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Helga's Hero

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"Mutti?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"How come I don't have a Daddy?"

Frau Lindner sighed. She'd known all along of course that the day would come when her daughter would start to ask questions. She had just hoped...

"Of course you have a Daddy. Everybody has a Daddy."

"Then where is mine?"

"Helga dear." She squatted down and took her daughter's face in her hands. "You're still too young to understand. But I promise I will tell you everything when you're a little older."

The little girl's face lit up. "When I'm six?"

"When you're twelve," the mother promised.

The child's face immediately fell again. "That's so far away!"

Her mother smiled sadly, and kissed her daughter on the forehead. But her little fairhaired girl pulled away and ran outside.

The mother leaned against the kitchen slab, staring off into the distance of her memories. Her always busy hands folded and unfolded the tea-cloth she'd been holding.

George...

"Grandpa?" Helga eased onto the old man's lap and put an arm around his neck.

"Yes, sweetie pie?"

"Do you know where my Daddy is?"

The old man shook his head, and even an 8-year-old could see that there was no hesitation in his answer.

"Do you know who he is then?"

Again, her grandfather shook his head. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I really don't know. Why don't you ask your mother?"

The girl snorted, and shook her braids. "She says she won't tell me until I'm twelve. She says I'm too young to understand. But I just want to know who he is, and where he lives, and why he doesn't live with us. What can be so difficult about that?"

Another shake of the head. "I don't know, sweetie."

"But what do you know?"

Grandfather scratched in his beard. "All I know is, that in the winter of 1919, Grandmother noticed the signs of your mother being with child. And that it didn't really surprise your mother – she said she had already suspected. And a few months later I got this beautiful granddaughter."

"How?"

"Hm?"

"How did she suspect it?"

Grandfather looked uncomfortable. "I don't know. That's women's stuff. You better ask your mother or grandmother about that."

"But didn't she say who the father was? Because I know that it takes a Mummy and a Daddy to make a baby."

The uncomfortable look turned into a fiery blush. "Yes. Um... well..."

"So what did she say? About my father, I mean."

"Oh! Um... well, that was the oddest thing: she wouldn't say anything about who the father was."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, sweetie." He shook his head. "It really was the oddest thing, as I said. For it is customary for people to marry when they have unintentionally... um... made a child together. For propriety reasons, you see. But your mother did not have a boy-friend at the time, and despite our urges, she refused to tell us who was responsible for this... um... accident."

"Do you think that perhaps she doesn't know herself?"

Her grandfather chuckled. "Highly unlikely. Surely a girl knows when she... um..." The blush overtook him again.

"Why then?" Helga pressed on. "If she does know, why does she keep it a secret?"

He hugged her close. "I don't know, sweetie. I really don't know. Your mother is the only one who can answer that question. All I can do is guess."

"Then guess."

He shook his head. "No, sweetie pie. You're just going to have to wait until your mother thinks you're old enough to know."

"But that's four years away!"

"Then you'll have to wait four more years." He put her down on the floor and searched for his wallet. "Now why don't you run down to Zuckmayer's and get me half a pound of tobacco. You know the brand, don't you? I've got nothing left to put in my pipe. And here's an extra five pfennig for an ice-cream. Okay? Run along now!"

She gave him a last upbraiding stare before trotting out of the room. Why was everyone being so secretive about something as basic as a father?

And back inside, Grandfather took his pipe and pushed down the last strands of tobacco.

He couldn't blame the girl for wanting to know about her father. The problem was that he couldn't tell her anything, simply because he didn't know anything either.

Why was Irmgard so secretive about this man? Why had she not wanted him to do right by her? Had she not wanted him for a husband? Was he a brute; had he perhaps taken her by force?

But then why didn't she say something, and at least clear her own name? Why did she choose to carry the burden of scandal of having been intimate with a man outside the bonds of marriage? Why had she chosen to keep the girl (not that he wanted to miss his granddaughter for the world!), and so destroying all her chances of finding a partner and making a good marriage? Did she perhaps still love Helga's father? But did the man – whoever he was – even know he had a daughter?

He shook his head. Even after all his years of marriage, women were still a mystery to him. And his own daughter was no exception.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, dear?"

"How do you make children?"

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Grandma?"

"I heard you, dear. I was thinking about the best way to answer your question."

Helga waited. The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"And please don't tell me they grow in the cabbage patch. Or that the stork brings them. I'm ten years old; I'm not a baby. I want to know for real."

"Of course, dear."

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Well?"

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, dear?"

"How do you make children?"

A stitch dropped off the needle, and another, three, four, five...

