FEBRUARY 1944
Dachau, Germany
I should have known what usually follows a threat or bribe. Once a person knows they can claim another as a puppet, boundaries cease to exist. Dietrich has approached me monthly for the last year and a half since showing up at my doorstep the morning Otto was sent to his new place of employment—when we made our dangerous deal to write up his report on the hypothermia testing. Then he came to me with new studies he was conducting, ones I hadn’t witnessed. He wanted me to write up the reports in the same format I wrote the original. It was the only way to keep our deal of ensuring Danner remains safe. I ask for proof that Danner is still alive, so he doesn’t become suspicious of the other ways I’m helping him and others, and he shows me a list of numbers still living in his assigned barrack.
I didn’t know how many research studies there could be, but they seem to be never-ending. My only benefit to him was my ability to transcribe data better than the few who remain on his team. While it isn’t something I’ve strived for, it’s a form of control whereby I can muddle data and paint a perfect portraitfor the results being sought. The strategy of tweaking data is nerve-wracking, dangerous, and the only thing keeping many of the subjects in Dachau alive. That part, Dietrich isn’t aware of. If I can save some of those innocent people, I’ll continue acting loyal with the hope I’m gaining more from this than he is.
My objective in life has moved on from completing my nursing classes to making every attempt possible to protect the innocent and check on Danner whenever possible. Otto’s questions have tapered off. We’ve settled into our routine of coming and going, ships passing in the night. Every time we pass one another, I wonder if he questions what I’m truly doing. Though I’ve become proficient at sneaking around, I don’t feel any less deceitful when I come home each night. Of course, I’m not being unfaithful, and I still conduct all my wifely duties, but that façade isn’t for me, it’s for him—and for Danner.
Another night, the same time, same location, one of four guards I’ve come to know greets me at the window of my car. “Good evening, Frau Berger.” My door opens and I step out, a newspaper pinned beneath my arm and my purse dangling from my right hand.
“It was a good evening, wasn’t it?”
My eyes widen as I turn toward the second voice, and I can’t manage to take in a breath when I find Otto standing behind our car, his bicycle by his side.
Eight months have passed since his last obvious suspicion that I was doing something other than studying at the library. I didn’t expect so much time to pass before it would happen again. Even knowing this great possibility, I continued doing what I was asked to in return for the promised favor from Dietrich. The thought of what I would say to Otto in this moment has kept me awake many nights, leaving me restless in the morning without a clear thought as to what I would say, here, now. I was livingone day at a time because that’s what we’re all doing in this war—surviving, minute by minute.
I can see him clearly, beneath the bright watchtower light. Each new age line earned over the last couple of years rests in the shadows of the sharp edges above his cheekbones and forehead. He doesn’t blink, just stares.
“You’re here to see him, aren’t you?” Otto asks.
“To see who?” I ask, doing my best to play the part of an ignorant woman, even if only for the sake of the guard who doesn’t need to know any of our personal business.
“What the hell are you doing here, Emilie?” Otto grunts.
“Perhaps I should be asking you the same question,” I reply, arching my brows despite crumbling into a million pieces beneath my skin.
“Frau Berger,” the guard interrupts, “we can reconvene at another time.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Otto snaps at the man. “What do you know that I don’t? Huh?”
“I know nothing, Herr Berger. I’m not privy to information that goes beyond these gates.”
“But you are,” Otto says, staring me straight in the eyes.
“Let’s go home and finish our discussion there,” I suggest, hopefully buying myself a few minutes to formulate a reason for being here at this hour.
“I would much rather follow you into Dachau to see what it is you do every night when you claim to be at the library.” This guard has already heard far too much.
“Yes, thank you. I’ll follow up at another time,” I tell the man, and reach for the car door.
My heart shudders between each breath, leaving me weak in the driver’s seat as I wait to see what Otto does next. I close my eyes and grip my gloved hands around the wheel as the guard closes my door. The passenger side door opens, and I peek outthrough squinting eyes, to find Otto dropping into the seat and slamming the car door shut. The scent of whiskey fills the car, the liquor that makes him angry. He knows as well as I do what happens to him after only two glasses. He can’t control anything that comes out of his mouth, and whatever he has been thinking for however long he’s kept it inside, will be spoken, loud and clear.
The car ride home is unsurprisingly quiet as he refuels his anger. It isn’t until the front door closes us inside our house that I see he’s managed to take theDer Stürmernewspaper from my possession while I was driving.
“You’ve been going to see Danner, haven’t you?” he asks, his voice oddly calm considering the raging glint in his eyes. He rolls up the newspaper and shoves the tube into his back pocket.
“I haven’t seen Danner,” I say, lying through my teeth. “I’m not even sure he’s still alive.” The thought burns through me, thankful I don’t have to truthfully feel that way.
Otto tears his coat off and throws it to the ground, the buttons clapping all at once against the wooden floor.
“God dammit, Emilie. I’m not playing this game with you. Tell me why the hell you were at the gates of Dachau.”
“I’ve been sworn to secrecy,” I reply. There’s no way of getting out of Otto’s way tonight. My only hope is honesty and to make him see life from my eyes, which may be impossible after living and working on the same side as the world’s enemy.
“Sworn?” he asks, his voice a hair softer.
“Does the word ‘threatened’ make you feel better?”
