Knitting, 1945 by Emma Venables

When you’re pulled from the rubble you’ll need something warm. A jumper, perhaps. Or a blanket. I think I have enough wool for a small blanket, for something big enough to cover your infant frame. Yes, I’ll knit the blanket. I’ll sit here on this rusty old car. I suppose it isn’t old, not really. It probably had windowpanes and a working engine and children crammed onto its backseat a few months ago. Perhaps they were fleeing as so many tried to, but the Russians got here before they could escape.

The car creaks as I rest my backside on it. There’s room here, just by the wheel arch – it’s a good thing its leaning back into this pile of broken bricks, isn’t it? A good spot. A bit uncomfortable, yes, but I’ve been in worse seats: the basement, crammed against Herren and Frauen I’d barely uttered two words to above ground who suddenly found their voices and blessed me, blessed you, blessed us all as the airplanes thrummed overhead and their bombs shook the earth around us. I ignored them, soothed your whimpers, pressed my lips to your ear in the dark. Some nights you would slumber undisturbed despite the hissing, heavy breathing, and explosions. On those nights I’d hold your sleep-thick limbs ever tighter, just so I could feel the rise and fall of your chest against my own.

They’re searching for you now, the men, elbow deep in rubble. They’ve already pulled out the lifeless limbs of the Herren and Frauen, but you’re not lifeless. You’re intact, I know. These men, bent over with their eyes scrunched against the dust, look like ghosts. Dirty ghosts. Their skin blurred all shades of brown and grey. I can almost hear the crick and crack of their weary bones over the sound of shifting bricks. Every so often they’ll cough in unison, straightening their backs and bashing their chests, ridding their lungs of the loss they sift through. But you’re not lost, Johann. No. You’re breathing beneath their feet. I swear I can feel the rhythm of your breath through this crumpled car. Regular. Defiant. If they stopped coughing for a moment, they’d feel you. They could follow your breath like a map.

I’ll cast on. Grey wool will make an ugly blanket but it was all Frau Himmel had at the time. She closed her shop not long after I bought this, so we’ll count ourselves lucky, Johann. I wonder where Frau Himmel is now – in heaven? I imagine heaven must be a bombsite too these days. You’re not up there though. I left you in the basement. If I’d stayed we’d both be awaiting our unburial now. I’d have tight hold of your chubby fist. I’d shield your eyes when the debris moved and the light poured in. I’d howl into the arms of the man who’d collect us up. But I left you in the basement and I climbed the stairs. And the bomb blast made everything light and dark, loud and silent, ache and numb.

Pipes clink. One of the men sinks knee-deep into the ruins. He reaches out, calls out. Two other men grab an arm each and tug. They pat each other’s backs. Did the tread of his boots imprint on your face, Johann? Reach out. Call out. Bitte. I swear I’ll hear you over the gentle clink of these knitting needles. I swear I’ll finish your blanket after I’ve clutched your dusty limbs in my own. You used to sleep while I knitted your father socks for the Front. Sometimes I wonder if I was knitting away and Mother Russia had already claimed his toes. I sent the socks, a brown paper bundle, and in return I got news of his death. Mother Russia claimed every iota of his being and some unknown man claimed the socks, but Mother Berlin won’t claim you, Johann. She never wanted any of this. She speaks to me sometimes, through the cracks in her façade. If I put my ear to the ground beneath my feet, her despair will rupture my eardrums all over again. But she’ll sing lullabies to you, Johann, because she loves you. You’re her only hope.

A tile lands on the ground near my left foot. These men need to be more careful. They can’t just root through the rubble with such disregard. I’m tempted to stand up, shout out, but I’ve been warned once already. If you interfere one more time, we’ll stop looking, the one with the broken front teeth said. I can look by myself, I said. He laughed. They all laughed, looked at my arms. Yes, Mother Berlin has been at my arms, Johann. I rummaged for you and she took umbrage. Her own army of broken pieces bit my skin. I understand. She doesn’t want to let you back into my arms until she’s sure that I deserve you, so I’ll knit you this blanket and I’ll wait.

Rain. An incessant pitter patter on the car’s roof. I close my eyes, enjoy the feel of water on my skin. The men don’t appear to have noticed. Their hands and knees have sunk deep into the remains of the apartment building. The sounds of their quest mingle with the splash of the rain. A puddle forms near my feet. The beginnings of the blanket dampen. Wet wool sets my teeth on edge. I could get into the car, but how stable are these things without wheels and windows? Besides, I need to be able to get to you quickly when the time comes.

I shove my knitting under the skirt of my dress, watch its sogginess blotch the thin cotton even more than the raindrops already have. I think this dress used to be blue in the days when Berlin was more than just grey and brown and blackened around her edges. You tore it when you were learning to walk – you tumbled in the park and refused to let go. There’s a scar along the seam where I stitched it back together in the days when I could still get thread and I didn’t have to do my needlework by candlelight in the basement while you slept across my lap.

I look back at the pile of bricks, pipes, possessions. One of the men beckons another over. They nod and lift what could have been a step or a section of the basement wall in a previous life. Is the daylight caressing your unaccustomed eyes? Can you feel the rain on your cheeks, Johann? I lift my buttocks ever so slightly from the car, feel the tip of one of the knitting needles press into my thigh. A bird caws overhead – it’ll see you before I do and I’m overcome with a need for a slingshot and a good aim.

One of the men disappears for a moment. The rubble shifts. And then, he holds you up. I step forwards, the beginnings of your blanket slide from beneath my dress and land in the puddle. You. Your limbs at sixes and sevens. Dusty. Silent. The men shake their heads. Pass you from one to the next. They look at me. The man with the broken front teeth cradles you close to his chest. I can hear him muttering something. A prayer. A wish. A goodbye. He begins to navigate his way down the rubble hill. His booted feet slip over the remnants of rooms and hallways, of staircases and windows.

He crouches before me, lays you on the ground as if presenting me with a map I need to view first from afar to gain a fuller understanding of its contours. You. Your eyes closed. Your tongue poking between your lips. Your fists clenched. Your forehead bloodied. My knees meet the cracked cobbles. My chest meets yours. Mother Berlin howls in my ear.

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Emma Venables' short fiction has recently featured in The Cabinet of Heed, Ellipsis Zine, Lunate, and Mslexia. Her first novel, The Duties of Women, will be published by Stirling Publishing in summer 2020.

Twitter: @EmmaMVenables.