Otto grits his teeth and pinches his hands around his neck. “Who threatened you?”
I tug at the fingertips of my leather gloves, sliding each one off my hand before placing them down neatly on the small entryway table. “Someone you made a part of our lives,” I say, moving to the buttons on my coat. I refuse to react the way he’dlike me to because I wouldn’t be in this situation right now if it weren’t for the decisions he’d made, and the secrets he’d kept.
Otto releases his hands from his neck as I hang up my coat and slip off my shoes. He tilts his head to the side as an idea or realization seems to strike him. “Dietrich?”
“Of course. Who else would do such a thing to me?”
Otto picks at his bottom lip, squinting past my shoulder, but the question isn’t something he should be too surprised about.
I take a few steps toward Otto, forcing him to look at me instead of past me. “When did your uncle join the SS? Was it before or after we got married?”
I know the answer to this question now, having access to Dietrich’s biography inserted at the bottom of his memorandums. Otto must be aware of such a significant year in this timeline.
“I—I don’t know…It was after…I only knew he was forming a team of medical professionals to assist him in his research to cure cancer. His connection with the Luftwaffe had nothing to do with the regime,” Otto says. It’s easy to say stuff like that when everything in this country is so carefully swept under the rug, but it’s easy to see our military forces have been taken over. There’s nothing left of us now. There’s no hope.
I unclasp my earrings one by one and clutch them in my hand, allowing one of the posts to pierce into the flesh of my palm. “Did you ever question how easily Dietrich let you off the hook?”
“No because we agreed to remain members of his team but not take part in what he was conducting. That was to protect you. And all this time, you’ve been jeopardizing yourself and me. Our families. And for what?”
He pulls the rolled newspaper out of his back pocket and holds it up. “Der Stürmer? You’re reading Nazi propaganda now? We’ve been married two years. Two years, this week, infact, and stupidly, I thought we were going to make it through all this together. I’m wrong, though, aren’t I?”
“No,” I say. “That isn’t what it seems, which you of all people in this world should understand quite well.” As hard as I’m trying to keep myself together so I don’t shatter and fall to my knees for forgiveness after going against my morals and lying to my husband, all I can do is pray that he doesn’t unravel that newspaper.
“What has Dietrich threatened you with?” he asks, slapping his free hand against the newspaper. “What?”
I stare at the newspaper, wondering if there will come a time when I’m the newspaper, rolled up, swung around, and slapped. Would Otto become that person? After all this time, I still don’t know what makes a human become a monster like so many have become here. I still feel every bit of pain for the suffering, especially when I step through those gates, greeted with cries, moans, and bodies hitting the inside of walls. The putrid scents that fill the sick bay, so strong they can’t be concealed with ammonia. I’ve walked past dead bodies strewn like pieces of rubbish against the exterior of a block, presumably left there until they are carted away in the daylight hours. I’ve risked everything in my life because I know what is at stake.
“Danner’s life.”
Otto huffs through exasperation and drops the newspaper to the ground. He was holding it so tightly, he didn’t stretch the rubber band, and I’m thankful for that. “I should have known Dietrich would use him as a weapon.”
I want to lunge for the paper and remove it from his sight, but I know better than to raise another question right now, except one. There’s one question I must ask him…
“Well, what’s Danner’s life worth to you?”
He chuckles against a grimace of discomfort. “Jesus, Emi, how am I supposed to answer that?”
I look up at Otto as tears burn behind my eyes. “You just did.”
FORTY
EMILIE
MARCH 1944
Dachau, Germany
The agreement between a man and his wife should be solid enough to trust, even after both parties have been neglectful. I’m not sure Otto and I will ever see eye-to-eye when it comes to our agendas for survival in this cold time, but the options for us are limited. He wouldn’t jeopardize my safety for the sake of Danner, and I’m supposed to understand this notion.
My response was that Dietrich didn’t want him to know of my involvement because he and his father came to an agreement, one that excluded my assistance, kept Dietrich safe with his team still appearing intact, even though neither Otto nor his father would have to be physically involved in his efforts anymore. If Otto were to tell his father I’ve been involved in writing reports being sent to Himmler, Herr Berger may see the opportunity to renege on their agreement, ultimately creating a spotlight over Dietrich’s head from high command. The outcome could be Dietrich’s head on a platter and the loss of my opportunity to help Danner and the others suffering withinthe camp walls. Therefore, nothing can change, and Otto has to accept our situation for what it is—blackmail.
Despite anger and resentment towards me for keeping this information from him, Otto has promised to keep quiet in the hope that it will keep us safe. It’s been a month now and thoughthe plan sounded simple at the time, I’ve come to realize it was much easier keeping the secret to myself than ensuring Otto and I had stories that lined up for whoever else we encounter. We’ve dodged dinner invitations from neighbors and our parents, becoming loners in our house, except for work.I keep asking myself whose fault this is, but when I draw the line back to the beginning, I can only believe Otto’s word, that he didn’t know what trap he was stepping into, which puts us on the same page, with the same problem, facing the same fears.
I sprinkle more flour over the ball of yeast I’ve been kneading and continue to stare out the window in a trance, watching leaf covered branches sway along with a gentle breeze. The moments I’m cooking or baking are the only tranquil slices of time I have during my day.
A sudden knock on the kitchen window startles me into tossing a storm of flour and clutching my chest. I only saw the blur of a clenched fist before gasping for air, but now I see Ingrid’s face, her sharp pointed eyebrows, and pursed lips. “Open the door, Emilie,” she demands.
I knew my avoidance would only last so long, but I’ve also run out of excuses and ignoring the relentless rings from the doorbell has landed me here, covered in flour.
