Thank you Rose, for the gift of life

This year marks the 150th anniversary of the birthday of a woman called Rose, of whom I have written in the past. That date, that birthday, that event, however, reminds me to re-tell her story. It starts when she was a teenager in Poland and very much in love with the man she had recently married. Village life had never been easy, but a combination of hard work and God’s grace kept them in one piece. The crops grew, the sun shone and she had just found out that she was pregnant.

She was part of a Jewish family that had known darkness and light. But by 1890 it was, said the patriarch of the clan, too dangerous to stay and time to move on. So with tears in their eyes they packed up what little they owned and by cart and foot moved westwards. The journey was hard at first, but soon became agony. As borders were crossed, villages entered and passed, the group of refugees sometimes met charity, sometimes indifference but too often downright hostility. They were stoned in one place. But on they went, knowing that there was no other direction in which to travel.

Rose was showing by now, and told the assembled cousins, aunts, uncles and community that she was expecting a baby. Her husband gripped her hand as she shared the good news. Of course they were pleased, they wanted her to know that. But she had to realize that the trip was far from over and that it would be almost impossible for her in a few weeks.

One man stepped forward to have his say. He had served in the Russian army for half his life after being kidnapped from his home when a teenager. He still had the ring that was put through his ear inscribed with the words, “Property of the Tsar.” He had seen much.

“They will not let you on boats and trains if they see you’re with child,” he said. “You’ll lose the baby anyway. Better to lose it now and save yourself.”

She felt her head swim. She had heard about these things going on but had never heard them suggested. He wanted her to kill her baby, to get rid of it, to have an abortion. No, she said. No, no, no. She would not do such a thing, never. And then she cried.

A very old woman put her arms around Rose and whispered in Yiddish. “Don’t do what they say, but do what you know to be right.” “But how do I know what is right?” she asked. “Listen to your conscience, which is made and formed by God.”

She was not very religious, not compared to some, but the words left an impression. She ran to her husband, who simply held her and said only that it was their child, but that she had to carry it and that it was her life that was at risk on the journey.

Onwards they went. The snow and the cold stopped, the land became less bold, the people more open. The baby grew bigger. Finally, after what seemed like an endless story of horror, they reached a port, larger than anything she had ever seen. She could barely walk now and she had terrible pains in her stomach. She thought the baby might be dead.

The former soldier had been right in most of his warnings, and in predicting that they would be denied passage on a ship because of her state. The captain of the ancient steamer said he couldn’t take her. She pleaded, but he understood not a word. Then she felt a cramp, so bad that she bent over. The hardened, rough old sailor rushed to help her. As he did so he looked into her eyes. “All right,” he shouted, “just this once. Go on, climb aboard before I change my mind.”

They boarded, and arrived safely in London, England, the next day. Where they settled. And where Rose, my great grandmother, gave birth to my grandmother, who gave birth to my father. Thank you grandma. For life.

Is abortion a choice? No, it’s the taking of a pure, innocent, unborn life.

(Coren’s new book is Why Catholics Are Right. His web site is www.michaelcoren.com)