I rise back up, locking my knees before I do fall over. I swallow against the ache in my throat and turn to face Weymanwhere he’s waiting and watching with his arms crossed behind his back.
“You’re unsure,” Weyman speaks for me, then nods to the guard, holding his rifle in waiting position.
“No—no, wait—” There are no words to follow because there is no right answer, nor does it matter as the guard punts the butt of his rifle into the man’s side, then his back. Then drives the heel of his boot into the ravaged man. Blood stains the snow from his hands and legs. He pushes himself upward, his face wet from the snow, eyebrows frosted in ice. “I can work,” he states loud enough for everyone to hear.
“This young lady here did say you’re capable of work,” Weyman says, tapping his gloved finger against his bottom lip. “But it doesn’t appear to me that you are…” His simper unfurls into a small smirk, and I bite back a scream.
Weyman gives the guard a nod, and a deafening pop of the rifle rings through my skull. My heart shudders and I turn away, finding Weyman walking toward me. “Enough of the sympathy. You’re to be more efficient going forward,” he says, patting my back. “For all men in line.”
I scrub my once-white apron in the stone basin sink behind the Weymans’ residence, my fingers becoming raw, red, and numb. The Weymans are the SS family I serve, the reason I’m here—still here, despite Officer Weyman’s wife, Lotte, already having given birth to their daughter. Except now, I’m their former midwife, current nanny, servant, and whatever other endless tasks they come up with. As of recently, I’m now also a servant within Auschwitz.
“There you are,” Frau Weyman says, poking her head out the back door. “We’re attending a gala this evening. The children have already eaten supper. Greta and Hilde are at the Drexels’ house. Claude is upstairs working on schoolwork, and Tilly is in her crib waiting for you.”
I twist the spigot off and wave out my hands to dry. “I’ll tend to the children right away.” I was brought here as a midwife, not a nanny. Yet, here I am, slaving at Auschwitz on behalf of murderers, and caring for their children at night.
“Dear God. What happened to your apron?” Her eyes cling to the pink coloring spread throughout the white fabric.
All these SS wives act as if they have no clue what their husbands do all day. Either they’re lying to themselves or putting on a horrific act for the rest of the world to see. No one looks at them and sees innocence. They’re harboring the truth of genocide.
“Just a little blood, Frau Weyman.” Lotte—the officer’s daft wife who lives in an illusion of wealth in the back yard of a death camp.
I glance over to her, finding her decked out in an A-line black dress that conceals her postpartum belly. No attempt made to cover her over-exposed bosom from spilling out over the neckline, and of course, accented by a string of pearls. Her perfume is strong enough to break through the frozen air and likely choke the poor baby last she held her. “Vile,” she hisses.
I was thinking the same about you…I wish I could say.
“Enjoy yourself this evening.”
I take the sopping wet pink apron and pin it to the short clothesline between Frau Weyman and the sink.
Before tending to Tilly up in the nursery, I stop by the kitchen, looking for a plate of food—the small portion I’m left with following the family’s meal. They feast, and I nibble tosatiate the hunger. They devour beef, fish, and chicken and leave the heels of bread loaves and soggy cabbage for me.
I spot the plate in the corner next to the oven.Please let my vision be deceiving me.My stomach has been growling like thunder for hours. And all I find is a scrap of notepaper on the plate with Weyman’s heavy-handed script:
Mercy results in inefficiency. And hunger.
My mercy didn’t save that man. It only prolonged the decision of his death. I thought I’d spared him, but instead, I drew attention to a fragile man I’d marked as “fit.” Weyman noticed my discrepancy and now he wants me to starve for it.
With Tilly wrapped in a warm blanket, I trudge through the snow-covered path between the Weyman House and the Drexel House, peering behind me toward the Schafer house, wondering how Halina, their former nanny, is faring now. Whether her recent escape was successful or if it ended the same way I fear many others have. She was braver than most I’ve met here, but it seems we all reach a point where fear gives in to desperation.
If I’ve learned anything in this place, it’s that leaving or entering the restricted zone outside Auschwitz is non-negotiable. The officers call it a neighborhood, but it’s more like a cage dressed up as a neighborhood. Appearances are everything from the outside, but almost every officer occupied home owns a servant, like me.
The SS took most of us from Polish towns to serve at their convenience. Some of the other nearby servants were poached from employers or handed over through whispers ofrecommendation. Others were just unlucky and caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. The SS take what they want, whenever they want, however they want it. None of us realized they were taking Polish women—non-Jewish women—by force, too.
I cross the road and hurry down the narrow path to the front door and knock tersely four times.
A slew of shrieks warbles from the other side of the door, reminding me of why I could have taken longer to make my way over here to collect Greta and Hilde, the loudest children on this street.
Celina opens the door in her matching black dress and still white apron. Her short brown hair in a mess of disarray and makeup smudged beneath her eyes. She’s been stuck taking care of both sets of children frequently since Weyman forced me to join his side at Auschwitz.
“Is everybody at the Gala?” she asks with an uneven smile.
“Yes, it’s just Tilly and me. Claude is still at the Weyman house, busy with schoolwork.”
She stares for a long moment, her golden-brown eyes unblinking with question. “You have red polka dots all over your face.”
“It’s blood splatter,” I reply with no need to think of a different response. She closes the door behind me. “And I found Stefan today.”
“What?” she asks, a quiet gasp. “He’s—he’s…”
