“She seems so pleasant,” I tell Otto, pressing my hand to my chest as a smile touches my lips. “We’re off to a better start than I expected.”
“See, I told you,” Otto says with a wink. “You two will become great friends.”
“I’m sure we will,” I say with a sigh of relief.
“Are you ready for the grand tour?” He’s beaming as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a single gold key. Before I can blink, the door swings open into a beautiful foyer, adorned with ornate molding, oak trim, and sea-green wallpaper.
Each room flows into the next, all simply decorated and ready for a personal touch.
“Oh my. It’s beautiful,” I say, stopping at the base of the stairwell.
“You haven’t seen all of it yet,” Otto says, a smile lighting his words.
We continue through the maze of stunning rooms, free of dust, with shining walnut colored oak floors and new wallpaper. It’s all quite perfect.
With the word “perfect” floating through my head, I recall what Mama used to tell me every time I became excited about something I knew too little about. She would say, “When a big picture appears perfect, take a closer look, because it’s the little details that create the masterpiece of perfection.”
I hang the last of Otto’s dress shirts in the chestnut wardrobe that stills smells of sawdust inside. Then I move over to my travel trunk to remove the last of our bedroom items.It squeals open, releasing the scent of home—my old home. Lemon and vanilla. Mama always adds lemon zest and petals of lilacs to the bottle of house cleaner.
I wrapped my picture frames in newspaper print, just two or three to display on top of the bureau and nightstands. I place those down beside me and reach in for the folded linen to make up the beds and hang the drapes.
A cloud floats by the windowpane, revealing strong rays from the sun that bleed into the bedroom. A glistening orb catches my eye from within the trunk, drawing my attention to a gold-plated picture frame. I forgot I tossed this in. I haven’t looked at it in so long, but I take in the nostalgia from the sepia-colored image ofDanner and I smiling in front of the first bottle of honey I ever poured from his father’s bee farm. I guess I packed this away in the trunk when Danner had to leave Germany. The reminder of his absence hurt too much. It’s been four years since he was forced out of his home and ordered to live in Poland—where Polish-blooded Jews were sent. According to Hitler, they needed to return to where they came from. It’s unfair. Everything in this war is unfair. Despite how long it’s been since I last saw Danner, my memories are still sharp and clear. A smile touches my lips at the recollection of the day this photograph was taken.
“I hope wherever you are, you’re okay, Danner.” I kiss the tips of my fingers and press them to his face in the photograph.
THREE
EMILIE
NINE YEARS AGO, APRIL 1933
Munich, Germany
There are six houses divided into two apartments each, sitting in the shape of a U on my street, with a total of twelve families occupying them. A thick line of trees frames our neighborhood and segregates us from the rest of the city. Our little street demonstrates the perfect working-class family life. The fathers have jobs in nearby factories, the moms stay home and take care of us, the kids, and we go to school, come home, then spend our time outdoors until dark.
Papa works for a chemical manufacturer, leading the factory line that produces materials used in communication devices. He always says that, between all the men on the street, they have all the necessary skills to run their own city. It’s a fun dream to consider.
My four closest friends live within steps of my front door, which is more than any thirteen-year-old girl could ask for, especially since I’m an only child and have a bad habit of growing bored when sitting still for too long.
Our house is the only one in the half circle made from brick and without a distinctive façade, but it has the most room inside. Like the other houses, there are only two families occupying the divided space: mine and Gertrude Braun’s family. We’ve made secret plans to knock down the wall between our two bedrooms so we can be roommates, but we’re sure our parents wouldn’t quite approve.
“It’s cold out, Emilie… Gerty, I didn’t even know you were here! Where are your coats, girls?” Mama catches us whooshing past the kitchen after doing our homework together in my bedroom, eager to get outside. I didn’t realize what time it was and forgot she’d be in there starting dinner. We would have been quieter on the way to the front door. I stop short against my toes and Gerty stumbles over. We look at Mama, who’s holding a dribbling whisk over the floor, waiting for a response.
“We’re thirteen. We know when we’re cold and if we should put on coats. Besides, it’s March, and the temperature is above freezing. It’s a known fact that cold air can increase blood circulation and increase an appetite for what smells like a delicious dinner.”
“Emilie Marx…that is the most ridiculous thing?—”
“I read about it. Do you want to see the textbook?” I ask.
“Of course you have proof. I have created a monster. That’s what I’ve done.”
“She’s not a monster,” Gerty argues. “She’s a nurse in training and wants to prove scientific theories to be incorrect.”
“That’s not exactly right,” I whisper to Gerty, hiding my mouth behind my hand.
“Mama, if we don’t test out theories, how will we ever know if the textbook is correct?” I add, crossing my arms over my chest.
Mama tosses her head back with frustration. “Good God, you cannot argue your way out of everything in life,” she laments.
