“I’m leaving for the day. I’ll be back before dinner,” Frau Weyman says, fastening pearl clips to her lobes in the golden-framed mirror. “I’ll be taking Tilly with me.”
She takes the baby with her whenever she goes out but leaves the other children behind and under my care. In any common circumstance I wouldn’t blink an eye at the behavior since mothers need to feed their babies on demand, but Tilly is bottle-fed, and she doesn’t dote on her much at home.
Tilly is the reason I was taken and brought here. I was to nurse Frau Weyman through the delivery of their baby—a healthy, living baby.Anything different would result in my death, per Officer Weyman’s initial threat.
Rather than releasing me following Tilly’s birth ten months ago, the Weymans told me I would remain here in their home, tending to Tilly and their other three children, Hilde, Claude, and Greta. This hostage sentence has no end date.
Frau Weyman glides a tube of lipstick over her lips then puckers her pout in the mirror. Does she hear the same cries andscreams that I do at night? Does she smell the burning ash in the air or care why she lives within a guarded region with a prison in the center?
I overhear their conversations in the evenings. The stories and reasons of exhaustion Officer Weyman is forced to face every day in Auschwitz. Dealing with the “ungrateful scum,” he says, “is something I wouldn’t wish upon my greatest enemy.” I listen to what he says and in response, my stomach burns, blood boils, and rage builds inside me. “The Jews need to be wiped from the earth. Once we manage to do that, things will get better. You’ll see.” It’s the same despicable promises he makes her night after night.
Stefan and the rest of the family refused to believe Hitler would act on his threats. The cruel political statements were impossible to believe, even with the segregation, antisemitism, and anti-Jewish laws. How could anyone successfully demand a motion of destroying an entire race when we were all put onto this earth the same way? How could anyone get away with this?
I never thought I would find these answers. But they’re here. And they’re clear as day.
Nothing in the restricted zone bordering the gates of Auschwitz is humane. These people of the Reich think like killers and see heaven within hell. They’re warped, brainwashed, and there’s no breaking through their demented awareness.
“I come,” Hilde says, tugging on her mother’s dress. She’s just three and doesn’t understand why her seven- and eight-year-old siblings are at school, and she isn’t.
“No, darling. Not today.” She brushes Hilde’s hand from the pleat in her dress.
Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever.The moment Tilly was born, Frau Weyman lost interest in Hilde as if she’s replaced her with a new shiny toy. The other two children barely speak a wordto their parents unless spoken to first. This is how the Nazis breed the next generation.
I reach forward to take Hilde’s hand in mine, so she leaves her mother alone, bringing her to the baby stroller at the door where Tilly waits patiently. She often stares at me as if I should be able to read the thoughts going through her mind. I’ve always wondered how much a baby can sense. Though, maybe I don’t want to know. I fix the thin blanket draped over Tilly, loosening it beneath her neck so she doesn’t overheat.
“Don’t fuss over her. She’ll get upset,” Frau Weyman says, walking toward me with heavy footsteps.
Like a gust of wind, Frau Weyman shoves the stroller out the door to God knows where.
“How about a walk?” I ask Hilde.
She squeals and claps her hands together then runs to the foyer closet to pull her “big girl” stroller away from the wall. “I want in,” she says, pointing at the seat.
“You don’t want to walk like a big girl?”
“No. No walk.” It will be easier to run my errand if she’s contained. I’ll take the easy way this time.
I poke my head out the front door, checking the road to see who might be outside. Celina and Halina, the other nannies on the streets, are both watching their sets of children play ball in the street. I’ve grown friendly with Celina, but I’ve remained cautious of how much I share with her—especially when it comes to my agenda and need to travel to the Marketplace Square. Then of course, Halina only just arrived as the newest nanny of Officer Schafer’s children—just a short time after the last nanny waseliminated. I’ve met her once, and she seems harmless. Nice enough. But the less anyone knows of my business, the better. At least for now.
While debating if I should make up an excuse for where I’m going or wait out their outdoor playtime, the clouds grow dark and heavy, warning of imminent rain.
Halina peers up at the sky and collects Officer Schafer’s children then gives Celina a quick wave goodbye. Celina follows and takes Officer Drexel’s children inside their house.
That solves my dilemma.
I take an umbrella from the rack next to the door and make a quick exit with Hilde.
The walk isn’t long, but it’s dreary with drizzle and mist. Many of the other streets in the surrounding area are abandoned. Tree branches are overgrown, grass hasn’t been clipped, and rubbish grows in piles by the day. The only pleasant part of the walk is through the path in the woods where nature hasn’t come to learn of the rotting world closing in on it. Birds still sing. Frogs croak. Squirrels scamper up trees.
For these brief minutes when we stroll through the woods, memories of growing up in the cottage and constructing forts with Mama in piles of pine needles return, bringing back a warmth that feels borrowed from another lifetime. After she passed and we moved out of the cottage, I would cycle back into the woods to collect berries that Papa would lick his lips for when I brought them back to the clock tower. Then, of course, Stefan—those memories. Our moments in the woods, the trees embracing us, never judging—just existing as a safe place. What I wouldn’t do to relive those moments…
“Birdie!” Hilde shouts, scaring the poor thing out of a tree. The bird takes my memories and flees someplace safer.
The Marketplace Square is full of German families who live throughout the enclosed area, running their errands to the pharmacy, tailor, bakeries, bread shops, butchers, dress shops, boutiques, and florists. It’s as if life hasn’t changed here, exceptthe people who were born and raised here have all been kicked out, replaced by these Reich-loyal families.
I keep my focus ahead of the stroller and walk as if I have purpose. I do. Just not the same purpose as most others here. Down a narrow side street between the pastel buildings, the stroller thumps over the cobblestone and Hilde sings a tune to hear the vibration in her throat. If I tell her to hush she’ll grow louder, so I slow my pace hoping she’ll stop before turning the next corner.
A squawking crow swoops by us and startles Hilde. The singing stops. And I take the opportunity to make it around the corner, quickly knocking on the third door on the right side of the street with a:knock knock, knock…knock…knock knock. “I have your sauerkraut,” I call into the seam of the door, making sure my German pronunciation is proper.
