothing was.

Johanna sighed, sat on a bench in the garden, and opened her Bible. She was reading the story of Moses — one of her favourites. Because of a prophecy, the pharaoh in Egypt had given the order that all Hebrew baby boys must be killed. Miriam hid behind some reeds and watched as her baby brother floated in his basket on the Nile River. An Egyptian princess found him and raised him as her son.

Johanna’s heart started pounding. Although she had read this story many times before, today it was as if the words on the page spoke directly to her. I could be like Miriam was to Moses. I could take Rebecca away from this horrible place. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine what it would be like. What if I ran away with her? I would have to find somewhere safe for us. And then I could adopt her — just like the Egyptian princess adopted Moses!

Johanna shivered in spite of the warmth in the garden. I am not brave. Can I save Rebecca and still help Mama? She plucked a blade of grass and shredded it with her fingernail.

It was an impossible choice, but Johanna knew it was one she must make. I will do it. No matter how dangerous the journey might be. Her heart skipped a beat. Where can I go? It must be far away. Mama must not get into trouble because of me.

Grandfather Samuel had told her of a city where Jews could become citizens. He had called it the “Dutch Jerusalem.” He had told her that Jews could worship in freedom there; that they had even been allowed to build a synagogue. Johanna clenched her fists. She would go to that city. She would go to Amsterdam.

Johanna hurried back inside the house, her head buzzing with all the things she must do to prepare for the journey. Grandfather, I remember the stories you told me about how you ran away and made a new life in a new land. You had courage. Will I have courage, too?