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Unnamed Mother (Hans) Blog Entry |
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June 13, 2025, 12:01:02 AM 6/13/25: r/SketchDaily theme, "Free Draw Friday." This week's character from my anthro WWII storyline is Unnamed Mother. She's the mother of another character who's deceased before the main storyline yet plays a big role. I wasn't sure if I'd draw her (she never appears in the story) but she started developing some history, so here she is. Regarding her design, she has the same color eyes as her child. TUMBLR EDIT: As I said, originally, I didn't really intend much for this character, who never appears in the story. When I decided to draw her, though (the list of remaining characters is quite short, and mostly background or bit characters), she stepped forward to share a little about herself. So, here we go. It's rather early in the war. (Remember my timeline is different, so this is around the mid-Thirties.) Unnamed Mother here, I'm still not settled on details, but I believe she has some sort of menial job in the city, probably secretary work since women aren't allowed to do much. Long hours, low pay, a lonely rather miserable existence. At the end of the week she visits a nearby bar to nurse a drink and peer longingly at the life going on around her. Even the bars, though, are more subdued than they once were; the current government has cracked down on what it deems "degenerate" behavior (although plenty of Party members visit in their off time), and the war and ongoing economic woes put a damper on things. One evening Unnamed Mother spots a face she hasn't seen before, and for some reason he draws her attention. When he notices her staring at him he lifts his head and looks right at her; she blushes, mortified, yet he offers a small smile. Her heart thumps; it isn't at all like her, she visits the bar simply to drink and take the edge off a little before heading home, yet she's just so tired of being lonely, and his face is so kind, that she finds herself picking up her drink and gingerly approaching him. She hems and haws a little, unable to think of what to say, not wanting to seem so forward, yet he just gestures for her to join him. She does. Alcohol loosens her tongue a little bit. They make some smalltalk, nothing big. She says she comes here every weekend and has never seen him before. He says he comes to the city on occasional weekends as well, though he visits different bars, this is his first time here. So, he's not from the city, then...? He says he lives in the countryside, quite a distance away, and gets a ride to the city via the Deutsche Reichspost van that does the rounds delivering mail and transporting rural folk; he rents a small room during his stays, before returning home for the rest of the week. Unnamed Mother takes this comment as a hint; by now the two of them are quite sloshed, and she bursts out in ridiculous giggles every time he slurs his words. She again acts completely against her own character and asks (placing her hand against his) if maybe he wouldn't mind some company at his place. One can practically hear the gears struggling to turn in his beer-fogged brain as he tries to figure out if she means what she says she means. "You'd...like to come over...?" he asks. She giggles and blushes and giggles some more, unable to speak, though when he unsteadily gets up to leave, she loops her arm through his, and allows him to lead her back to his flat. Unnamed Mother wakes, groggy and cotton mouthed and aching headed, early the next morning. Takes a few minutes to figure out where she is and who this is still zonked out next to her and what happened. Immediately full of regret and humiliation--her parents raised her to be a good girl!--she hurries to fetch her clothes, dresses herself, and scurries out and away. It takes her a bit to even figure out where she is, she was so hopelessly drunk the previous night, though she manages to return to her own apartment, where she spends a while showering vigorously, burning with shame. She tells herself this is the last time she'll drink so much, in fact, she'll just avoid bars altogether, and get used to spending her time alone. Nothing is worth all this hassle--or this horrible headache. She tries hard to put the incident out of her mind. Returns to work the next week, does her best, earns her pay, stands in the line for her rations, sits in the park now and then with a book or newspaper though she's often too distracted to read. She wakes up one morning horribly ill, vomiting repeatedly, so goes to see a