“Promise me, please. I beg of you…” he says, breathlessly.
The words swell in my throat. “I…”
“Say it,” he demands in a hoarse whisper.
“I promise…”
Danner kisses me once more—so briefly I might have imagined it—then turns to leave, disappearing between the trees as if the wind has carried him away.
My knees give out and I slide down against the tree, resting in a pile of leaves. “I promise to always do what my heart tells me to do, Danner.”
TWENTY-ONE
EMILIE
JULY 1942
Dachau, Germany
Ingrid’s children are playing outside on the street, laughing, and cheering without a care in the world, and yet we live within blocks of an electrified prison fence. The innocence of Ingrid’s children is still pure because they don’t know what I know. Though innocence can be obliterated in the blink of an eye, apparently.
If I could convince myself I imagined the inhumane scene I was witness to, I would.Danner in the prison sick bay, labeled a criminal because he’s Jewish. There could be an alternate reasonable explanation, but the harder rationalization is to believe that he’s truly guilty of anything more than being Jewish.Rather than leave the sick bay with a “headache,” I should have tried to find out more of what was going on there. Not all the prisoners gathered in that hall were volunteers. Many of them were obviously sick. Danner appeared healthy; therefore, a volunteer makes sense. Why have a sick bay and a lab inside a prison if we aren’t going to help the so-calledprisoners live? To think I was fearful of being around all those poor men today. They are the ones who are living in fear.
As if my life is well-balanced like the contrast of night and day, I’m back here, at “home,” in our kitchen, an apron secured around my neck and waist, and a noodle casserole simmering in the oven. The savory aroma fills the room, but it can’t cover up the unease gnawing at me. My options are this or aiding in human research trials. It wouldn’t be apt to use an animal for testing, never mind a person.
When Otto dropped me off here earlier, per my request—or demand—we didn’t say much to each other before going our separate ways. He was in a hurry to return to work.I’ve been in a trance for hours now, staring out the kitchen window toward the curb that meets the corner of our street. I’ve washed the paring knife pinched between my fingers half a dozen times, soothed by the running water cascading over my hands.
Through the window, I see Ingrid shuffling along the curb with an oven mitt dangling from her right hand. She’s in her favorite navy blue, polka-dot dress, stockings, and pink house slippers.
“Gunter and Ada, what did I tell you?” she calls out. “Your bedroom is a mess. You aren’t going outside playing until you’ve completed your chores. Your papa will be home soon, and you know what he will do if he sees the mess you’ve left.”
Every day, Ingrid chases her two youngest children around, trying to get them to comply with rules. Those two children just want to play ball and ride their bicycles all day during their summer school break, and I can’t say I blame them. However, they’re growing up in a world where broken rules are punishable without the chance of forgiveness.
I twist the faucet dial to stop the running stream just as I hear Otto’s Volkswagen come to a stop in front of the house. With a quick glance at the clock on the wall behind me, I notice I’ve losttrack of time today, but he’s home at the time he promised. I reach for the crumpled dishrag set down on the counter beside me and dry the knife until my reflection sharpens along the blade and I place it back into the drawer I took it from.
My heart drums against my chest as I count the seconds down until Otto makes his way in through the front door. Strands of hair tickle the sides of my face as I whirl around to untie the apron and straighten my dress. I pat my hair back into place and hurry into the foyer to greet my husband like every good housewife ought to do. Although, I suppose in his mind, I’m no longer considered a housewife—just a fellow unlicensed nurse.
As I approach the front door, the weight of the unknown hovers over me while I continue to ponder what other secrets lie behind those prison walls, and within my husband’s mind. I want to believe he’s trapped in this situation like me, a person who has never agreed with the atrocious laws and regulations our country is being forced to follow, and a person who refuses to support this corrupt government, their antisemitism, and hatred for so many. The Otto I’ve always known would never agree to take part in anything supporting the regime. But he told me he wouldn’t be working alongside the prisoners, and yet, they were there. Innocent Jews being labeled as prisoners in the same hall. How could he be okay with this?
The door opens and as usual, I’m greeted with a smile—today, the smile is more fearful than loving, but nonetheless, he’s trying to act as if nothing out of the ordinary happened today. “Hello, darling,” he says, removing his fedora before leaning down toward me with a kiss. He doesn’t look worse for wear after finding out one of our closest friends is a volunteer waiting to sacrifice God knows what in the name of Hitler. “How is your head feeling? Better, I hope?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”
“Oh good. I’m glad to hear it,” he says. Otto smells like cigarettes and rubbing alcohol—not my preferred combination, yet our new normal. “It turned out to be a lovely day, didn’t it? I was sure that rain wasn’t going to let up.” It’s clear his tactic is to be abundantly cheerful in the hope that I’ll mirror his mood, which tells me he hasn’t come up with a better idea in the six hours we’ve been apart. And as for the weather, I haven’t paid much attention to it. My thoughts are too cloudy.
“I suppose so,” I reply, taking his briefcase to drop it off in his study. His eyes burn into me as I hurry away, but the moment I return, a more complacent expression conceals whatever he’s truly thinking.
“I’m so sorry for—for this morning,” he says, loosening his tie as if it were a noose restricting his air all day.
“I understand your father has put you in a tricky situation.”
Otto tilts his head to the side, raising an eyebrow as he twists his lips into a scowl. “You look pale, Emilie. Are you sure you aren’t coming down with something?” he asks, reaching for my hand to draw me in closer to him. He touches his palm to my forehead, checking for a fever I don’t have. His steel-blue eyes pierce into mine, trying to read the thoughts between my responses. I can’t see a single thought when looking back at him.
“I’m quite well. My headache went away. I just couldn’t bear the thought of being in there for another minute.”
“I know the prison was an unsettling sight for you this morning. It can be jarring the first time you walk in through those doors, but after a while you learn to focus on the tasks at hand,” he says.
I’m not sure the sight of ill people ever becomes easier to witness, never mind the healthy who are volunteering tobecomeill. Nurses are supposed to learn how to put on a brave face to keep patients calm, but how could I be brave in a situation like this?
