Chapter Text
June 1946
Soizic Fitzpatrick was late — catastrophically late. Dieppe Hospital had called: a mother in a small village called Grangeville had gone into labor and needed help. Soizic was the only midwife they could find who was not currently delivering a baby. Apparently 1946 was already setting a record for births. Would she mind going, even on holiday?
She had grabbed her bag and boarded the first train to Dieppe… only to find herself stuck for two hours between Rouen and Dieppe because of an accident on the tracks. By the time she finally got her bus connection to Grangeville, she was already fantasizing about a career change. Maybe she’d become a lighthouse keeper. Lighthouses didn’t go into labor.
After an hour on a battered, pothole-filled road, she finally arrived in Grangeville. The village was so small it made her childhood town of Saint-Malo look like a capital. But then she saw the sea. Calm waters stretched across the English Channel, framed by chalk cliffs as high as cathedrals, bathed in the red glow of the setting sun.
It must be wonderful to live here, she thought. So peaceful. So serene. So...
The village bell tolled nine times. Nine?! Soizic’s stomach dropped. The woman in labor had been contracting for more than six hours. The baby was probably already born…
Soizic set off. A villager gave her directions. “Farm Morteau? Take the road to Longueuil. Once you leave the village, turn left and walk two kilometers. It’s the farm in the poppy field — you can’t miss it.”
Famous last words. Now she was stranded on a muddy path, surrounded by fields all full of poppies, with no farm in sight, and night was falling. She heard an engine behind her. An engine approached from behind. A truck stopped, and a surly red-haired face appeared at the window.
“Lost?”
She managed a weak smile.
“Is it that obvious?”
"Well," he said, "you’re heading toward the cliffs… This is a road to nowhere."
"Oh, for—!" She threw her arms up. "I’m supposed to be at Farm Morteau!"
"Hop in."
She hesitated. She didn’t know him, but it was late, it was getting dark, and the baby was probably halfway to school by now…
“Well?” he repeated.
“Yes, thank you.”
The truck smelled of diesel, old leather and tobacco. She stole a glance at the driver as he shifted gears. His hands were rough, knuckles scarred, but his movements were precise, sharp. This was a man who knew how to fix things. And break them, too.
"You’re staring," he said, not looking at her.
"You’re driving like a maniac," she shot back. "I’m making peace with my maker."
He smirked.
"Scared?"
"Terrified. But I’ll die with dignity."
She gripped the door handle as he took another turn at lightning speed.
“What’s your business at Farm Morteau?”
“I’m a midwife.”
“I see,” he said simply—then turned the wheel so sharply that she was flung against the truck door. Soizic felt like lettuce in a salad spinner.
"Do you always drive like this, or am I special?"
"Special," he said, glancing at her just long enough to make her stomach do a traitorous flip. His eyes were ridiculously blue, like a frosty December sky. "You’re far stronger than you look. I can tell.”
“And you know how strong people really are because…?”
"Had to learn," he said, voice quieter. "War teaches you to read people."
There was something in the way he said it—no self-pity, just fact—that made her brain itch.
"You were in the Resistance?"
He shifted on his seat, eyes intent on the road before answering:
“Earlier, you looked like you were studying the field," he said. "Why?"
“Oh I was just looking at the poppies.”
“You’ve never seen poppies before? You’re from Paris, or what?”
“No, I’m from Saint-Malo!” She said, indignant. “And yes, I’ve seen poppies. They’re just fascinating, that’s all.”
“What’s so fascinating about poppies?”
“A lot. They’re used in medicine. To make morphine. You know? For pain. They self-seed. They look like they wilt instantly when you pick them up, but they are edible. Their Latin name comes from…”
She stopped.He was staring at her.
"What?" she snapped.
"You’re brainy.” He said
She crossed her arms. "I’m really not."
"It’s a gift not everyone gets" he added, turning the wheel, softly this time. She felt herself blush. Fortunately, his eyes were firmly on the road. She cleared her throat.
"So. You. Norman, right? Tell me, do you people actually hate Bretons, or is it just for fun?"
"Both," he said, grinning. "But mostly fun. You Bretons are too easy to rile up."
"Says the man who probably still believes in werewolves and Viking ghosts."
"Normandy’s got history," he said, mock-offended. "We’ve got Guillaume the Conqueror. What’ve you got?"
"Common sense," she shot back. "And crêpes."
"Crêpes are just flat bread."
"That’s blasphemy."
He laughed, and the sound was warm, reassuring. "You’re worse than my brothers."
"I’ll take that as a compliment."
He slowed the truck as they approached a fork in the road.
