Danner shakes his head dismissively then stares toward the corner where I’m expected to go.
I take a step away from him, trying to understand why we’re face to face like this…why? Why is this the world we live in? Who allowed this to happen?
The world becomes dark around me as I stumble somewhat blindly over to Otto, my eyes still wide with shock. He’ll ask me what’s wrong, and if he looked across the room, he would see forhimself, if he hasn’t already. Otto didn’t mention seeing Danner here. Surely that’s something Otto would tell me if he knew. We’re Danner’s friends. He needs us.
With a cold numbing sensation bleeding through me, I reach Otto’s side and he swings his arm around my back. “It turns out we need your help in the laboratory today, alongside me. Isn’t that wonderful?” he asks, urging us forward to follow the other doctor—the man Otto was speaking to.
I glance over my shoulder once more, confirming that I’ve not hallucinated the conversation I just had with Danner. He’s sliding down the length of the wall, burying his head in his hands.“Otto…”
“Yes,” he says. “What is it, darling?”
“Danner—he’s…did you…he’s out there in the…the room. He’s a prisoner. Did you know?”
“Doctor, I’ll be just a moment,” Otto says to the man we’re following.
“Of course,” the man says, continuing down the hallway.
Otto stops walking and turns around to face the direction we came from, a startled look in his eye. “What in the world are you talking about? No, Danner isn’t here. Where?” He looks around. “Are you sure, sweetheart? Maybe someone looks like him?”
“Go see for yourself,” I say, staring at Otto’s chest, wondering what his heart feels like right now. Does it feel something? Anything?
He places his hands on my shoulders. “Wait here,” he says, hustling down the corridor. He only makes it to the corner where he peeks around into the open area where the prisoners are waiting. His head recoils but so slightly, I might be imagining his reaction. Otto’s facial muscles slacken and his shoulders drop. He covers his mouth with his hand, but then quickly scratches his fingertips down his chin and turns to face me, moving back down the corridor to where I’m waiting.
“I—uh—no, I—” Otto wrenches his arm around my shoulders and squeezes tightly. “We need to talk about this when we leave. I have not seen him until now. I had no idea,” he whispers.
EIGHTEEN
EMILIE
JULY 1942
Dachau, Germany
The walls feel like they’re closing in around me as Otto’s hand trembles against my shoulder, telling me he’s speaking the truth when he says he didn’t know Danner was being held captive here. I’m just not sure I can wait until we leave the sick bay later to discuss this further. We can’t just act as if he’s not standing out there.
Otto urges me to move forward, further down the corridor alongside him. We both walk as if in a trance until we reach the laboratory, two doors down and to the left. He stops before entering, closes his eyes and stretches his neck to both sides.
His shoulders press back and he clears his throat. “Follow my lead.”
Again, I try to swallow against what feels like sand in my throat as we enter a large room with sterile equipment, tables, lab desks, and tools. There are no windows, just a large room of stuff that could be used for an infinite amount of things. Where are all the other staff?
Once we’re closed into the room, Otto gestures to another man waiting in the room. “Emilie, you remember my uncle, Dietrich, don’t you?”
My stomach twists and turns, cramping as I try to focus on the middle-aged man in front of me rather than Danner sitting on the other side of the corridor. “Of course.” I met him several times when we were younger, and he was at our wedding. “How do you do?” I say with a hand wave, turning toward the nearest wall, wishing I could see through it to the other side.
“I’m well, thank you,” he says just before letting out an explosive sneeze that recaptures my attention.
Dietrich is middle-aged, and although he’s Herr Berger’s younger brother, he could pass as ten years his senior. His horseshoe of white hair is combed into patterns for more coverage and his thick, black-framed glasses magnify his eyes beneath his sharp, shaped brows. Then there’s his smile that contradicts the rest of his face—it’s kind and warm, but forced and unnatural.
“Dr. Dietrich,” Otto says, clearing his throat again while emphasizing the doctor part of his title, “is heading up the new research study for aiding hypothermia. We’ll be working with him to formulate studies that will encompass the trials of testing and follow-up reports.”
“Here?” I ask, my word broken like a crow’s squawk.
“This camp is not just for political prisoners?” Otto turns to Dietrich, forming his statement into what can be taken as an unknowing inquisition. “There are Jewish people here, too. I thought?—”
“This camp is not just…” Dietrich silently echoes the words Otto is speaking, his way of digesting confrontational statements. “It’s a concentration camp, Otto. You’ve been here since February. Surely, this isn’t breaking news,” Dietrich says, holding his arms out like this shouldn’t be a confusing topic.“Jewish people, black people, homosexuals, handicapped, and political prisoners—yes. There isn’t enough space in the camps to keep everyone segregated by their ethnic differences. Of course you know this. Everyone knows this, yes?”
“No,” Otto says. “There are innocent people here, not just political criminals like I thought.”
