Read Online The Jeweller's Skin by Ruth Valentine - Free Book Online
Authors: Ruth Valentine
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song had clotted in her throat. ‘Shame’ , the woman by the door muttered, but the attendant glared and she was quickly silent. Narcisa put her hand up to her cheek. Now it will start, she thought.
The woman grabbed Narcisa’s arm and dragged it down to her side again. The words she said were vicious and flowed together. Narcisa’s chest was still full from the singing. For a second she thought: I could just start again.
The attendant must have called for help; someone else came, sour-faced, stooping, and grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘No!’ she shouted, but it was still in German.
The first attendant wound her hand in Narcisa’s hair. They dragged her down the middle of the ward. Light from the windows slashed across her face. The patients moved clumsily out of the way; Narcisa saw the red-haired woman jeering. Her right arm was being twisted behind her back; she felt the fingers bruising her meagre flesh. The two attendants were still berating her, or maybe talking about her to each other. Let it be only the strait-jacket, she thought. It was a long time since she had been restrained. The fear leapt in her. The strong dress or the strait-jacket: both were terrible. She had felt mutilated, her arms cut off for her sins. But then they’ll leave me. Was it true? Oh, I should never have sung to them. I should have stayed quiet.
They stopped outside the door of a padded cell. Before they were in there she remembered the smell: old leather and urine. She gagged.
The attendant had not stopped shouting. She put both hands to Narcisa’s petticoat, and tore it down from the neck. Her knuckles bumped over Narcisa’s breasts. I will not cry, Narcisa thought, I will not speak.
If she does any more it will be the other thing. She could not make herself know what that was. Please, only the strong dress or the strait-jacket.
The sour-faced attendant waved a rubber hose. Narcisa stood rigid. The first one looked at her watch and shook her head.
She let her arms be put in the strong-dress sleeves, the hard canvas wrapped round and tied with tapes. Then they pushed her, so she fell into the corner, unable to steady herself with her hands tied down.
One of them laughed before they closed the door.
The French interpreter
1916
A week after Narcisa’s daughter was born, they brought the French interpreter again. She was a small, stylish woman with crimped black hair, who kept her gloves on all through the questioning. They were blue kid, reaching half-way to her elbow, and while she was listening to the Medical Superintendent she kept stroking them down over the backs of her hands.
Nobody had told Narcisa they were coming. She was in the infirmary, still exhausted and in some pain from the long labour. They brought her the baby to feed every so often, it seemed at the simple whim of the nurse on duty. Sometimes she didn’t have enough milk, and the child went on wailing. She was sturdy, although so small, with a slick of black hair. The sound she made, crying Narcisa supposed from hunger, spread out from the bed into the whole ward. Then a nurse would come and carry her away, and Narcisa would hear cries fading down the ward, till a door closed and it was quiet again.
That morning she was sitting up in bed, trying to knit a bonnet for the baby. It was July, sunny, and the ward was stuffy; her hands sweated onto the white knitting. One of the attendants had taught her to knit, soon after they discovered she was pregnant. The baby-clothes she made were plain and misshapen, but she kept on knitting because the child needed clothes, and it seemed to be her duty to provide them. By now at least she worked less awkwardly. The thin wool pulled taut across her fingers, the wooden needles clicked more or less rhythmically. The narrow fringe of fabric grew very slowly. At the end of each row she stopped
The woman grabbed Narcisa’s arm and dragged it down to her side again. The words she said were vicious and flowed together. Narcisa’s chest was still full from the singing. For a second she thought: I could just start again.
The attendant must have called for help; someone else came, sour-faced, stooping, and grabbed her by the shoulder. ‘No!’ she shouted, but it was still in German.
The first attendant wound her hand in Narcisa’s hair. They dragged her down the middle of the ward. Light from the windows slashed across her face. The patients moved clumsily out of the way; Narcisa saw the red-haired woman jeering. Her right arm was being twisted behind her back; she felt the fingers bruising her meagre flesh. The two attendants were still berating her, or maybe talking about her to each other. Let it be only the strait-jacket, she thought. It was a long time since she had been restrained. The fear leapt in her. The strong dress or the strait-jacket: both were terrible. She had felt mutilated, her arms cut off for her sins. But then they’ll leave me. Was it true? Oh, I should never have sung to them. I should have stayed quiet.
They stopped outside the door of a padded cell. Before they were in there she remembered the smell: old leather and urine. She gagged.
The attendant had not stopped shouting. She put both hands to Narcisa’s petticoat, and tore it down from the neck. Her knuckles bumped over Narcisa’s breasts. I will not cry, Narcisa thought, I will not speak.
If she does any more it will be the other thing. She could not make herself know what that was. Please, only the strong dress or the strait-jacket.
The sour-faced attendant waved a rubber hose. Narcisa stood rigid. The first one looked at her watch and shook her head.
She let her arms be put in the strong-dress sleeves, the hard canvas wrapped round and tied with tapes. Then they pushed her, so she fell into the corner, unable to steady herself with her hands tied down.
One of them laughed before they closed the door.
The French interpreter
1916
A week after Narcisa’s daughter was born, they brought the French interpreter again. She was a small, stylish woman with crimped black hair, who kept her gloves on all through the questioning. They were blue kid, reaching half-way to her elbow, and while she was listening to the Medical Superintendent she kept stroking them down over the backs of her hands.
Nobody had told Narcisa they were coming. She was in the infirmary, still exhausted and in some pain from the long labour. They brought her the baby to feed every so often, it seemed at the simple whim of the nurse on duty. Sometimes she didn’t have enough milk, and the child went on wailing. She was sturdy, although so small, with a slick of black hair. The sound she made, crying Narcisa supposed from hunger, spread out from the bed into the whole ward. Then a nurse would come and carry her away, and Narcisa would hear cries fading down the ward, till a door closed and it was quiet again.
That morning she was sitting up in bed, trying to knit a bonnet for the baby. It was July, sunny, and the ward was stuffy; her hands sweated onto the white knitting. One of the attendants had taught her to knit, soon after they discovered she was pregnant. The baby-clothes she made were plain and misshapen, but she kept on knitting because the child needed clothes, and it seemed to be her duty to provide them. By now at least she worked less awkwardly. The thin wool pulled taut across her fingers, the wooden needles clicked more or less rhythmically. The narrow fringe of fabric grew very slowly. At the end of each row she stopped
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