“Don’t you see—this is inhumane, it’s torture,” I cry out. “They’re people like us. They don’t deserve this.”
“Don’t you see—Frau Berger.” He waves my pleas aside, “I’m pleased with your astounding amount of knowledge. You will be quite an asset to us here. I know it.” He finally moves his foot and I tear the door open, making my way back into the experimental room, spotting a man submerged in the tub. Notone of the assistants is within reach to help the drowning man. I run to the metal tub and pull the man up by his arm. He is heavy, even with his body floating in the water. I press my hand under his chin to keep his neck above the water line but he isn’t breathing.
“Emilie,” Otto calls out, his voice deflated.
“Get him out of the water,” I shout, tossing my hard gaze toward the three assistants standing around me.
I try to pull him out myself, but I can only get him to the lip of the tub when he begins to slip back out of my arms.
“Cardiac arrest,” Otto says. “He’s gone.”
“You can’t declare him dead until you’ve warmed his body temperature back up to normal. Get him out and warm him up now!” I shout. My body is shivering just from submerging my wrists into the water—water that must be colder than freezing. Otto is the first to step up to my side and help me pull the man from the tub. The other three men follow Otto’s lead, lifting the man up and out, then immersing him in the heated tub.
I pace the room, catching the terror-filled eyes of the eleven other victims waiting to meet their assumable demise. At first glance, they all appear to be the same person—bald, tired eyes, and skin and bones, but just a second later, I see freckles, scars, and sprigs of facial hair in various colors. They’re people just like us but the assisting servicemen are acting as if the inmates are already dead. The worry lines are prominent between many of the men’s brows, chins are trembling, bodies are shivering even though they haven’t yet touched the water. I want to help them. I have to put a stop to this.
“How warm is the water now?” I ask, pivoting around to face the pale man with blue lips draped over the side of the tub like a doll stuffed with hay.
“38°C/100°F with the body temperature being 27°C/80°F,” Otto says, his words barely forming completely. I check mywatch, noting it’s been seven minutes since the man was removed from the cold. “There’s still no pulse.”
I drop to my knees next to the tub and place my hands behind the man’s lifeless neck, rubbing tersely to create more heat. I’m holding his head up like an infant’s but there’s no hint of movement. I continue my efforts for several more minutes. “What’s his body temperature?” I utter.
Otto shakes his head. “It hasn’t changed much.”
I rest my arm, the man’s head still in the crook of my arm. His eyes are open wide, his shock apparent as he stares into another world that I’m not a part of. My stomach coils and my lungs struggle to take in a breath, grieving for a man I didn’t know but who probably had a significant life story to share. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.
“I’m so sorry,”Dietrich mocks me. “Take him out.” He shouts the command to an assistant.
My eyes burn, staring at this helpless person, knowing I’ve been convincing myself I can stop this, but I’m nowhere close.
My blood freezes in my veins. Is it my fault we ended up here, like this? I battled the societal changes affecting my life internally, but now I’m not sure I ever fought hard enough to make a difference.
TWENTY-FOUR
EMILIE
TWO YEARS AGO, DECEMBER 1940
Munich, Germany
The city is heavy with silence, frozen beneath a fresh layer of snow. There’s no stomp of marching boots, rallying parades of camaraderie, or laughter. There hasn’t been any semblance of laughter in more than two years, or so it seems. No one speaks to one another, every person on the street is a stranger, and even if they aren’t, no one lifts their head up long enough to figure out whether they know who they’re passing. To speak out loud means we must have an opinion: an opinion on this city, on the country, the war, the fairness, and unfairness alike. It’s easier to keep our heads down.
Typically, I walk home from class with Otto, but he had a surgical observation at the hospital today. He’s likely already home by now.The times when I walk home alone, my mind fills with memories of the days when this amount of quiet seemed impossible, given how loud us kids were together.Even though there were five of us, we always somehow paired off—Danner and me in a conversation or debate about a subject in class, Otto and Gerty arguing over scientific theories that neither of themknew anything about, and Felix with his head in the clouds, thinking of his next story to interrupt everyone with.
I miss my conversations with Danner. Sometimes it almost feels like he’s passed away because his departure left such a gaping hole in my life. But if he had passed away, I could still talk to his soul, and he might hear me. Instead, I know he’s somewhere a country away living a different life to the one he wanted and I have no way of reaching him. It’s been over a year since he and his family were forced to leave, and I haven’t heard from him since. I check the mail daily, but there’s never anything addressed to me.
Back in a relationship with Otto, I often feel guilty for thinking about Danner as much as I do. Otto doesn’t speak of Danner, and he doesn’t know that Danner made me promise to rekindle my relationship with Otto. Gerty and Felix talk about him whenever I see them. They talk about him like they just saw him yesterday. Time just keeps passing and nothing seems to get any brighter.
I turn onto my street and my eyes float to Danner’s house first as they always do. I’m quickly reminded that someone else has moved into his house with the pea green interior, curtains, and red and yellow bird ornaments dangling down each window. The Alesky family were never eccentric, they just blended in like the rest of us with their neutral color curtains and lack of flare for window treatment.
Everything in this little corner of the city is the same except for Danner and his house. A twinge of pain strikes through my chest as I force myself to look away and face my front door. The aroma of fresh bread distracts me for a moment but I remember that Mama rarely bakes bread in the middle of the week.I step inside to a frenzy of Mama running around the kitchen in circles, pots and pans bubbling, sizzling, and a timer buzzing with a squeal. Flour coats the counters and Mama’s forest green apron.
“Mama, what are you doing? You look like a mad woman.”
“Oh good, you’re home. I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home today but I’m glad it’s on the earlier side because Herr and Frau Berger are joining us for dinner. It was a last-minute plan,
but—”
“Wait, Mama, since when do you make plans with Otto’s parents?”
