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She nodded.
‘So, first – you can have the child, but you run the risk of ruining your reputation. Do you have parents who might support you?’
She imagined her father’s furious reaction to her news, and shook her head.
‘In that case, option two is to go away and have the child, and give it up for adoption. But that takes a lot of planning, and a certain amount of money.
‘The final option is to get rid of it. I can help with the last, but I’d advise not leaving it too much longer.’
‘I’d like a little time to think about it,’ she said quietly.
‘Very well. You can telephone me when you’ve made your decision. The procedure will only take a short time – no more than an hour. But you’ll need somewhere quiet and safe to recover. It can get a little messy.’
Minki felt her stomach churn. ‘I understand.’
The doctor stood up and held out his hand. ‘My receptionist will give you my bill on the way out.’
Back in her small apartment in Nuremberg, Minki mulled over the news. The timing made it clear that Peter was the father. Peter…the man she had once loved…still loved. The thought of aborting his child was unthinkable, but so were the other two options the doctor had suggested. Each night when she went to bed, she prayed she would be saved from making such an appalling decision – perhaps by having a miscarriage. Her normally flippant, casual attitude evaporated, and in its place she felt weak, abandoned and frightened. The worst part was that she could not share the decision with Peter. What would be the point, after all? He was back in America, and engaged to someone else.
She considered telling Joseph it was his child. Perhaps he would marry her out of a sense of duty? But she knew he was not in love with her – the woman he still loved was Else. What had he written in that note, the last time they’d met? ‘I adore you…but you are not the marrying kind…’
In her heart she had agreed with him. How could she now go to him, and implore him to marry her?
Somehow, in the midst of this emotional turmoil, she managed to write the article about Goebbels and submit it to her editor.
‘It’s not bad,’ Streicher declared, throwing her typescript down on his desk in front of her, ‘but it’s not exactly crackling with energy, is it? As I feared, it’s all about how intellectual, knowledgeable and well-read this man is. My readers are neither intellectual, nor well-read – why should they be interested in him?’
‘I’m sorry, Herr Streicher – shall I rewrite it?’
‘No, don’t bother – I’ll lose it somewhere inside the paper. But you’d better sharpen up, Minki. I don’t pay you to write ordinary little articles. I expect something better of you.’
His comment felt like a slap in the face.
‘Perhaps you’re not really suited to a paper like ours, after all,’ Streicher went on. ‘Maybe it’s time to look for another job. You might be better suited to women’s issues – cooking, sewing, children…that sort of thing.’
Depressed, Minki went home and opened a full bottle of schnapps. She climbed into bed, and worked her way through the bottle, tossing and turning, feverish and weeping, racked with indecision and guilt. The following morning, she rang the office and told them she was sick.
Desperate to confide in someone, she decided to share her predicament with the one person she could always rely on – Leila. She took a piece of paper, and propped up against pillows in bed, began to write.
My dearest friend,
I have the most awful problem, which I can hardly bear to disclose.
I am pregnant with Peter’s child. What on earth am I to do?
Within a few days, Leila was standing on Minki’s doorstep with Viktor.
Still in her nightgown, Minki ran downstairs, opened the front door and fell into Leila’s arms, sobbing.
‘I’m so glad you wrote to me,’ Leila whispered into her hair. ‘Now let’s get upstairs and we’ll talk.’
The two friends huddled together in Minki’s bedroom, leaving Viktor outside in the tiny kitchen.
‘I just don’t know what to do…’ Minki began.
Leila held her hand. ‘I understand. It’s an awful situation. You’re sure it’s Peter’s?’
Minki nodded miserably.
