“Ah, right,” I say recentering my focus on the folktale. “Well, you see, the dogs were always being bothered by people so they went to the king and asked him to sign a paper declaring that no person or animal shall ever bother another dog. The king signed the paper and gave it to the dogs to hold. Needing to keep the paper safe, the dogs asked the cats if they could hide it in one of their special small hiding places, the cats helped them and hid the paper. When the dog asked the cat for the paper back, the cat went to find the paper and realized the mice had eaten it. When the dogs found out, they were very angry with the cats, and the cats were furious with the mice, and so began the never-ending chase.”
The little girls giggle into their little hands, and Halina grins. “What a storyteller you are,” she says, her voice teasing, cheeks blushing…just enough to make my pulse race.
“It’s not mine, but it matters.”
There is a deeper meaning—one I didn’t understand until everything in my life began to fall apart.
The dogs, cats, and mice weren’t enemies at first. They trusted each other and tried to help. But after one misstep and one missing piece, everyone searched for someone to blame.
The blame turned into fear and then became a division.
Just like Stacia treated me, and like irrational hatred growing this war, not one cause or reason is based on truth. It’s only about who gets blamed in the end.
I used to think this story was just that. A story. But now, it seems like a message that was stored away inside of me. Something I would eventually come to understand when looking for an answer I can’t find.
My stomach unleashes a fierce growl, one that sounds like my body is eating itself.
Halina’s gaze drops to my stomach as if she can see how empty it is. Her brows furrow as she peers back up. “You’re starving…” she says, her voice cracking. The concern on her face is so pure, and—it is real, I believe it’s real, but I don’t know what to do with it. No one has looked at me with anything but disgust for years. Certainly not with the faintest hint of care or concern.
“I’m all right,” I say, pressing my finger back against my lip before scooting from the room.
She opens her mouth as if she’s going to say something but stops herself. Her gaze locks with mine, and pressure spouts through my chest. I think she might have the ability to speak without words. I feel lit. It’s not fear, or pity. It’s just something real, a bond, or an understanding. The look in her eyes holds me still for a half second longer than I should have stayed.
The stomp of heavy feet along the floor below sends me moving across the hall quickly before anyone can see I was in Halina’s room.
I grab a piece of timber, the hammer and nails, making sure I’m busy if someone comes up here. I stretch my neck out to catch a glimpse between the rafters, particularly in search ofOfficer Schäfer’s black car, but no one has pulled up in front of the house. The street is bare of vehicles.
I know the sound of Frau Schäfer’s heavy steps, and it isn’t her. Whoever it is, is coming up here. A recurring moment that makes me hold my breath for far too long.
“It’s just me…” A whisper snakes into the open space. “I was kicked out of the garden, told to make myself useful elsewhere,” Adam says, stepping over a pile of lumber.
“Frau Schäfer said that?” I ask, taken aback by her sudden willingness to exploit her authority over an Auschwitz prisoner. She barely acknowledges our existence, never mind speaking to one of us. Any complaint she might have will be logged on paper and handed to her husband at the end of the day.
“She’s hosting a luncheon,” Adam says.
Frau Schäfer isn’t the kind of woman to host a luncheon, not without an order to do so. She’s austere and aloof and hasn’t made as much effort to mingle with the neighboring SS wives as she should, not in the time I’ve been here, or that I’ve noticed. Perhaps she wants to show off the beautiful new nanny she’s managed to capture.
“Well, I’ll certainly take the help,” I tell Adam. The thought of just an hour or two of a second pair of hands is a gift.
“Maybe we can get those rafters finished up today,” he says, a growl in his stomach speaking louder than his words—a reminder that we need to figure out how to stay upright, running on empty stomachs.
Within a couple of hours, moving along without rest, we’ve accomplished quite a bit more than anticipated for the entire day. We take a moment to lean against the brick chimney wall in the center of the room, both of us struggling to catch our breath.
Adam steps away from the chimney and peers out an opening to the backyard. “They’re being served finger sandwiches and tea.”
“And the air has been flavored with sausage since I stepped inside this morning. No one was even cooking in the kitchen yet. Truth be told, I wouldn’t put it past Frau Schäfer to make a potpourri out of dried sausage, just to torture us more. She probably hid satchels in the vents,” I say.
“Or maybe she rubbed one on the windowsill,” Adam says. “A baited trap for her so-called guests.”
“Maybe that’s why Officer Schäfer was so angry with her this morning,” I snicker. Although I don’t think that man needs a reason.
“Shh,” Adam says, holding his finger up at me as he studies the scene out in the backyard.
With careful steps, I walk up behind him, curious to see what he’s found or listening to. A gaggle of women sit around the picnic table while their children play in the back end of the yard, alongside their nannies.
“The new servant,” a woman says, peering in the direction of the children. “Where did she come from?”
The wind breathes a long exhale before there’s a response. “She’s Polish, and a former caregiver. Heinrich made the arrangement. I have to say, my husband has a thing about finding the best help available,” Frau Schäfer says. She rubs her hands around her swollen belly. “I’m going to need all the help I can get soon.”
