My heart is shattering again just like it did two years ago and again a month ago when he reminded me that I’m not supposed to love him. Pieces of me keep disintegrating when I hear his words. They should make sense, but they don’t. He doesn’t mean them. I know he doesn’t. But neither of us can change the world.
“Is that why you didn’t give me a hug?” I bite my cheek, trying my hardest not to let my emotions get the best of me.
“Yes,” he says, reaching around me to pull me in for the hug I didn’t receive. If I could melt into him, into this moment, into a different world and life, I would without hesitation. “And I’m sorry.”
“Danner, I can’t stop the way I feel… Despite what we can or can’t be, I’ll always love you for the person, the friend, and the more you have been to me.”
SEVENTEEN
EMILIE
JULY 1942
Dachau, Germany
I’ve been a firm believer in following what my gut tells me, even if it’s a split-second decision. Otto has been quiet since everyone left last night, making his opposition to me being here with him this morning clear.
I knew I would be going in through the Dachau gates when Otto’s father offered me this opportunity. I agreed without hesitation, and yet now, my stomach is in knots as Otto rolls down his window to request admission.
“Heil Hitler,” Otto says, saluting the man.
“Heil Hitler,” the man replies. “What is the purpose of your arrival to Dachau?”
“You must be a new guard. We haven’t met. I’m Dr. Berger, working in Block 5. Dr. Dietrich has requested that my wife, Emilie Berger, aid him with his work as I’ve been doing.”
Groups of male inmates wearing blue and white striped uniforms watch us as we walk along the muddy, rubble pathway. I can’t avoid the dread and grief in their eyes. They recoil upon eye contact, turning away as if it’s a sin to look in our direction.
A daunting wooden door with an iron handle stands between me and this solid confinement, a place I never imagined I would see.
Otto releases my hand to close the umbrella and steps inside after me.
A distressing moan echoes between the corridor walls and I can’t tell how near or far from the source we are.
Otto stops in front of a wooden door and my heart thumps in my chest as he pushes against the slab to reveal what’s waiting on the other side. Before he steps forward, he pauses and peers down at me but doesn’t make direct eye contact. “There are patients in here, but we’ll be continuing on to the lab where I work. Don’t look at any of them. It will give them a reason to talk to you. We shouldn’t converse. I know that goes against your good nature, but these men are still criminals, even if they aren’t the dangerous kind.”
“I understand,” I say. But I’m not sure I do.
Men line the walls: some are standing, others are sitting on the floor, heads hanging between bent knees.
“Help,” someone groans. “Please, miss. Help us.”
“Ignore them. They do this to everyone who walks through that door,” Otto mumbles beneath his breath.
I wish I could close my eyes or pinch my nose to avoid the stench of what must be a mixture of body odor and sickness, but I’m not that type of person. That would be rude and disrespectful, even to a criminal.
I do my best to block out the cries for help as we near the next door, but a distinct sound yanks me to a firm stop.
“A rare honeybee,”I hear.
Groggily and softly spoken, those familiar words strike me like a punch to the gut.A rare honeybee…the world couldn’t survive without them.I’d never forget that fact.I search for where the words came from. There are so many men, andthey all look alike. My free hand flares to my chest and my breath catches in my throat as I search, knowing those precise words were meant for me to hear. I was sure there wasn’t a single person here that I could possibly know. Not under these circumstances, but I must be wrong.
“Dr. Berger,” another voice calls. Otto is addressed formally with a commanding inflection. “Might I have a word with you?”
“Yes, of course,” Otto replies. “Go on and wait over by the office door ahead. I’ll just be a moment.”
From the corner of my eye, I see an inmate lift his limp arm, holding his palm toward me. I want to screw my eyes shut, to close off my ears.
Then I hear, “Is it really you?”