doctor. He looks her over but can't find anything wrong, suggesting she try ginger ale and saltines to soothe her insides; she grumbles to herself about the uselessness of doctors as she picks the items up at the store (yet more money to spend!), though the advice does help somewhat, and her routine resumes. Then, she misses a month. Then another. Ginger ale can't untie her twisted insides this time. Full of dread, she visits the doctor again, barely able to voice her fears. He says he could give her a test, but it takes a while to get the results, and of course, that's yet more money. Does she have any reason to believe it's what she suspects it is...? She's too humiliated to answer, her hands balled up between her knees, her head lowered. The doctor doesn't try to shame her; he suggests she wait another month, sometimes women miss their menses, even two months, she shouldn't worry too much...yet. If she misses a third month, he'll do the test, they'll find out what's wrong. Unnamed Mother returns to the doctor a month later, beside herself. He collects a sample of her urine--saying something about frogs, but it makes no sense to her, she's too raw with anxiety to pay much attention--and tells her it should be a day or two before he can get back to her, so, return then. Of course when she does, he has the news she was dreading. "I...assume this isn't something you planned," he says, when she covers her face with her hands and moans. She can't afford a baby! She barely manages to support herself! Plus, that support comes from her work alone--she can't pay for a nanny, nor can she cart a baby along with her to work! Her employer would never! The doctor tentatively suggests that she turn to the father for aid, then falls silent when she just lowers her head and cries. Obviously, there's no father anywhere in the picture. She can't tell him that she doesn't even know the father's name. She tries hard to collect herself, then appeals to the doctor--surely there's another option? Surely...he can find some way to help her, to make this problem go away...? The doctor furrows his brow a little at her imploring look. After a pause, he says a bit uneasily, "I promise I won't share your answer with anyone. But, the father...he is Jewish, perhaps? Or a Slav...?" Unnamed Mother's eyes widen and she goes crimson. "What--? Of course not! What do I look like? He's German like I am!" She's so insulted by the question--why should her own doctor, who's known her for years, dare to think she'd sully herself with trash?--that she doesn't catch the implication until he comes right out and tells her. "You're both of good German blood," he says, as if to make sure, and at her blurted "Of course!" he adds, "I'm afraid I can't...'make your problem go away,' then." He explains to Unnamed Mother--stunned speechless now--that, given the Reich's low birth rate, abortion for good Aryan mothers is illegal. If she were to have a mixed-blood child, perhaps he could discreetly help her, yet she just confirmed that this isn't so, and he can't give her what she's seeking without endangering his own livelihood (and freedom). Her best option, if she can't afford to raise a child herself, is to go through with the pregnancy, and then put the child up for adoption. Unnamed Mother bursts into tears again. "That's months of my life taken away!" she cries. "And the cost, surely it's a fortune merely to have a baby--? Where would I get that time and money? What do I do?" The doctor gives her a moment to weep before suggesting that she try to seek the assistance of an SS-run Lebensborn maternity home. "When you reach term they can help you with everything--housing, prenatal care, delivery, recovery, adoption services--everything very discreet--you need only negotiate with your employer for a bit of time off, and they'll handle everything else." There's just one catch: "They'll need proof of the parents' pure German blood--both parents'," he says. He already has her medical and family records, she can easily prove her own Aryan lineage. Lebensborn is unlikely to take her word for anything, though, and she'll have to convince the father--if possible--to contribute his own proof of Aryan lineage. The doctor sees the blood drain from her face; "Really...it's the only advice I have," he says, sympathy in his voice, yet sympathy doesn't pay the bills. "You have a little time to think it over...bitte, do so, and don't do anything rash." Rash...? Unnamed Mother doesn't have the resources or connections to do anything rash. She wouldn't know where to find a back-alley abortionist even if she tried. She's