“Before…exactly,” he says. “Now our doctors understand that compassion is wasted on the defective. They work to prevent imperfection before birth, to strengthen our race. That’s the only reality before us.” He yanks on the bottom of his coat and straightens his shoulders. “So, you understand your mistake, and it’s time to go back and try again.”
He’s reeling me in after taking the bait, which means there’s nothing more to ask than, “Why are you sending me back there? What do I have to try again?”
He chuckles, frustration evident from his tongue in cheek expression. I’ve said too much.
“Let me make one thing clear to you…” Weyman steps in closer. The wall behind me grows taller, curling over me. The stench of rotten cigar tar travels from his breath to my face. “As an officer of the Reich, I hold a magnifying glass over German-occupied land. To you, the people here look like small pesky ants—scattering in every direction, desperate for food. Desperate for a way out.” He clears his throat and mine tightens in a choke. “But to me…and others alike…we see the whole picture. We know exactly where to hold the glass, how to tilt it just so, until the sun’s reflection catches—and everything beneath it burns. Having heart and compassion for the unworthy can only be eradicated in one way. Numbness.”
Leaving me more fragile than a thin sheet of a glass, he steps away, opens the front door and leaves. A slight gust of wind filled with the reek of sweat and ash pilfers me as the door slams shut. When the shock dissipates, I tiptoe along the main floor, around the corner and into the storage closet large enough to fit one small straw-filled mattress for me. In the dark, I sit, unable to block out the intrusive thoughts of what Stefan might have gone through, is still going through, or what worse will find him as I sit here helplessly watching spoiled children all day.
“Oh, what a lovely day,” Lotte sings down the stairwell. Her voice makes my skin crawl. No one is that happy, especially while living on the outskirts of Auschwitz. It’s a sin. They’re a sin. All of them. “Why are you just standing around, Rosalie?”
I’m slipping a coat onto Hilde, one arm at a time. Not quite doing nothing. “We’re going to the park before it’s time to pick up Claude and Greta from school.” Surely, she can see the baby carriage in front of her with Tilly wrapped in a blanket.
“The park?” she questions.
“You yourself just said it’s a lovely day, Frau Weyman. Some fresh air would be nice after a long winter for Hilde.”
“Of course,” she says, turning her attention to her beloved golden framed mirror in the corridor. “I have some errands to run. I’ll be home before dinner.”
Red lipstick, a dress that could be worn at a casual evening event, and heels. Can’t forget the pearls, too. I find it hard to believe one person can have as many errands as she does weekly. Her husband should take that magnifying glass of his and point it at his wife.
Outside, Celina, the nanny still enslaved to the SS house across the street, is waiting beyond the weeping willow tree at the edge of the front lawn. We haven’t seen much of each other as of late and haven’t had the opportunity to converse openly since the night she graciously snuck me a pastry and a small loaf of bread while the officers were at a gala. With me being occupied at Auschwitz alongside Weyman, and the rainy weather we’ve had these last few weeks, we’ve only shared walks to and from school with little ears listening to our every word.
We made tentative plans yesterday to take advantage of the nice weather and bring the younger children to the park, so long as Weyman didn’t demand my service this morning.
“Are you feeling any better?” she asks, concern lacing her soulful eyes.
She doesn’t know the extent of what has been making me feel ill. “No, not quite, but thank you for asking.”
“Of course,” she says, resetting her focus on the road ahead. The silence between us feels like a pot of simmering water, the questions about to boil over the top.
Even through our friendship, we both know one of us could disappear without a moment’s notice. And worse, it’s not hard to forget we’re both prisoners of a different sense here. Not like the tortured people in Auschwitz but held against our will. We have no choice but to worry about ourselves and part of that is watching what happens to others in similar positions. She knows I’ve been in Auschwitz, but I haven’t been able to say why.
Just as we reach a bench along the side of the park, Hilde and Celina’s two youngest make a run for the swings, leaving us with just Tilly who isn’t old enough to repeat what she hears yet.
“I’m terrified to know what you’ve been doing,” Celina says, wasting no time as we both take a seat on the bench. “I know it’s been a few weeks, but you haven’t looked right. Have you been sleeping? Did something happen to you there?”
I release a sigh and slouch my lower back into the curve of the bench. “It’s true, I haven’t been able to sleep much.” My statement sounds stilted like there’s more to say but the rest lodges in my throat.
“What happened in the prison camp?”
I press against my fabric covered necklace, pinning it to my chest.
“It’s Stefan. I can’t say for sure, but I’m quite certain Weyman knows we’re connected, and he’s punishing me for it. Weyman is…a sick man—he’s made suggestive comments and has gotten too close too many times.”
“Rosalie,” Celina says, interrupting, her voice quiet. “You don’t mean…Weyman hasn’t taken liberties with you, has he?”
My fingertips tap against the handle of the stroller. Tears burn the backs of my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “He hasn’t forced anything,” I say, “but he’s come close enough that I know what he wants. It’s been obvious. Even Lotte noticed.”
Celina wraps her hand around her throat and exhales a heavy sigh. “Dear God.”
“To make matters worse, I was caught trying to help Stefan—once by Weyman, and once by an infirmary guard. I want to believe they haven’t made a mark against Stefan for being the target of my attention, but I’d be foolish to think they’d focus only on my indiscretion, especially since Weyman’s jealousy only makes him more dangerous.”
“Oh, dear…” Celina says, her cheeks flush, eyes wide as she turns to look at me.
“And then there’s this doctor,” I continue, my voice pinching. “He was watching me one morning—closely—and Weyman noticed. At first, I thought he hated the man because he looked furious that the doctor found me…‘fascinating.’ But soon after, when the doctor requested my help, Weyman agreed.”
“Slow down. What doctor are you talking about?” Celina presses.
