“Oh goodness, what is this, Halbert?” Celina asks, her tone changing to sweet, innocent, and a higher pitch.
“Rock,” the young boy says. He must be somewhere between one and two years old.
“Are you sure?” Celina questions him. “I thought—well, it looks like a cow to me.”
“Moo,” the little boy squeals. “More cows.” He returns to the other side of the sandbox in search of more rocks.
“How long have the two of you?—”
“About a year,” Rosalie answers. “The family I worked for was deported. When the SS raided their home, they took me too, as if I was some kind of loot. That’s when I became a source of free labor.”
“Six months,” Celina follows. “I was found in a rather unusual place,” she says, peeking out of the corner of her eyes toward the table of SS wives. “I had been staying at a convent—as a novice, hoping to be accepted into their order.” Celina’s voice softens. “The Mother Superior decided to release me from my commitment, telling me it was best for both the convent and me given my lack of knowledge…and true calling. She suggested I visit a family who often donated to the church and needed help with their children. However, before I could even leave the grounds, an officer overheard and claimed me for his family.”
“Their way of captivity seems to be a common practice among the high-level SS officers,” Rosalie adds.
“In any case,” Celina says, abruptly changing the subject. “Usually, the lunches are hosted at the houses we tend to, but it was a last-minute surprise invitation from Frau Schäfer today.”
“It was a surprise to me as well.”
“It takes time to adjust, but you’ll find a way.”
I twist my neck, peeking over my shoulder at the picnic table of wives, watching as one of them shoves the tray of finger sandwiches to the side of the table. The kitchen prisoner steps outside and takes the tray of food from the women, bringing it back into the house. I would have eaten the entire platter if it was sitting in front of me.
A flash of motion catches my eye from two levels above the women, Gavriel spying out between the framework of the roof. Was he watching when the sandwiches were taken away too?
“They chat among each other, mostly about us, and make up lies about their husbands—each in competition with who has it better,” Rosalie says. “The irony of how little they know about living a wealthy lifestyle is laughable. I previously worked for a family with more money than the next four generations would know what to do with, but the German army kicked them out of their house. Not even their money could save them from losing everything.”
Marlene stands up from within the sandbox and brushes herself off, then jolts in my direction.
“I need to use the toilet,” she whispers.
I’m not sure if I should allow her to go in by herself or?—
“Here, I’ll hold the little darling for you while you take her,” Rosalie offers. “Go on. This happens often.”
I should trust her. She’s like me. We’re in the same situation, I assume.
With concern rushing through me, I check over my shoulder, finding the wives deep in conversation, their necks stretched toward each other to whisper whatever it is they’re sharing. I place Flora in Rosalie’s open arms and push myself up to my feet before taking Marlene’s hand. While crossing the open green space in the yard, the back door opens, the kitchen prisoner carting out trays of food. I thought they had already eaten.
I rush Marlene along, offering to hold the door open for the young woman. “That isn’t necessary,” Frau Schäfer calls over to me. I’m not sure if she’s talking about bringing Marlene in to use the toilet or for holding the door.
Marlene slips her hand from mine and hurries for the stairwell. As I fall behind and pass the vacant kitchen, I spot thetray of leftover finger foods. My pulse drums within my ears as I peer toward the back door, ensuring I’m alone.
With little time to spare, I grasp several of the sandwiches, still leaving a couple dozen behind, and shovel them into my apron pocket.
I flee to the stairs, breathlessly making it to the second floor, finding the door to the toilet room closed. “Are you all right, Marlene?” I ask, my breath sounding more ragged than it should.
She’s quiet for a moment before responding. “Yes, my tummy hurts.”
“Can I get anything for you?”
A quiet grunt follows. “No.”
I’m sure she’d like some privacy, which doesn’t appear to be an option in this house.
“I’ll wait down the hall for you. Take your time,” I tell her.
I take a hard turn up the attic stairwell, hopping on my toes to avoid any unnecessary creaks before ducking into the construction area.
