One February evening, while we were hiding in a disused chapel near Colmar, I felt the first contractions. They came gently at first, like dull cramps, then stronger and stronger, closer together. I touched Matis’s arm and whispered, “It’s starting.” He went white as a sheet. “Now? Here?” I nodded, unable to speak, the pain taking my breath away. He looked around frantically, searching for something, anything. There was nothing. No doctor, no midwife, no hot water. Just him, me, and this baby who wanted to come out in the worst place in the world at the worst possible time.
Matis spread his coat on the cold stone floor of the chapel, helped me lie down, and said in a voice he was trying to make calm but which was trembling, “Tell me what to do.” I didn’t know what to tell him; I had never given birth. I had never seen anyone give birth. All I knew came from my mother’s stories, the tales she told laughingly around the fire. But those were just stories. Here it was real, brutal, bloody. The contractions came one after another like waves that were drowning me. I gritted my teeth to keep from screaming because screaming would risk attracting attention, it would condemn us. Matis held my hand, murmuring words in German that I didn’t understand, but whose tone was soft, soothing.
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