The kitchen is dark, the hallway is darker, but the light in the servant washroom casts a glow across half of the bottom floor.
My mind circles around a thought—one I should push far away, but that isn’t who I am. I knew my conscience would get the best of me. As quietly as I can, I tiptoe into the kitchen and grab the tincture of chamomile from the counter, then bring it with me into the washroom where I close myself inside.
The medicine cabinet doesn’t have much aside from an empty bottle of aspirin, smelling salts, dandelion root, and castor oil. I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but something more natural than bourbon at least. Without a second thought, I spill the bottle out beneath the faucet. The strong punch of bourbon waters my eyes. I’m sure the bottle will still reek of liquor despite replacing it with water. The color is different too.
I stare up at the bottles once more and grab a hold of the dandelion root, twisting it around to read what it’s used for.
Pure vegetable
Remedy for sore muscles, aches and pains
It’s natural and honey colored. It will work. At least to keep the bottle from being filled with liquor. One drop of the dandelion oil and I mix the bottle around and replace the dropper. Hastily, I wash up then press my ear up to the washroom door first, listening for anyone who might have come downstairs while I’ve been in here, but the house is still silent.
I leave the washroom light on so I can hurry into the kitchen and replace the tincture in its right place, then return to the washroom to shut off the light and head back upstairs, wondering what my future will hold tomorrow. I need to find a way to calm Flora tomorrow. It’s the only way this will work.
“What were you doing downstairs?” a small voice asks as I set foot on the first step up to the attic.
Marlene.
“What are you doing out of bed, young lady?” I ask her.
“My tummy hurts again. Mama and Papa’s door is stuck. I can’t get into their bedroom.”
I take her by the hand, leading her to the washroom on the other side of the nursery, but she stops abruptly and vomits all over the hallway floor. The sound and stench funnel around us, gnawing at my stomach.
The master bedroom door, just a few steps from the puddle of bile, flies open and Frau Schäfer struts toward us, one hand covering her mouth, the other holding her robe closed around her nightgown.
“I’ll get something to clean up,” I say, my focus set on the washroom door.
“What happened, little darling?” Frau Schäfer coos at Marlene as she kneels beside her, an unexpected gesture of compassion. “Mama’s here. I’m so sorry.”
Marlene wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. “After dinner, I was playing house with my doll. I was the baby this time and I—drank Flora’s bottle.” My throat tightens as the truth chokes me. “Did I get sick because I’m not a real baby?” she asks, her body trembling. She must have done this while I was cleaning the dishes from their meal. The kitchen prisoner returns to Auschwitz once she’s done cooking for the night. At that hour, the cleaning becomes my responsibility until she returns in the morning. The girls were in the family room with their parents after dinner and that must have been where she was playing “house.”
Frau Schäfer pulls her close and strokes the side of her cheek. “No, no, my sweetheart, I’m sure you just have a little tummy ache, but you should never drink Flora’s milk. Her milk isn’t meant for big girls like you. Promise me you won’t do that again?” Her gaze shifts to mine with a narrow glint, one I’m sure she expects me to decipher as…I better not mention a word of this to anyone.
“I promise,” Marlene utters.
Clearly it’s not just Flora I need to protect from her mother’s evil ways…
FOURTEEN
GAVRIEL
July 28, 1943
The fog is dense, like layers of smoke weaving between the group of us waiting to use the latrine. Half of us look like ghosts, but not the man vomiting on the other side of me. I clench my eyes shut and inhale through my mouth, protecting my stomach from convulsing. But the air is so hot and stale, the sour and sulfuric acidity of bile doesn’t budge. It sticks, like my clothes to my skin, the dirt and sweat an adhesive.
The wait is going on for too long this morning, and we’ll risk losing our privilege of using the latrine altogether if it takes too much longer. The quaking gong will let us know. A ray of light bleeds over the horizon, slicing through the fog, illuminating my right arm and the puddle of vomit within sight. I’ve never wished away sunlight until right this very moment.
The walls of the latrine rattle, followed by a succession of thuds. A guard storms between the group, pushing us out of his way to get inside.He almost stepped in the puddle. What a shame.
Shouting, cursing, more thuds, and a gunshot.
Then another gunshot. This action plays on repeat daily.Why bother shouting if you’re just going to kill them? Save your breath.
I keep my focus sealed on the sparse patch of grass beneath my feet, not acknowledging what’s happening on the other side of the wall. If I look like I care, I’ll be noticed. If I’m noticed, God only knows what comes next.
Adam nudges his shoulder into mine. “You know I saw that girl—the nanny—in the attic with you yesterday. Even all the way down in the yard, I could see the way you were looking at her,” he says causally, as if we aren’t in the vicinity of where two people were just shot by a guard, and as if me being caught talking to Halina would be acceptable if a kapo or any of the Schäfers were to have seen us.
