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From The Mud Witch Universe The Forest Near Metz, January 1919 “Frieda!” Helene called across the clearing. “There’s another one.” Frieda sighed, wiped her flour-covered hands on a dishtowel, and stepped outside. Although the rest of the forest was covered in a thick layer of snow, the little homestead was clear and a comfortable temperature. She took a deep breath of cool air, and shook her head. Her grandmother made her way past the dormant gardens. She used a cane with one hand and carried a wriggling bundle in the other. “How old is it?” Frieda asked. “She is a newborn. Barely a week old.” Frieda took the baby from Helene and pulled back the blanket. The small face was pale, too pale. “How long was she out in the cold?” “Not long. The mother rushed past me.” “You saw who it was?” Frieda said. “And you didn’t stop her?” “It was the Lefevre girl. The youngest one, Émilie.” Frieda’s indignation chilled. The youngest Lefevre girl was fifteen. This had been happening for months. German soldiers, suspecting the Great War was at an end, had vented their rage at women across the French countryside. Now, these infants were being left for dead. They were tragic reminders of the worst of the many crimes those women had endured. Frieda might have despised the act, but there weren’t other options for these girls. If they kept the child, they were doomed to be shunned by their communities, where they would inevitably starve alongside their children. “Very well.” Frieda nodded. “Let’s warm her up.” Together, the two women pulled out the ancient tub and filled it up. Within seconds, the woodworked symbols did their job. The baby cried as she was unwrapped with small, pitiful mewls. The moment the warm water hit the infant’s skin, however, she calmed. Frieda did her work carefully, washing off the dirt and grime, cleaning the stump of the umbilical cord and gently rinsing the child’s fragile head. “Bottle’s ready,” Helene grunted. The mewls began again when the cold air hit the child’s wet skin, but not for long. Frieda had gained skill in this area over the last few months. This was the seventh child they’d found. And the youngest. Together, she and her grandmother had washed, fed, and strengthened the child before sending them on to an orphanage in Paris. There was a woman there, Alma Clarke, who had spearheaded the effort to relocate orphans of the Great War. Helene hadn’t revealed the children’s complicated parentage, and no one had asked. Despite the peace within their hidden clearing, the world outside was still in a state of postwar chaos. So many men had died, leaving their families without an income earner. So many of the small farming towns had been destroyed, leaving communities without food for the winter. And so many women were left alone, trying to figure out how to survive in this new world. Frieda desperately wished she could be out there, helping. But because of her own difficulties, she was stuck here, where the woodworked trees could give her lungs the medicated air they needed. The injustice of it didn’t often upset her, but when yet another child had to be rescued from the brink of death, she wanted to be able to do more than just keep house. “Bottle’s still ready,” Helene said. “I heard you the first time, Grandmother!” Frieda snapped. Helene’s eyebrows raised. She took the swaddled baby from Frieda’s arms and began to feed her. The starving child greedily drank the fortified goat’s milk. Frieda turned to clean up the baby’s bath and stopped. What was the point? They could save this child, yes, but what about the ones in the other places? The ones her grandmother didn’t find in time? Frieda was sure there’d been a few of those, although Helene would never tell, not in a million years. “The Martins said thank you, by the way. For the poultice. It’s cured old Mr. Martin’s pneumonia. That and your pendant, of course. And I stopped by young Mrs. Meyer’s house. Your fennel tea did the trick. Her milk came in and her little one is doing just fine. She gave us some sausage for our dinner as a payment. I’m not sure what’s in it, but her family’s recipe was good and I expect this will be the same. Must be hard for her, having lost her mother so soon before giving birth. Then there was the Carpentiers, they said---” “I don’t need you to coddle me, Grandmother,” Frieda objected. Helene held up her hands in defense. “Who said I was coddling?” “That was more words than you’ve spoken in the last month.” Frieda turned to face Helene. “I know I’m important. I know I help these people. It’s only that…” Helene finished Frieda’s sentence, “There’re some things you can’t help.” “Exactly,” Frieda replied. “And there are some things you can,” Helene whispered, mostly to herself. But Frieda still heard her. The two of them worked in silence, like they so often did, cleaning up the house, putting the baby to bed, and then cooking their own evening meal. It wasn’t until Frieda stood to clear the table that Helene spoke again. “She’s awfully young, that child.” Frieda didn’t know where her grandmother was going with this, but there was doubtless a point, so she indulged her. “Yes, she is. The youngest so far.” “I’ve told you about the orphanage. It’s full to the brim, and they do what they can, but a newborn like that? She’ll need more care than they can give her.” “Is that so?” Frieda’s mouth thinned. Her grandmother shouldn’t bother beating around the bush. Helene was no good at it. “I think we should keep her. At least until she’s strong enough to survive.” “Grandmother, keeping a baby that doesn’t belong to us isn’t going to make me feel better. It’s not going to fix anything.” “That baby doesn’t belong to anyone. Not anymore.” Helene paused for so long Frieda wondered if she was done speaking. “And I don’t think we should keep her to make you feel better. We should keep her because it’s the right thing to do.” This was ridiculous. What had gotten into her grandmother? Frieda said, “We can’t keep them all.” “Never said we should. Just this one. Something about her feels like she belongs.” Frieda looked over at the infant in the bassinet. The baby had woken up, she realized, but hadn’t cried. Instead, her eyes were following the flickering firelight on the walls. She laid there, content to be warm and cared for, safe and protected from the violent world she’d been born into. A tear slipped down Frieda’s cheek. “Then it’s settled,” Helene said. “She’ll stay.” “For now,” Frieda said. “For now,” Helene assented. But something in her grandmother’s smile told Frieda that the little one was not leaving any time soon.
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