“Herr Berger,” I say, stopping them from leaving. “The man I was saving was Danner Alesky, a Jewish prisoner of Dachau.”
“Danner?” Frau Berger repeats, shock widening her eyes.
“Yes. They were going to execute him if?—”
“No more,” Otto says. “Not here.”
Frau Berger clamps her mouth shut, her cheeks trembling and her forehead puckering over every age line. “Please excuse me,” she says.
Herr Berger clears the phlegm from his throat. “I—I, uh—I’ll see you in the morning, son,” Herr Berger says, following his wife out of the function room.
“Someone could have heard you,” Otto whispers. “Why did you do that?”
I don’t have answers to any question anymore. I don’t know why I’m here at all.
THIRTY-THREE
EMILIE
OCTOBER 1942
Dachau, Germany
A thin layer of dust covers the half-filled bookcase in Otto’s office. It’s obvious I haven’t gotten around to tidying up in here in a long time, but there’s been no time. Until now.
Otto and I have been working for Dietrich as if gagged. Yet, the cards are all out on the table after last night’s discussion between Herr Berger and his brother, Dietrich. I’m left wondering if Dietrich would throw his own brother to the wolves, bury him alive, or do whatever is necessary to be seen as a hero in the eyes of Hitler’s men. It’s impossible to know how much danger we might all be in now, and yet, all I can think about is the fact that I may have lost access to Danner and all the other innocent prisoners who I want nothing more than to help somehow.
I’ve been sitting at Otto’s desk, drawing circular patterns on a piece of notepaper while my mind follows the maze of pen strokes, wondering what is being discussed in the Berger family meeting early this morning. It’s nine and I would have expectedto have heard something by now, but I’m not sure if silence is a good or bad sign.
An unfamiliar squeal of brakes abruptly stops outside of the draped window behind me. It’s not Otto’s car. I twist his desk chair around and peek out, unable to see the car because of the shrubbery blocking my view.
A knock on the front door shouldn’t startle me into jumping out of the seat, but it does because I don’t know who would be visiting at this early hour of the day. I tiptoe over to the front door, staying out of sight from the side windows so I can steal a glimpse of who is at the door before having to confess anyone is home. I spot the pinched look on Dietrich’s face and pull away, concealing myself directly behind the door while I debate whether to open it.
He’s the last person I want to see or speak to, but he’s supposed to be with Otto and Herr Berger. Something must have happened to them.
Something could happen to me if I open the door.
I might lose my last chance of helping Danner if I ignore Dietrich.
Nothing good will arise from either option. A man of power gets what he wants.
I open the door enough to see his face, enough to exchange words. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” he mouths the echoed words. “Emilie, good morning,” he says. “I’m wondering if I might have a word with you.”
“For what reason?” I ask, expressionless. The less he knows about what I’m thinking, the better off I’ll be.
“What reason…” he whispers. “A proposition of sorts.” I thought that’s what he was alluding to last night, bluntly asking me to continue aiding him with whatever experiment might come next. Rather than reply with a hard no like Herr Berger didlast night, I remain silent, waiting for him to continue. “I have received a request to prepare a written memorandum for the air-force troops, outlining our findings and direction on how to utilize such measures to protect themselves during extreme cold conditions.”
I’ve already given him every bit of research and data I documented during the trials so he could compile a report. “You have all the information needed to create a memorandum,” I reply.
“Information needed,” he mumbles. “Yes, I do, but I’m not sure I’m able to convey the information in a proper outline structure as eloquently as you did with your notes.” He must have copied my notes to use in his letter if he’s suggesting he doesn’t have the ability to write in a way that speaks of his so-called expertise.
A chill from the wind blows against us in the doorway and though I would typically invite someone in for a cup of tea, I won’t allow him to come one step further.
“As my father-in-law mentioned last night?—”
“As my father-in-law…” he repeats, hissing the words. “Emilie, I’m going to cut to the chase here. I heard all topics of conversation last night and am aware of the extra efforts made to save one particular volunteer. It has become clear that you have a personal connection with this man, and therefore might be more willing to sacrifice your time to help me if it were to mean keeping him alive.”
