FIFTEEN
EMILIE
JULY 1942
Dachau, Germany
Otto and I are seated next to each other, but somehow, I feel like there’s a table between us. Most everyone seems like-minded, except me and maybe Helga. She’s sitting to my right, and I would venture a guess that she’s feeling the same way, considering how quiet she is.
I place my hand on Helga’s forearm to grasp her attention so I don’t have to shout over everyone else. “So, Helga, do you have any hobbies?”
Her pale face brightens as she glances in my direction. “Hobbies?” she repeats. “I do, in fact.” She smiles and her eyes illuminate with elation. “I enjoy building furniture.”
I’m stunned by her response, a brave response I’m not sure I’ve heard from any woman I know. “You build furniture? What kind? Where do you do something like this? That sounds enthralling.”
She lifts her index finger to her lips and shakes her head with a subtle movement. “Wilhelm has asked that I don’t overshare.”
My face strains in response to confusion over her statement. “I don’t see how talking about a hobby could be considered oversharing. In fact, I’m jealous that you know how to build something—anything at all. I would love to learn how.”
Her lips press together into a smile that appears to be holding in a response. “What about you, Emilie? Any interests you enjoy?”
“Wait, but what do you do with all the furniture you make?” Our houses are a decent size, but surely not big enough to store extra furniture.
“Wilhelm sells most of the pieces, but with his name attached, of course. No one would buy furniture built by a woman.”
“Well, that’s just nonsense. I would buy it from you. In fact, I want to see your next piece before you send it off to be sold. Would you agree to that?” I have a bedroom upstairs that is still in desperate need of furniture.
Helga gives her husband a casual glance, maybe wondering if he’s listening in on our conversation, but he’s caught up in whatever the men are all shouting about.
“Yes, of course. I’m almost done with my latest piece, a writing desk. Perhaps next week sometime, you can come over during the day and I’ll show you.” Helga’s cheeks flush.
“I would love that.”
“Wonderful,” she says.
Otto reaches for my hand beneath the table and closes his fingers around mine.
“I have to be frank with you men, Dietrich made it clear to me today that if we don’t find a solution in this research soon, we’re going to have correspondence trickling down from Luftwaffe’s commander in chief.” Herr Berger’s rigid interruption blankets the table with a coat of silence.
“We’re doing everything we can, Herr,” Karl says. “Many of our assistants have been needed elsewhere to keep up with the incoming patients. There aren’t enough of us to cover all bases. Although, we do hope to have a breakthrough soon.”
I pull my hand out of Otto’s to rest my forearms on either side of my plate, wishing I understood more of what they were talking about. “I’m sorry, but what does the cancer treatment research have to do with the Luftwaffe?” Otto had asked that I not insert myself into business matters with his father present because the topics were always so sensitive, but I can’t help my curiosity.
Otto squeezes his hand around my knee making his gentle reminder clear. Of all people, he should know that keeping quiet is not a strength of mine.
My question disrupts the flow of conversation much like it did for Herr Berger. I scan the table, taking a fleeting second to look at each person’s reaction to my question. The women are all unitedly staring down at their laps, except Frau Berger. She’s glaring at me, making me aware my audacity is not appreciated.
The men, however, don’t seem bothered by my question. In fact, they appear intrigued. But for what reason, when they should already know the answer?
Herr Berger is looking at me with an assessing look. With his elbow pinned to the table and his palm holding up his chin, he lowers his index finger and points directly at me. “Emilie, let me ask you something. How confident are you that you can treat mild cases of…say a common cold, or a stomach flu, a rash, or a wound, perhaps?”
“Quite,” I say, perking my right eyebrow up into a point.
“Vater,” Otto speaks up as if he could close the door on the question.
“In a crowded setting, what is more important to you, speed or bedside manner?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question?”