a good German citizen, she can't endanger her life like that anyway. Although nearly panicking inside, she returns to the bar, hoping against hope to find him again, the man who got her into this mess. When a couple of weeks go by with no show, she visits other bars, her anxiety just growing and growing, feeling like she's living on borrowed time. Against all odds, she finds him, in a particularly dubious bar where she draws quite a few curious looks, as she's the only woman in there. She blushes terribly and ducks her head as she weaves her way through the smoky room, then sucks in a gasp--"You!" she exclaims, spying him seated in the corner, another man chatting with him. They both look surprised to see her. "May...may I have a moment to talk with him privately, bitte...?" she stammers at the other man, and to her relief, he excuses himself without fuss. Her erstwhile partner watches her scoot into the vacated seat, her face red. "What are you doing...?" he asks, at least polite enough to keep his voice down. "I've been looking for you all over!" she hisses under her breath. He frowns. "Well, you found me! Now what do you want--?" "I need...I need you to tell me." Her voice falters and her face grows hot. Gott im Himmel, how does one even go about asking such a question? She swallows hard and tries just plunging right in. "I need you to tell me--are you a good German?" He blinks. Lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. "What--? Of course I'm German, look at me!" "Nein, nein, that's not what I mean! I mean are you of good German blood--pure German blood?" Now he furrows his brow and just looks confused; well, at least he doesn't seem offended--yet. "What are you talking about...? What else would I be?" She feels a twinge of relief--ah! He says he has good blood. "Good! Good!" she exclaims with a sigh. "Could you...could you prove it? Do you have family records?" "What?" he asks, looking beyond perplexed. "Genealogical records!!" she has to force herself not to lose her temper and yell in frustration--is he really this dense? "A family tree! Do you have a family tree--?" "Everyone has a family tree!" he retorts. Unnamed Mother throws up her hands, suppresses a scream. "Well--can you show it? A printed record, anything. Proof! You can prove you're of good German blood, ja--?" He blinks--then the look on his face shifts. The drunken confusion slowly turns to uncertainty, then suspicion. She can sense him pulling back, putting up a wall between them. "Why are you asking me this...?" he says, an edge to his voice. "Why do you want to know that?" "It's--it's just important that I know." Unnamed Mother struggles, desperate to make him understand, to not lose him. "I just need some sort of proof, that's all. I'm not asking for anything else! Not time, or money, or anything. Bitte! Just proof is all I ask, then I promise I'll let you be." "Why should I share that with you--?" he asks, rather defensively, and then the bitter truth strikes her--he has no idea who she is. The realization is like a physical blow--this entire time she'd assumed he was just drunk and argumentative, when now she looks him in the eye and sees zero recognition there. She may as well be a stranger. "Mein Gott!" she whispers, hands going to her mouth. "You don't remember me, do you--?" His defensiveness shifts back into uncertainty. He actually squints and gives her a hard look. "You...you look a little familiar," he admits after a moment, then, "Did I pick you up before...?" Unnamed Mother isn't sure what's worse--the possibility that he can't recall her because he was so drunk and she was so forgettable, or that he brings home so many people that he can't possibly remember them all. People, not women--after all, she's the only woman in this bar, and the looks the men are giving her aren't lustful ones. She wants to bury her head in mortification. She nearly knocks over her chair getting up. "Excuse me, excuse me," she cries, trying not to touch anyone as she hastens to the door; they might all be degenerates but they politely make way and no one attempts to manhandle her. "Wait!" she hears him yell after her, "Did I promise you anything--?" But she's far too humiliated to bother anymore; she stumbles out the door and onto the sidewalk, nearly bumping into a good German mother pushing her baby along in a pram--"Watch yourself!" the woman exclaims disdainfully--and hurries all the way back to her apartment, where she breaks down weeping. There'll be no genealogical records, no Lebensborn home; she's dealing with this all on her own. The doctor is sympathetic, does what he can. She's not religious, but he finds a church that can help with expenses, and good Aryan children, even if they lack records, are still highly adoptable. She winces and wrings her hands and stumbles over her own tongue when she has to explain the situation to her employer, so he'll know what to expect, and grant her a little time off when needed; he's quite displeased with the inconvenience--a secretary, an unmarried one no less, in a family way!