I push my chair back just as she does, planning to walk her to the door. “Please don’t leave,” I say.
“Thank you for being such a kind host this evening. I’m sure I’ll see you all soon. I can see myself to the door, Emilie. Please, stay here,” she says. Her cheeks tremble as if she’s trying to keep in a cry, and my heart breaks for whatever pain she’s going through.
When the door closes, it’s already been long enough to notice that Wilhelm hasn’t stood up to follow his upset wife home. Though delayed, he soon realizes he should have gotten up too. “I’m sorry to cut the evening short. I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow.” He stumbles around to push his chair and the napkin from his lap falls to the ground in the perfect place forhim to step right on top of it and nearly go flying across the freshly cleaned floors.
Karl catches him by the elbow. “Take it easy, fella. She’s just your wife. She won’t kill you.”
I don’t know if I would be so sure about that after hearing her confession about building furniture. I believe sharp, dangerous tools are required for such a hobby.
Once Wilhelm has left in Helga’s footsteps, a vocal sigh of relief wavers around the table. “She’s just jealous,” Ingrid says. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll get over it.”
I don’t think her outburst had much to do with jealousy, more like resentment for the way her husband treats her. “We all have our moments, I suppose,” is all I can think to say.
“Well, maybe their moment tonight will finally land them with a baby. None of us are getting any younger.”
Helga and I are at least a decade younger than Ingrid and Ursula, so I’m not sure her reference to biological clocks is applicable, but I keep my mouth closed.
“I don’t love this idea,” Frau Berger says. “However, if this gets your brother to stop nagging you for assistance, take whatever help you can get.”
Ingrid and Ursula appear bored by this conversation, inspecting the polish on their nails, acting as if they were wall fixtures.
“Emilie, if you think you could assist us in any way, it would be much appreciated,” Karl says.
“Yes…so long as I’m not in any danger among the prisoners,” I agree, hesitantly, but I’m not sure I want to decline with the hopeful look Otto’s parents are giving me. If I had let the idea simmer for another minute, however, I might have debated the thought of being inside the prison that I’ve been worried about Otto working in every day.
“The prisoners aren’t criminal convicts,” Karl says. “They’ve just verbally gone against the Reich’s beliefs in a public setting and the act is punishable by imprisonment, and that is why they are there—as unfortunate as it might be.” Otto had said the same. I suppose helping them would be a good deed considering the prisoners feel the same way as many of us who choose to keep silent.
“That’s good to know. Well, in that case, I suppose I can be of help,” I offer.
“Perfect. You can start tomorrow, yes?”
“Uh—ye-yes, of course,” I haphazardly agree, wishing I had taken an extra moment to think through the proposition.
Herr Berger says with a wink, “I told you she was a keeper.”
If Herr Berger ever told Otto that I was a keeper, I’m sure the word “house” came before keeper.
I let out a quiet sigh while pushing my chair out once again. “Well, I’m going to prepare dessert.”
I collect the nearest plates to where I’m sitting and Ursula and Ingrid follow, doing the same. Frau Berger trails the three of us into the kitchen, once again, empty-handed.
“You do realize you’re going to have to report back to us what it is those men do all day long, right?” Ingrid says, the moment we’re in the farthest spot in the kitchen, away from the dining room.
“Yes, you’ll have to dish everything,” Ursula says.
Frau Berger fiddles with a pin in her hair. “Ladies, some things should just be assumed and not told. Let’s not get Emilie in trouble before she has a chance to set foot into that rat-infested landmine,” she says.
Rat-infested landmine. How lovely. I should be up with nightmares most of the night.
“One of us should bring Helga and Wilhelm plates of dessert,” Ingrid says.
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? They might be having an argument. No one would want to bear witness to that at their front door,” Ursula says, speaking as if she has experience.
“Good point. We can wrap something up for them and hold on to it until tomorrow,” I say.
The word “tomorrow” sends a chill down my spine as I imagine myself walking through rows of criminals. I’ve heard the stories about men in captivity and the thought is enough to make me want to fake a headache tomorrow. But knowing how much we all want to know what goes on within those stone walls each day, I feel it’s my responsibility to carry through with the plan, on behalf of us all who wait at home each day to receive nothing more than half the story our husbands choose to share with us.
SIXTEEN
