“If the other two nannies don’t warn her, she might not last here. And if they do, there’s no saying she’ll listen,” I tell Adam as if he’s a part of the thoughts running through my head.
“Yeah, hopefully,” he says, getting restless, with the plank gripped between his hands, the bottom resting in an angle against the ground.
A creak in the floor grabs my attention. Adam and I share a questioning stare as my blood runs cold.
“Is someone coming?” I whisper, pulling in a breath to hold so I can listen for whatever sound might follow.
Another creak, this time a more defined footstep—the sound wrapping around my neck like a noose.
Adam and I lower our stares to the two remaining sandwiches and each take one, shoving it into our mouths and chewing as hard and fast as possible in case someone is coming back up here to check on us.
I grab the other end of the wooden panel, one of the final rafters to get into place. Adam follows, hiding the evidence of the short break and mouthwatering meal.
I climb up the scaffold and press the panel in place and grab a nail out of my front pocket, then the hammer hanging from a makeshift rope belt around my waist. By the time I have my end secured, I realize no one has come upstairs.
Maybe Halina was bringing us more food, but someone got in her way.
“That woman is going to get herself killed,” I mumble.
THIRTEEN
HALINA
July 27, 1943
Flora is already asleep in her nursery across the hall, likely because Frau Schäfer beat me to making up her evening bottle. In here though, Isla is in her bed, propped up against her pillow, sheets tucking her taut. With neatly woven braids slung over her shoulders and a book spread open on her lap—she’s the least of my struggles when it comes to the bedtime routine.
Marlene, however, has her hands covering her head, twirling around, one braid frayed loose, the other one swinging like a rope. I can’t even slip the nightgown over her head. “It’s time for bed, Marlene. We must follow your parents’ rules.”
The second week in this house has dragged on even longer than the first, and I assume the third week will be worse. Eventually the days and weeks will never end.
“No! I don’t want to go to sleep. The sun is still up,” she whines, her words quieter than the conversation between her parents’ downstairs. “I can still hear the other children playing on the street. It isn’t fair.”
She isn’t wrong, but I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.
“The sun stays out for longer in the summertime, but it’s still the same bedtime as it is all year round,” I remind her. “Plus, sleep helps our bodies gain strength, so we’ll be stronger tomorrow than we were today.”
“Mama and Papa must be very, very strong,” she mumbles with a roll of her eyes.
“They sure are,” I say, needing to bite my tongue before anything different comes out of my mouth.
With her thoughts swaying from her nightgown to her parents, she drops her arms by her side, allowing me a quick second to pull the silk fabric over her head.
“How about I read you a story before bed? Your choice.” I peer across the room at the ornate bookcase with hand-painted flowers along the trim.
Marlene walks past me to the bookshelf, slides one out from the end of the top row and brings it over to me. The front cover rings familiar right away.ThePoisonous Mushroombook Isla was reading yesterday.
“That’s my book. You can’t read it,” Isla says, snapping upright and slapping the book in her hands shut.
“Mama said I can read it whenever I like,” Marlene argues.
“Yes, because you don’t know how to read yet.”
“How about I tell you a story?” I interrupt their argument.
“But then it won’t have pictures,” Marlene complains.
“That’s what your imagination is for.” I tap her bed, and she reluctantly climbs up and settles down.