"Farm Morteau’s just ahead." He glanced at her, suddenly serious. "You’ll be alright?"
Soizic raised an eyebrow. "Are you worried about me?"
"I’m worried about them," he said, nodding toward the farmhouse. "You? You’ll survive. You’ve got teeth."
She grinned. "So do you. Thanks for the ride".
She hopped down, and looked at the farm ahead of her in the darkness.
“By the way, what’s your name?” She turned to ask.
But he was already driving off, and she watched the truck disappear with regret…
Soizic rang the bell. The door opened, and a tall blond man with a round exhausted face appeared. He smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes.
“You’re the midwife?”
Soizic’s brain short-circuited. That accent. Light, but unmistakable. German. In Normandy in 1946. And not in a prisoner uniform. What in the actual...
“Uh. Yes. Soizic Fitzpatrick. Dieppe Hospital sent me. I’m sorry it took so long to get here, but public transport isn’t what it used to be.”
He grimaced, and she liked to think it was out of guilt, then he merely gestured for her to come inside and closed the door behind her.
“My wife is waiting upstairs.”
The house smelled like apples and barely contained chaos. Two red-haired teenagers were at the table, peeling apples with the enthusiasm of boys who’d just discovered knives. The taller one was thin as a rake, with shaved sides, reminding Soizic of a matchstick. The younger boy, all freckles and wild red hair, reminded Soizic of Carrot-Top from the old book—all sulky defiance and too much energy.
“Boys, say ‘good evening’ to Madame Fitzpatrick”
Carrot-Top muttered a half-hearted “good evening,” while Matchstick didn’t reply at all. He couldn’t be that focused—he was scraping an already peeled apple with his knife. The German sighed.
“Don’t mind him. He lost an ear. He doesn’t hear well.”
He led her up the creaking stairs to a rustic bedroom, where a slightly plump woman with beautiful curly red hair was grimacing in pain. No doubt—mother of the chaos downstairs.
“Good evening, Mrs. Morteau,” Soizic said, trying desperately for calm authority.
“Not Morteau,” the redhead corrected, clenching her teeth. “It’s Baumgartner now.”
Soizic had arrived just in time. Her patient looked to be in considerable pain. A tiny part of her couldn’t help thinking, well, serves you right. She instantly felt guilty. Not professional. Not even a little.
“Will you be all right, Jeanne?” the German asked, in an exhausted voice.
“I’ll be fine, Otto,” Jeanne gasped. “Take care of the boys. Don’t let them kill each other.”
Otto left, and Soizic began her examination: When had the contractions started? How frequent were they? How intense was the pain?
The patient answered like a machine gun: “Seven hours ago. Every four minutes. Unbearable.”
Good, she thought. And then she panicked when she realized that she had said it aloud.
“I mean…” she stammered “not good, but it’s alright, Madame. This is all quite normal for labor.”
“I know,” said the patient impatiently. “It’s my fourth.”
“Fourth? I only saw two children downstairs.”
The patient took a deep breath.
“I had three boys from my first marriage. The eldest is grown now—he’s left home.”
Soizic’s mind flashed to the gruff, blue-eyed, red-curled man from before. Could it be…?
Her patient interrupted her thoughts:
“You’re not examining me?”
“Oh! Right. Sorry.”
She checked, palpated, monitored. Professional-ish.
“All is well, Mrs. Mor… Baumgartner,” she said, trying to sound composed. “Baby’s positioned, pulse steady, but…”
“But?” Jeanne cried.
“You’re only seven centimeters. Likely a few more hours, four or five…”
“Oh no!” the red-haired banged her head against the wall.
“I’m afraid so,” Soizic admitted, letting sympathy slip in. “But you’ve done this before. Pain’s not new.”
“Not the pain,” Jeanne groaned. “The boys. How do I survive the boys?”
“What do you mean?” asked Soizic, bewildered.
“They’re so excited—they’re uncontrollable. I had them clean the barn, milk the cows, sweep the floor, and now I have them making applesauce. I have no ideas left. I won’t survive another five hours.”
The door opened. Matchstick and Carrot-Top appeared.
“Mom, we peeled all the apples—what now?”
“Cut them into pieces, put them in the pot, and cook with sugar. Never made applesauce before, have you?”Jeanne said through her gritted teeth.
Matchstick looked confused, scratched his ear, and shouted,
“What did you say, Mom?”
The redhead’s patience snapped.
“Go. Cut. The. Apples. Marcel.”
The boys scampered off.
“And you’ll see,” the woman sighed, already sweating, “they’ll be back in ten minutes asking how to cook them.”
Soizic opened and closed her mouth like a startled fish. Oh but this promised to be a very long night.