“Move. Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go,” a Gestapo shouts from outside. We shuffle out of the tenement, onto the exterior balcony overlooking the stone courtyard. Ma goes first, then Natan, Jozek, and me before Pa. A Gestapo yanks my identification from my hand and shoves me in the opposite direction of my family.
“No, no, that’s my son. Please, don’t separate us,” Pa pleads from behind me.
“Your son. He’s a grown man. Shut up, move.” The shouts continue as I’m pushed to keep walking. I’m twenty-three. Jozek, seventeen, and Natan fifteen. Is that why I’ve been separated from them?
I glance over my shoulder before turning a corner, finding my family doing the same as people are shoving in against their backs. I shout the words, “I love you. I’ll find you. I promise.”
I’ve never broken a promise to them, and I still whisper those words when no one’s listening.
A voice below pulls my mind back to the roofless attic.
“All that matters is whether she’s capable of caring for our children. Is she or not?” Frau Schäfer snaps, her words sharp and cold.
“How should I know without seeing her with them, Ada? I spotted her on the side of the road as she was reasoning with a young child she was desperately trying to protect from me. She confirmed her current role was, in fact, taking care of a child. Therefore, I can only tell you it appears she has experience,” he replies. “I’ll look into the missing information on her papers, but I won’t have it immediately.”
“She’ll do, then. Just fill in the missing information yourself, Heinrich. If she’s not a good fit, we’ll find another replacement,” she says, as if there are women lining up outside of their house to take this unpaid position. There aren’t.
A shrill whistle zings between the rafters from the front door below.
“Come!” Schäfer barks.
A young woman steps out of his car. White apron. She’s not an Auschwitz prisoner. She’s one of the others. A domestic servant. Her posture stiff with a hint of confidence. She pauses, just for a second. Her hands tighten around her suitcase.
Frau Schäfer relents an exaggerated sigh, inflected with disappointment. “It’s only a mere few steps, dear,” she draws out her words into performative mockery. “Surely, it can’t be that difficult.”
The young woman flinches when Frau Schäfer mocks her. But she moves anyway.
Something wavers within her, a shift in thought. I don’t think it’s fear, but rather, something unbreakable. I turn away from the front opening, telling myself the encounter below is none of my concern. The silence that follows the woman’s entry doesn’t feel like peace. More like a warning. That poor woman just became another functionary of this home. Another soul they’ll try to erase.
FOUR
HALINA
The maroon Baroque door towers above me with whittled embellishments, curling like vines around the edges. It’s the kind of door that might swallow a person up and never spit them back out. I force my feet forward, one step, then another over a stone threshold and into a breath of cool air that cloaks me like damp linen. The sunlight fades behind me and I debate whether I’ll ever see it again.
Frau Schäfer, the officer’s wife, stands as if sculpted, poised with golden curls pressed against the collar of her olive-green dress. Pearl earrings frame her pale complexion, but her eyes—they’re dark, shadowed beneath thick lashes. Her lip curls—just a smidge—as she sweeps a hand over the slight swell of her belly. A reflex, or a warning. She watches me with cat-like eyes as if I’m a common thief who wandered into her home.
“Children,” she says, her voice smooth but stern, “come meet your new nanny.”
A succession of hammering or banging fills the quiet as two young girls step out of an adjoining room just beyond the officer and Frau Schäfer. Both spitting images of their mother except for their chocolate brown hair, neatly braided down their backs.
The older of the two girls holds an infant in her arms and steps forward first as they walk past their parents and up to my toes. When the hammering ends, the girl takes the moment to speak. “We’re pleased to meet you,” she says. “My name is Isla. I’m ten. This is my sister, Marlene.” The younger daughter steps up to her sister’s side, her expression shy. “Marlene’s five. And this is our baby sister, Flora.” Isla tugs the blanket down from Flora’s chin as if presenting her. “She’s ten months old.”
While inspecting each of them, I catch the reflection of the chandelier against the polished floors.
The hammering begins again. The walls rattle, the floors vibrate. The children seem unaffected though. Even the baby stares up at the shimmering crystals dangling over her head. She must be entranced by the sparkles.
These children don’t appear to be miniature versions of evil yet. Maybe it’s not too late for them after all. Though the sight of Flora’s stillness has a hold on me. Her body is limp in Isla’s arms, her expression vacant.
“Very well. Now that you’ve all met, I must return to work. If any problems arise, ring Administration,” Officer Schäfer shouts above the racket of banging.
He straightens his cap, nods his head at the girls and walks out the door without so much as a goodbye. Despite the cold exchange, Frau Schäfer’s tight-lipped smile doesn’t speak of an issue. His sudden movement stirs up an overpowering aroma of a powdery-rose perfume.
“Follow me. I’ll show you around,” she says, curling her finger toward the adjoining room the girls came from. “It won’t be long until the girls are heading to school once the summer break ends, but for now, they’ll need to be kept occupied.”
Her heels stomp on the hardwood floors in contrast and off beat from the hammering above us. We walk into what appears to be the formal sitting room. We pass an ornate mirror withgolden trim where I catch a glimpse of myself as we pass by. My braid is fraying at the edges, singular strands sticking to my damp temples. My apron has a yellow-tint I didn’t notice before, and the fabric of my dress has a burgundy hue rather than the flat black I’ve always seen. My pale complexion and cracked lips are the only familiar features I notice.
It’s clear, I don’t belong here, surrounded by all this luxurious furniture and expensive wooden side tables. My focus latches onto the brick wall above the fireplace, a large, framed piece of a black eagle clutching a swastika inside a wreath. The eagle eyes stare back at me with venom as if it might swoop off the wall and gauge my eyes out.
