When I woke up I saw the ceiling of my bedroom. I wondered what had happened. Slowly, I tried to budge and found out I could move my arms, even though they felt strangely heavy. I touched the blanket. Under my fingers I felt the embroideries of the bedspread, which someone had put over me. I tried to move my feet. That too worked well. And my legs? Yes, they also could move properly, even though they felt as heavy as my arms. My tips of my fingers moved, trying to grope anything around me. Suddenly I felt something soft under them. It took me a moment to realize it was hair. I tried to sit up, so I could see who it was, but didn’t get far and quickly fell back onto the cushions. I did manage to get a quick look and saw that it was Father Michael’s shock of hair, as he lay next to my leg on the mattress. My hand wandered to his face. I fiddled around. Somehow I had to wake him up. But he was sleeping so soundly, it didn’t bother him that I poked around his face. I tried to move my heavy legs so I could give him a push.
After a few moments and several attempts he jumped. About time too! Startled, he looked around the room, as if he didn’t know where he was. Then he saw, that I was awake.
“Ada!” he exclaimed. “You’re awake! At last! Thank goodness!” Tears came into his eyes. He took my hand and gently kissed it.
Immediately I snatched it from him. “I want my child!” I didn’t ask him. I demanded it. Father Michael didn’t say a word, but looked at me sadly. “Michael, I want to see her!” I told him again. Immediately I burst into tears and my throat narrowed. “Just for one moment I want to hold her in my arms,” I said, my voice cackling with sadness.
The Father sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, but didn’t look at me. “Ada, you know that’s impossible,” he began, but I interrupted him. “I want my baby!” My voice had gotten louder and despair made it shrill.
But Father Michael wouldn’t listen to me. He was unyielding like a stubborn ox! How could he be so heartless? Didn’t he feel any desire to see his daughter? If he didn’t give me my child, I’d go and get her!
I began to kick away the blanket with my legs and rolled to the other side of the bed. Doing so made me dizzy, but it didn’t stop me. I leaped up and got out of bed. The whole room spun around me and behind me I heard Father Michael’s voice, nervously calling my name. Swaying, I put one foot in front of the other and moved forward. My arms stretched out to the moving door. Wildly, my hands gesticulated in the air and reached for something they were missing so much.
“You mustn’t get up yet, Ada! You need to rest! You’re still too weak,” the Father said and grabbed me by the shoulders.
I resisted his hands, which wanted to pull me back to the bed. Desperately I tried to shake them off. But he was too strong and I was too weak. I gave a loud sob and went weak in the knees. Then I collapsed, falling into Father Michael’s arms. Even if I didn’t want to be there now, I clung to him. Begging I looked up at him. “Please, Michael, please. Let me go to my child….” My voice failed, when my tears overwhelmed me.
“I’m sorry, Ada.” That was all he said. I sobbed loudly, because I understood, that she had already been taken away and I wondered how much time had passed, since they had snatched my daughter from me. I buried my face in the fabric of his cassock and held on to seek comfort from the man, who was responsible for this pain.