--she's supposed to keep her looks and her figure, what good will this do?--yet, surprisingly, his wife rebukes him--"She's obviously made a mistake!--it's not the end of the world for your office"--and suggests that, once she starts to show, she just stays behind her desk, and he gives her her time off once it's due. She does intend to return to work afterward, ja? Of course! Of course! Unnamed Mother assures them--don't worry, don't worry, once the child is born, there'll be no issue, just give her the chance. For once her long hours and tedious existence come to her rescue...her boss can't afford to let someone with such a pristine reputation go over one mistake, so he grudgingly promises her a couple of weeks off--when necessary. "See if you can find a nice concealing jacket or sweater in the meantime," he grumbles, "nobody needs to see that!" Unnamed Mother promises, and thanks them profusely. The months pass. Unnamed Mother starts keeping behind her desk as her belly grows. She's granted her time off, goes into labor, has her baby delivered by a midwife who works with the church. A healthy boy, he looks like his father; yet when he blinks his eyes open, they're the same color as hers. She makes herself avoid looking at him as much as possible. A nun asks if she'd like her to start the adoption process; Unnamed Mother's eyes well up and she murmurs, "Just...just give me a little time with him, bitte?" The nun strokes her arm, says of course, it's a big decision, take some time to think it over. She leaves the two alone. Unnamed Mother looks down at the tiny bundle as he blinks and makes small noises. "I hate you," she whispers. The baby blinks and murmurs. The tears start streaming down Unnamed Mother's face; "I never wanted you," she says. "You'll be someone else's problem." The baby peers up at her, big aqua eyes. "Don't look at me like that!" Unnamed Mother rebukes, voice cracking; she looks away. "I'd be an awful mother," she says, and her face pinches. "I just hope he's not an awful father." Unnamed Mother doesn't wait around to start any adoption process. Despite her pain, she dresses herself, bundles up the baby and an armful of goods the church has supplied her, and like that awful morning after, hurries away unnoticed. She returns to her apartment, yet sets out immediately the next day, the baby wrapped up in a tight bundle against her shoulder--he's small, he's quiet, he causes little fuss. From the Reich Postal Ministry, she receives the address of the garage used by the Deutsche Reichspost for their mail deliveries. It's oddly easy for her to get in, nobody takes her for any sort of threat. She approaches a mail van driver, asks about transport out to and from the countryside. He tells her he doesn't do that, but another driver, Franz-Josef, does; would she like him to pass a message along? She says she'd like to talk to him personally, so he says to stop by next Friday, he does mail delivery every two weeks. "The far countryside...?" she asks; "There's only the one countryside, Fräulein, he delivers to it," says the driver. Unnamed Mother bides her time--her two weeks are nearly up--and heads to the garage again. Asks around, is directed to an idling mail van; "Herr Franz-Josef...?" she calls, and a man loading letters and packages into the back of the van acknowledges her. Franz-Josef: "Ja, can I help you...?" Unnamed Mother: "You drive people to and from the city...? From the countryside?" Franz-Josef: "Ja, I do." Unnamed Mother: "I'm looking for somebody you drive to the city." Franz-Josef: "I drive a lot of folks, Fräulein, you'll have to be more specific than that." Unnamed Mother: "Well--a man. About my age, maybe a bit older...about so tall...German...fair complexion, blue eyes...a nick in his ear..." *racks her brain at a skeptical look from Franz-Josef, blushes* "...Likes...likes visiting scummy bars and drinking a lot..." Franz-Josef: *dawning look* "Oh...you probably mean Herr Adel." Unnamed Mother: "Adel--?" Franz-Josef: "Ja, he lives out near the forest road. I didn't drive him on my last trip, though. Why are you looking for Herr Adel...?" *notices how the bundle