I release the crate again and stand back upright. My hands become ice cold, so do my legs, back, and torso. They’re planning a wedding.
“You weren’t aware, I see,” she says. “Oh, Danner, sweetheart. I know you loved her…”
“She’s to be wed to Otto, I assume?” The words taste like vinegar on my tongue, knowing I’m the one who made the suggestion to her years ago.
“Of course,” she says. “Who else?”
Me. In another life.
“Do you not have a place to stay?”
“I’ll find somewhere,” I say.
“Nonsense. You’ll stay here with us.”
“I can’t insist on that. No one wants to house a forbidden Jew.” Emilie’s parents were the only other couple on this street who never treated me any differently to the other kids. They didn’t see religion when they looked at my face and now, I see how rare that sentiment is.
“Well, we’ll have to work out some details, but you’re welcome to stay with us.” She combs her fingers through my hair. “You’re already blonde.” She chuckles then pinches my cheek.
“I have updated identification papers too,” I say, reaching into my pocket to show her. “They worked at the train station.”
“Felix will be so happy to see you when he gets home from work,” she says, seeming to be choking on her words. “And Herr Weber will be just as thrilled. Does Gerty know?”
“No, you’re the only one who knows I’m here. I think it might be best that Emilie, Gerty, and Otto’s family don’t know.”
I plan to remain inconspicuous, for the sake of making sure I don’t overstay my welcome or make anyone uncomfortable. The thought of not telling Emilie I’m here is torturous, but I would only disrupt her life and it may only be for a brief time that I’m able to remain here.
“I understand, and I’m happy to keep the secret in our home. You don’t need to stress about making us feel uncomfortable, though, okay?”
I know the look on her face. It’s the same look anyone has when they’re trying to act as if they aren’t afraid to be seen with a Jewish person. I can’t blame her. Fear is fear, no matter what the cause.
“Okay, but if anything changes, I can find somewhere else to go,” I offer. “I truly don’t want to be a bother.”
“You have nothing to worry about, dear.” There’s a questionable inflection in her voice.
It’s understandable. No one truly means the words: “You have nothing to worry about.” Not anymore.
THIRTY-SIX
EMILIE
FEBRUARY 1943
Dachau, Germany
Four months of wondering when Otto might decide to make a stink about me spending time at the library so many nights a week—in what he believes to be preparation for my return to nursing classes. He even taught me to drive so I could take the car after work, rather than having to ride my bicycle in the cold.
To prevent his discontent after a long day at work, I’ve made sure to prepare casseroles and nights’ worth of leftovers. The nights I leave the house, we’re much like a revolving door. He returns home from the field hospital and hands me the keys to the car, and I leave for the next few hours.
Before leaving tonight, he asked me if everything was all right because I looked flushed. My guilt must be becoming more obvious.
To my credit, I do actually spend a fair amount of time in the library, writing up my notes for Dietrich’s memorandums. Except, when I leave the library, I don’t go directly home. The guards at the tall black iron gates know who I am, briefed by Dietrich with instructions to escort me to Block 5 with thepaperwork pinched between a daily edition of theDer Stürmernewspaper.Once the guard on duty unlocks Dietrich’s office door, I step inside, pull open his top left metal desk drawer and conceal the papers within a folder he’s left for me.
I walk the same path back every time I’m here, along the far side of the rows of blocks, then pivoting a sharp right at the final block, before the land opens into the roll-call pit in front of the service building. I spot the last metal rubbish bin I’ll pass before exiting the prison, roll up the newspaper tightly and toss it away as I do every night. The guard doesn’t care about my disposing of the paper within the prison gates, because the paper is the perfect propaganda for them, something the prisoners here will find no use in reading…except one.
The newspaper was originally a way to conceal the papers I was delivering to Dietrich, per his instructions. However, two weeks after I begun shuttling papers to Dietrich’s office, I found additional use for it. It was the night my true purpose became quite clear.
One hollow clang after another, metal bouncing off knees as men lug large metal trash receptacles through the wet gravel beneath a heavy downpour. The sky always seems to be crying here—crying in a way that steals all the wind from the sky. There aren’t many lights lining the rows of blocks but there are enough to spot groups of men still working late into the night. They all look the same for the most part: thin as tree branches, lanky like puppets dangling from string, and quiet. They’re quiet as if they aren’t humans who struggle to move heavy objects or exert the energy they don’t have, or hold in their emotions when they want to cry their hearts out like the sky.