"Just a moment, dear."

Helga took a demonstratively deep breath, and blew it out with exaggerated impatience as she watched her grandmother retrieve the lost stitches. And the clock ticked, and the knitting needles clicked.

"Grandma, tell me. How do you make children? I want to know!"

Grandmother sighed, and carefully kept her eyes on her knitting. "When a man and a woman take off their clothes and hold one another real tight... that's when children are made."

Helga grimaced. "Who'd ever want to do that?"

Grandmother looked up despite herself. "What – making children?"

"No, take off your clothes and hold a boy real tight. And him without clothes as well! Yuck..."

Grandmother smiled. "One day you'll understand, dear. When you're a little older."

Another grimace from her granddaughter. "Why won't I understand anything until I'm a little older?" She sat up. "Will I understand when I'm twelve? Is that why Mutti won't tell me about Daddy until I'm twelve? Because..." Her bright face turned thoughtful. "She must have done that with my Dad, too, hasn't she. Take off her clothes, and him taking off his clothes as well, and then hold each other real tight. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Exactly." Grandmother's full attention was back on her knitting.

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why would they do that? Did they want to make me? But if they wanted to make me, then why doesn't my Dad want to be with me?"

"I don't know, dear." Grandmother refused to look up into those questioning blue eyes. "But it is quite possible that they didn't mean to make you."

"Then why did they take off their clothes and hold each other tight? Didn't they know that's how you make babies?"

"I'm sure they did."

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Then why did they do it in the first place!" came the girl's tormented cry.

The needles stopped clicking, and Grandmother looked up. She put down her knitting and didn't even notice that she lost another half a dozen stitches as she reached across the table to place a comforting hand over her granddaughter's.

"I think they did it because they loved each other. Very much," she said quietly.

Helga looked up. "They did?"

Grandmother nodded. "It's the kind of thing a man and a woman do when they love each other very much. And not always with the intention of making a child together. But even without intending to, it happens."

She watched as the expressive face across the table assimilated that new knowledge.

"Do you think they still love each other?"

"I don't know, dear. It's possible."

"Then why didn't he marry her?"

"I don't know. Many possible reasons."

"Do you think he's... well, dead?"

Grandmother sighed. "It's one possibility, yes. But only your mother can answer that."

Helga rested her chin on her fists. "And she won't tell me until I'm twelve..."

Grandmother picked up her knitting and retrieved the dropped stitches. "You'll just have to be patient, dear."

And the clock ticked, and the knitting needles clicked.

"Tomorrow I'll be twelve," Helga announced as she stepped into the box bed she shared with her mother.

"Indeed," her mother said with a smile as she began to straighten the thin summer blanket around her daughter. "You'll be a big girl soon. And yet it seems only yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time."

Helga looked at her mother. Always busy, making long hours as matron at the hospital, the bedtime ritual had traditionally always been very important to them both. It was their main opportunity to simply be mother and daughter for a moment, in a life where the daughter was mainly raised by her grandparents, because her mother had to go out and work in order to provide for them both.

"Can't you tell me now?" Helga suddenly pleaded.

"Tell you what, sweetheart?"

"About my father."

The older woman's head began to shake a negative reply, but the girl grasped her hand. "Please, Mutti? You promised you'd tell me when I'd be twelve. And I'll be twelve in a few hours now. Surely a few hours won't make a difference? And I so much want to know about him! Please?"

Silently, the mother looked at her daughter. And saw what George had seen all those years ago: the bright blue eyes with the dark eyelashes, the thick fair hair, the round and expressive face with the stubborn chin, the small ears, the straight nose, the mouth that was shaped to smile...

And she gave in. "Alright then. But you must promise to keep this to yourself, understood? Don't repeat to anyone what I'm to tell you here tonight."

Helga nodded solemnly. "I promise."

With that, her mother climbed into the box bed as well, and left the doors open at just a small crack. Helga tried to see her mother's face, but it was too dark to make out anything but a shadow. Maybe she had closed the doors on purpose – that she didn't want her daughter to see her face?

When she had settled down next to her, and put an arm around her, Mutti asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," was the emphatical reply.

Her mother sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"But you promised!"

"Yes, I did." Another sigh. "Well, to start at the beginning..."

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Author's Note: the first scene between Helga and her mother is pretty much a liberal translation of a similar discussion in the book and movie "Long Live the Queen" by Esmé Lammers. I just couldn't word the sentiments of either any better myself.

As for this story - I've been writing for two days now, and I'm happy to inform you that - in paper form - it's almost done. Let's hope I find the inspiration to actually finish it!