she's carrying moves, & the baby peeks out sleepily* "...Oh." Unnamed Mother: "Bitte, could you drive me out there--?" Franz-Josef: *uncomfortable* "I...I really prefer not to get involved in this, Fräulein..." Unnamed Mother: *imploring* "Bitte, just there and right back, that's all, you don't even need to change your route. I'll--I'll pay." Franz-Josef: "It's an awfully long drive, Fräulein, I'm not sure you could handle it..." Unnamed Mother: "I can! I--just, just out there, and right back. I won't cause any trouble, I promise. You'll hardly notice I'm there. Bitte, bitte." The mail driver hesitates a bit longer, but once she looks ready to cry he gives in. "All right, all right," he exclaims, "get in...you can sit up front I guess, a little more comfortable." Unnamed Mother gushes her thanks, tries climbing in; "Here, let me," he says, and helps her up as it's quite a step, especially with a baby. He puts her belongings in the back, secures the mail, climbs in the driver's seat, and they get on their way. Maybe it's just luck. Nobody requires a ride this week, so she--and the baby, of course--remain the only passengers. She tries to keep her patience throughout the long, tedious drive and all the stops, though eventually she begs the driver to pull over; "What's wrong?" he asks, notices how she's squirming and bouncing her feet, and pulls off the road. She hands the baby to him, clambers out of the van, goes hurrying off awkwardly into the bushes. "Watch out for partisans!" Franz-Josef yells, still trying to figure out how to hold the baby to make him stop whimpering. Unnamed Mother is too uncomfortable to be embarrassed; she finds a sheltered spot, does her business, returns to the van--NOW she's a little embarrassed--and crawls back in, accepting the baby. "D...danke," she mumbles, and he starts the van back up and they trundle along. The baby starts crying after a while. She tries changing him, yet still he doesn't let up. Unnamed Mother blushes terribly; "I think...I think he's hungry," she says. "Ahm...go ahead, I won't look. Promise," says Franz-Josef, blushing himself, and he very pointedly stares straight ahead at the road; Unnamed Mother huddles in on herself, turning away a bit, and undoes the top of her blouse. She dislikes feeding him this way--it threatens to form a connection she doesn't plan to form--yet she has no bottle or milk or formula, the natural way will have to do. This finally settles the baby down, and after she gently burps him he falls asleep. The driver keeps his promise and doesn't pay any attention as she wraps him back up and rebuttons her blouse, though "Good kid," he says, and for the first time during all this, she feels a twinge of guilt. He is a good kid...he just won't be her kid. Aside from a few other rest stops (she nearly jumps out of her skin when a line of tanks go rumbling by as she's squatting in the undergrowth), and the driver's own stop to take a brief meal (he offers her half of his sandwich and a cup of coffee, for which she's grateful), the rest of the drive goes uneventfully; they pass lines of marching soldiers a few times, yet as soon as they enter the great forest, everything is eerily silent and deserted. Unnamed Mother dozes off as well; by the time the grinding sound of the van coming to a halt snaps her awake, it's near dark, and she blinks as she looks around, confused. "Here we are, Fräulein," Franz-Josef announces, opening his door and exiting. He helps her climb out, and retrieves her belongings from the back; "You going to need these...?" he inquires, still unsure what exactly she plans to do. Unnamed Mother peers around, holding the baby tight. Aside from the wide dirt road stretching away into a sharp curve ahead, there's nothing out here but trees. "I thought you said he lives here," she says, perplexed. "I said he lives near the forest road. You just head off that way a bit--" he points into the trees "--and you should find his house, it isn't that far." She swallows; the tree canopy blocks out almost all the light, and everything is dark and gloomy. "You can't drive me any nearer...?" He shrugs. "No road, Fräulein. Van can't make it through the trees. It isn't far, the Waldvolk only shoot at recruiters, you should be fine." "You're...are you sure he's home?" "If he'd wanted a ride he would've been out here waiting. Haven't seen him in a while but I hear sometimes he drinks at home. I can't say for sure if he's there or somewhere else, though." Unnamed Mother steels herself, picks up her things. "I'll--I'll be right back, then," she promises; at his doubtful look she adds, "I'll