“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