A knot forms in my stomach, thinking about what will happen when he comes upstairs to find her. Or what will happen if he goes near her?—
My heart beats out of my chest, rage building within me. I won’t let her suffer the same consequence as the last nanny. I’m going to die sooner or later anyway.
Schäfer’s movements come to a sudden halt, pausing as if he’s heard or seen something. The floor creaks under his feet, the moment of unease lingering. I clench my fists by my side, trying to control my ragged breaths while scrutinizing the cause of his irate commotion. It’s clear he doesn’t always need a reason, but he’s here with another officer.
“Where is she?” he shouts again.
“Can I assist you?” a meek voice murmurs between the shouts. Sylvia—she shouldn’t be speaking to him. It doesn’t matter that she’s a kapo or only here to be guarding the female prisoners on the streets. The prisoners, kapo or not, do not speak to the officer of the house unless they are directly asked a question.
“Bring her to me,” Officer Schäfer demands as he strikes his fist against the wall, the thud reverberating up to the attic.
“Your wife has gone out,” Sylvia says. Her overpowering confidence and cruelty along our treks to and from Auschwitz in the mornings and evenings are nothing in comparison to the fear quaking through her voice at this moment. Everyone knows how to be tough until they’re confronted by the person above them.
“I’m not looking for my wife,” he growls. “You know exactly who I’m speaking about.”
I dash down the steps, using the double-sided railing to keep the mass of weight from creaking the wooden boards. I haven’t moved this fast in longer than I can remember. A split-second flash of the white and blue striped dress catches my attention as I near Flora’s bedroom across from the attic’s stairwell, spottingHalina clutching the baby against her chest, and the two girls staring up at her as if they’re waiting for her to tell them why they should be afraid of their father downstairs.
I sling myself into the room and lift the door just slightly to avoid a squeak of the hinges as I close us inside. “Are you all right?” I ask.
Halina’s eyes are wide open, her face drained of color, her arms shaking.
“I’m fine,” she whispers, clearly masking the truth. “You didn’t have to come down here.”
I lean in and whisper in her ear, so the children don’t hear me. “You don’t need to be alone here with that man stalking around like a beast.”
“If he finds you here…” she argues under her breath. “Who is he looking for?”
I hold my finger up to my lips, trying to listen for what Sylvia is telling him. Halina watches my finger, but her gaze doesn’t stop there—it lingers on my lips even after I lower my hand. My chest tightens, equal parts panic and something far more dangerous. I lose track of what Sylvia is saying. All I can think about is the bowed curve of Halina’s mouth.
“What is this person’s number?” Sylvia presses, her voice growing in volume, shaking me out of my distraction.
“Number?” Halina whispers. “What does that mean?”
Sylvia answers too quickly, faster than me. “Prisoner 2138X. She was brought here to clean the house. You reported her death several weeks ago.”
I lift my sleeve to remind her of the tattoo, my number. “We’re all numbered. They took away our names.”
“Your name,” Halina repeats, solemnly. “Why would?—”
“Oh yes, her,” Sylvia’s voice spikes, guilt strangling her voice. “That girl’s body was taken away.”
None of us saw the body of that woman. We had no choice but to believe Sylvia’s word.
“No!” Schäfer barks. “It wasn’t. The commandant handed me a deportation list with her number this morning. And our records didn’t match.”
“That can’t be,” Sylvia says.
“My wife and daughters were just complaining about whining pipes in the walls. That happens in houses, yes?”
“Of course. Yes. It does,” Sylvia replies.
“There’s nothing wrong with my pipes. Is there?” he snaps back.
“I—I—” Sylvia stutters.
Schäfer charges down the hallway toward the foyer, stopping at a narrow door to his right. He slashes it open and yanks the string attached to the bulb dangling from the ceiling. The switch on his flashlight clicks as he descends the uneven cement steps leading to his shallow cellar. The light at the door only carries so far, from what I’ve seen the one other time the door was open.
“Can I go say hello to my papa?” Marlene asks me, as if I have any say about what happens around here.