be just a moment, and come right back! I swear. Just wait here for me a minute or two, bitte--?" Franz-Josef relents again, urges her to hurry, he has to get back on his route. "Danke, danke, just a moment," she exclaims, and hurries into the trees. She nearly stumbles in the near-darkness, has to blink to adjust her eyes, goes a bit slower. Frets for a moment or so, yet then spots it--a stone chimney peeking out of the trees, then a lit window. She stops, ducks down, sets her belongings on the ground and starts arranging them. A small wooden crate, soft blankets; she takes the baby and bundles him firmly, settling him in the crate. As she arranges the blankets around him he wakes, blinking and murmuring. He peers up at her. "Ahh," he says. "Shh!" Unnamed Mother hushes him; when he makes an unhappy sound, she begs him to keep quiet, go back to sleep. She awkwardly hums a lullaby, tilts the crate back and forth to simulate rocking; after a moment his eyes sleepily close and he falls silent again. She pauses--bends forward to quickly kiss his forehead--before tucking a blanket over him, carefully, hoping he doesn't suffocate; she tears a piece of paper from a small notebook and scribbles on it: DEIN SOHN. Your son. Picks the crate up, trudges carefully toward the stone cottage. She sets the crate down before the door, hesitates, then reaches out and raps her knuckles hard against the wood. Then promptly turns and runs. She considers looking back, to see if anyone answers, yet decides not to, lest she be seen or lose her nerve. Out of sight, out of mind. She runs as fast as she can until the trees open up and she stumbles out into the road. Franz-Josef and his van are still there, the mail driver leaning against the door, smoking a cigarette; seeing her reappear so abruptly, he stands straight and drops his cigarette to snuff it out, takes a step forward, then pauses, watching her hurry over to the passenger side and climb in unassisted. He gets in his own seat, looks her up and down. "Drive...drive, bitte...?" she pants. The driver furrows his brow, confused; "Where's--" Abruptly cuts himself off and shakes his head. "Never mind--don't want to know." (He muses over how Herr Adel has long been one of his best customers, though likely not after today.) He starts the van; a moment later they're rumbling back along the road and away from the cottage. Unnamed Mother lets out a breath, sinks in her seat, tries to feel relieved and tell herself it's for the best, yet fails; she settles for just blanking her mind and not thinking at all. Dozes off as the van bounces along, and dreams of carrying a crate, yet the crate is empty, and for some reason that panics her. After a while her sleep becomes dreamless. The mail van returns to the city not long before dawn. Unnamed Mother wearily climbs out, gives a few crumpled Reichsmarks to the driver (he seems embarrassed to accept them, yet does) and mumbles her thanks, and walks back to her apartment. She showers and collapses in bed, sore and exhausted and hoping that finally it's over. No more bars, no more men, she swears; just work, and home. If she'd only been content with that to start with, she wouldn't be here right now. Exit Unnamed Mother's story. ... Previously, I'd written Unnamed Mother off as an unimportant character whose motivations I didn't wish to explore; really, it's her lack of presence in the story--her abandonment of her baby--that's her greatest contribution to the plot. The abandoned baby becomes Hans, whose sudden death a few years later triggers a series of connected interactions that nobody involved could have ever guessed at. I figured her for merely a selfish person without a worthwhile story, probably not even worth a portrait, until I decided to draw her, at which point she stepped forward to share. She's still a selfish person (and rather bigoted, to boot)...yet she's not completely callous. Sometimes, unfortunate circumstances lead us to make just as unfortunate choices. Sometimes we have no real "choice" at all. (Even Adel has his reasons, outlined previously, for not divulging his family tree; he's pretty self-centered too, but this instance isn't one of those times. I doubt Lebensborn would have approved.) You'll see here another consequence of characters unexpectedly opening up: The surprise appearance of ANOTHER new character. Yes, Franz-Josef did not exist until Unnamed Mother's story came out. He even has a name, unlike her. So, expect his portrait, and possibly his story, to show up at some point, too. [Unnamed Mother (Hans) 2025 [Friday, June 13, 2025, 12:01:02 AM]] |