Henrietta was at a loss as to where to leave the child. She thought of Dr. Krautmeir, who had dealings with young women of every class and ethnic group, and had always found her helpers. But, because of what had transpired between her and Krautmeir, there was now a barrier between them. What happened was this. They met at a tea honoring a prominent woman who had been a social worker for many years. When Dr. Krautmeir arrived, her eyes were red. Since it was obvious that she had been crying, she smiled sadly and explained, “I’ve come from a condolence call to a mother whose daughter died, a girl of about fourteen. She died — actually, she was murdered. It was a double murder. I just hope the daughter’s death won’t lead to the mother’s death.” How did the girl die? In the summer, the mother and daughter exchanged their Jerusalem apartment for one in Tel Aviv and spent their vacation there. The girl was thrilled, after being closed in by the stones of Jerusalem for so long. She suddenly saw, stretched out before her, an endless expanse of soft sand, a sea full of water. She spent her days on the beach, running in the sand, bathing in the sea, enjoying the company of girlfriends, reading. Each afternoon and evening, she used to come home to eat with her mother. One evening, she didn’t come home. The police were informed. They searched for her all night. In the morning, they found her lying on the beach, without a breath of life. She was taken to Hadassah Hospital and revived. The girl couldn’t remember what had happened, other than that she had met a man, who spoke to her, said various things, and, in the course of the encounter, lit himself a cigarette and gave her one too. Beyond this, she remembered nothing. About three months later, she had an abortion, from which she never recovered. Shortly afterward, she died. It’s not clear if some medical quack was at fault, nor was the seducer and rapist tracked down, because the family preferred to protect its good name and hush up the affair. The story of this rape was followed by many others in which the family chose not to pursue the rapist, in order to protect its good name. These tales of rape were followed by tales of promiscuous young women, who make themselves available to anyone, and, when they become pregnant, find someone to go to for an abortion. Some of them continue on this course; others are permanently damaged, never regaining their health. One of the guests said, “If these girls knew that, when they get pregnant, no doctor will perform an abortion, they would behave less casually.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “In some cases, it is a medical responsibility to relieve a woman of her fetus.” Another woman said, “If it’s a matter of health, of course it’s a doctor’s responsibility to act.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Not only in the interest of health, but whenever an unmarried woman is involved. Otherwise, she’ll put herself in the hands of some quack and risk her life. Until society changes its attitude toward a single mother, she is lost. It is the duty of every doctor, especially a female doctor, to relieve these women of their fetuses, not only because of health considerations, but because not every woman can bear the shame. And it is society that should be ashamed of its shameful attitude.”
Dr. Krautmeir was not usually talkative, especially in matters that call for silence. But she was overcome with the zeal of a professional woman who has renounced family life, speaking openly and from the depths of her heart. Dr. Krautmeir said, “Instead of abstractions, it would be worthwhile to have some examples. If you like, I will tell you a bit about my practice. One evening, two strange women came to see me, their eyes darting about nervously, looking into every corner of the room, as though they were being chased by their shadow. One of them looked not quite like a lay person and not quite like a nun. It was hard to judge the other one, who was swaddled from head to toe. I could tell from her shoes that she was young. The young woman’s companion began to mutter words that didn’t connect, and each series of words was punctuated by curses and imprecations. After the initial torrent, I said to her, ‘I can’t figure out what you’re saying.’ She continued to chatter without making sense. I said to her, ‘I beg you both, please go. I have no time for fantasies. If you can tell me what really happened, well and good. Otherwise, please leave.’ She continued to spout nonsense. I got up, went to the door, and said, ‘The door is open. Please go, and take along your swaddled madonna.’ She grabbed my knees and said, ‘Don’t be angry, doctor. This girl comes to the convent sometimes.’ I said, ‘All right, I understand.’ Then I said, ‘Take off your dress, my child, and I’ll examine you.’ Her companion said, ‘I told you she comes to the convent, but I didn’t mean to say she’s one of the nuns. She’s from the village, just a village girl whom the nuns feel sorry for. They sometimes pay her to help with the menial work.’ I said, ‘Very well. Let me see what’s what with her.’ The girl wept as she undressed. I examined her and said, ‘At such-and-such a time, you will enrich the world with a new life.’ She began to sob, and the older woman shouted, ‘That’s impossible!’ I said to her, ‘Why is it impossible? Everything is all right.’ She made some response, swallowing her words. I listened in silence. Finally she said, ‘She can’t just wait and have the baby. She is a nun. She lives in the convent, and, unless she has an abortion, she will take her own life.’ Having confessed this much, she proceeded to tell the whole story. It was not very romantic. One of the gardeners — not one of the young ones — used to hang around the convent garden, and they got to know each other. And so on. Now, I ask you, ladies, what should a doctor do in such a case? Should the mother be abandoned for the sake of a fetus, or should the girl be rescued from certain death?” One of the women responded, “To tell you the truth, Dr. Krautmeir, my interests are somewhat limited, and they don’t extend to Christian girls.” Dr. Krautmeir said, “Since your altruism is reserved for Jewish girls, I’ll tell you another story, not about one Jewish girl but about two or three of them. And if that isn’t enough for you ladies, let me assure you that these girls came to me in a single week — not a special week, but a perfectly typical one.” Henrietta Herbst stood up and said, “You are worse than Hitler. He destroys the Jews in his domain, and you destroy Jews who are even beyond his domain.” Since this exchange, the two women had avoided each other and were not on speaking terms. How did Henrietta Herbst, who was usually so reserved, come to say such things? Once, when Firadeus took sick, she sent one of her neighbors, an attractive young girl, to fill in for her. Mrs. Herbst was pleased with her, but she wondered about the sad look on her face, unusual for a girl of her age. At lunch, she asked why she was so sad. She told her that her husband played cards, drank too much, and sometimes spent his whole week’s salary in one night on arrack and cards — all because they were in such distress over the fact that they were childless. Why were they childless? Because, before they were married, she became pregnant by him and was afraid that, if her brothers found out, they would kill her. She heard there was an Ashkenazic woman, a doctor from Germany, where all Germans come from, who could arrange things so no one would know what the girl didn’t want to have known. She found out where the woman was and went to her. The woman doctor asked, “What do you want?” Being too shy to answer, she was silent. The doctor looked at her and said, “In that case, this is what you have to pay.” She gave her all the money she had. The doctor counted the money and said, “Is that all?” She said, “I have more.” She said, “How much?” She told her. She said, “And where is the money?” She told her about a Sephardic woman, the wife of a government official, who owed her two months’ salary and refused to pay; this woman was so mean that she took back all the gifts she had given her previously. The doctor said what she said. Then she did what she did and said, “From now on, you don’t have to worry.” Now that she was properly married, she wanted to have a child but couldn’t become pregnant. She was miserable, and her husband shared her misery. When he recovered from his drunkenness, he would cry and bemoan his fate. Sometimes, because this was so hard for her to bear, she would run and bring him arrack, so he could drown his sorrow. When he was sober, he was likely to go and kill that woman doctor, then take his own life.