“I had rheumatic fever as a child too,” Otto says, coughing against his words.
“As a child…” Dietrich repeats to himself. “Making you more susceptible as an adult.”
“It can affect the heart and liver sometimes. I had a sore throat a few weeks back—it must have been strep throat,” Otto says.
He knew he was susceptible and surely knows strep throat is the most common precursor to rheumatic fever, but ignored his health for the sake of work. I can’t wrap my head around the logic.
“Why would you ignore symptoms like that?” I ask, perplexed.
“I—I don’t know. I guess I was too busy to concern myself over a silly sore throat. The pain subsided and I didn’t think anything of it again.”
“Shouldn’t the penicillin be working by now?” I question, knowing it should.
There must be something else wrong. Something serious.
FORTY-ONE
EMILIE
APRIL 1944
Dachau, Germany
For the last six weeks I’ve watched my husband lie in our bed, groaning from joint pain, chronic headaches, and weakness that won’t allow him to get out of bed on his own. I took him to the hospital when we figured it might be rheumatic fever, but every hospital was overfilled, understaffed, and facing far worse issues. We were sent home with simple instructions to keep Otto hydrated and off his feet until the symptoms subsided. Like a cruel joke, I’ve been nothing more than his bedside nurse, doing as instructed and keeping him fed as well as I can. At this point, I’m fearful of the complications that have come about from whatever infection he must have let linger. He should be showing improvement by now. He should be better.
Our families are always here, trying to help, making my house a central station for non-stop visitors.It is late afternoon every day when the abdominal pains grow to an intensity that sends him into tears. I’m not sure I’ve read anywhere that stomach pains are a symptom of rheumatic fever, if that’s even what he has. Aspirin hardly takes the edge off, and I’ve triedevery other natural remedy I could think of. I’m left with simply waiting to see how he progresses because there’s no way of knowing. I’ve only managed to slip out of the house once or twice a week at night since Otto got sick. I wouldn’t be able to explain leaving the house while either of our parents is here. I’ve done what I can to ensure Dietrich’s paperwork delivery as well as supplies for Danner within the rolled up newspaper continue smoothly. It doesn’t feel like enough. Nothing I’m doing feels like it’s enough to keep anyone alive and well.
“I brought you some tea,” Mama says, walking in as Otto rolls into the fetal position, groaning for help. I take the cup from her hand and take a small sip. “Go get fresh air. I’ll sit here with him.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay. He’s embarrassed to be seen this way. I don’t want to leave him like this.” Frau Berger was also picking up new tea leaves she heard about. There’s a kind of beneficial bacteria that helps heal inflammation. Everyone has been trying to find a way to help him, but nothing works.
“How is the patient today?” Dietrich shouts, stomping up the stairs. He must have heard the moans and groans from outside the front door. There’s no reason to ask. “Good afternoon, family.” He greets us with a conniving grin. I’d like to tear off his face. “I have new medication I’m going to give Otto. It might do the trick.”
“What medication? He’s already been on two rounds of penicillin?” Mama asks, pressing her hand to her chest.
“Oh, my apologies. In some cases of rheumatic fever, internal inflammation can cause blood vessel walls to narrow, thus blocking his blood flow to vital organs. This condition can cause many of the symptoms he’s presenting at the moment. I’m going to give him a dose of chloroquine phosphate to see if that helps him out at all.”
Mama looks over at me because I don’t think she understood much of what Dietrich just said.
“Chloroquine can be harsh on the stomach. I’m afraid that will cause him more pain,” I argue.
“Chloroquine can be harsh on the stomach,” he repeats. “Yes, yes. The benefits outweigh the side effects. If we can reduce the inflammation, all issues will be solved.”
The front door slams from down below and another set of feet charges up the stairs, followed by two more. Papa, Herr and Frau Berger all jolt into the room together, panic-stricken and soaked in sweat.
“Air raids are inbound. We need to get him downstairs,” Herr Berger states. He and Papa move to Otto’s side, both cradling him as they work together to move him off the bed. Otto’s body appears locked in a frozen state of pain, stiff and tangled.
“Ladies, downstairs right away,” Papa shouts between ragged breaths.
Dietrich runs out before the three of us women, unsurprisingly. We’re all making such a racket that I don’t hear any hint of a storm coming toward us, but I won’t question their knowledge.
This house has so many windows, I’m not sure where they think might be a safe sheltering spot, but when we reach the bottom floor and scan the area, we find them cramming into the utility room where I have lines of laundry hanging. There’s a back door but no windows.
I pull bulky clothes from the line to cushion a spot for Otto to lie down. I’m not sure much of anything will help his pain now, but a cold hard floor will only make it worse.
“Who is it? Who is attacking us?” Dietrich shouts.
“The Americans,” Herr Berger says.
