Broken Angels

by Gemma Liviero

  Sitting opposite my father in his office at this private facility, I thank him for helping to arrange the transport of Lena’s body back to Munich. He then offers some words about Lena. Dry-eyed, the both of us, we speak briefly of her strength of character. He says that she was a woman of considerable worth. Despite a lack of sincerity at times, especially with regard to words of condolence, I do know that my father will rise above certain preconceptions to recognize intelligence and strength of character in others, even those he considers enemies. While admitting that they were not close, he says that he regrets not spending more time with Lena, and we discuss her cause of death, as we would with any other patient who has passed on.

  Lena died from an embolism. The coroner discovered a piece of our baby daughter’s hair in her lung. “These things are not to be expected. These things are so rare,” says my father, as if speaking from a distance. The logical side of me found the explanation thorough, though the part of me that had boxed in the grief could find no justification for why she was gone.

  It was no one’s fault—a premature birth, a medical anomaly—and yet I remember the promise I made to be with her at the hospital. Perhaps I would have noticed her fever before it was too late.

  “Do not embark on the unhealthy obsession of self-blame,” my father warns me. “I do not believe there is anything you could have done.”

  There is something festering beneath my skin: an itch that I cannot reach. It is grief I feel on a subconscious level, held at bay until such a time that I can shape it into something that makes sense, if I ever can.

  “Do you think you and I are being punished, Father? First Mother and now Lena.”

  “That is ridiculous, Willem! Do not speculate on God and punishment! That is for philosophers, priests, troublemakers—those who encourage others to wallow in idle thoughts and self-doubt, who have plenty of time to waste.”

  He does not say that it is Lena’s influence that makes me talk this way, even though he knows this.

  “Mother was a Catholic,” I say.

  “Briefly, in her childhood. You must stop this talk. You must move on.”

  His dismissiveness makes me agitated. “You are probably relieved that Lena is gone. That you can release some of the baggage that might cause damage to our name.”

  “What you say is wrong. Lena was a fine woman of good breeding.” But these words are a description only and not spoken with any depth of feeling.

  “Return to Poland and pack up your life there,” says my father. “You will not work there again. I will see to it. But you need to start thinking of Germany. You need to think about the future, not the past. You are a good doctor, but fortitude is something you will have to develop if you are to survive. I can’t carry you forever. I can’t make excuses—”

  “I never asked you to.”

  “After you’ve had a rest . . . you do not have to go back to Auschwitz. You can come straight to the sanatorium to help with research here.”

  “I do not want to work here.”

  Father pauses briefly, letting my words dissolve between us.

  “We have to talk about Auschwitz. I want to discuss the treatments. I want you to work here with me. If you want to help women, this is where you should be.”

  “I cannot do it,” I tell my father. “I cannot do any further testing on prisoners.”

  “War isn’t supposed to be nice,” he says.

  “War isn’t supposed to be cruel either. Does the Red Cross know what we are doing?”

  “It is what we have to do. There is nothing immoral taking place here.” He has ignored the question. He has swept the idea of ethics under the carpet. It is how he deals with everything he chooses to avoid.

  “I am not interested in research, Father. I am interested in treatment.”

  “It is not beneficial to look away. Never again will we have this opportunity. You can research the causes and management of conditions like the one Lena died from. You can find ways to stop our German women from dying. Isn’t that what you have talked about, what you have worked for?”

  Just hearing her name on his lips again makes me angry.

  “I will not come here.”

  He is quiet for several moments, his thoughts lost in the lush woodland outside his window, before rubbing his hand across his forehead tiredly. I wonder what he sees before he sleeps at night. Whether he is tormented by those faces of victims he has used for testing, and the work he performs. When he turns toward me once more, there is nothing reflective in his gaze; rather, I recognize in his expression a dogged disappointment that he did not have a son made in his own image.

  “Very well! You have heard about the Lebensborn centers?”

  “Yes, Father. Used to house Nazi bastards, or as work farms for disenfranchised children, from what I gather.”

  “Your conclusions on administrative matters are sometimes baseless, Willem, as is your choice to remain ignorant . . .”

  He pauses, holding back any further reproach, perhaps deeming his timing to be inappropriate or insensitive—or, more likely, just a waste of words at this point.

  “Always be careful what you say out loud, Willem,” he then says in a more even tone. “It would be unwise to make such statements outside this room.”

  “As you say, Father.”

  “I want you to visit one particular center before you return to Poland. A commander’s posting has become available there. The facilities are good, with a surgery already installed. It is the first of many centers that will combine several different facilities and ages. This center was once a school for young women from various foreign backgrounds to make them suitable for German marriages and other occupations that will assist the war effort. Some of the girls have been sponsored by their families and sent to the centers willingly, to remind them of their responsibilities to Germany.”

  I am thinking it is likely that some coercion was used here on the families. Some people, it seems, will give up anything, including their children, to appease the party.

  “Early last year,” continues my father, “the center was expanded to include foreign orphans—babies and children of both sexes—placed there in a safe environment and reeducated in the German way before being adopted by German families. We are planning to build more of these centers in the future and expand the training facilities. This is the first of many. The center I wish to send you to is now also providing a temporary refuge for pregnant single women who will give their babies up for adoption.”

  “I am a doctor, Father. This sounds like a post best suited to someone else. I’m not sure that I am qualified to take on such a responsibility.”

  “Currently, the supervision there is limited. This center needs both a doctor and a commander to ensure that practices are followed there. You are far more qualified to do both those tasks than the woman in charge. I believe this is well suited to you, Willem, though I will not give up the idea that eventually you will turn to research.”

  It is not the time to tell him that I have nightmares about Auschwitz and the treatment of prisoners. That I would rather die than experiment on innocent Jews. The return of such thoughts causes me to tremble inside. At these moments I have the feeling of falling, as if the earth below me has become fragile and unable to withstand my weight.

  “Are you listening to me, Willem?” asks Father, drawing me back from the fall.

  I nod.

  “Please continue to pay attention.” He pauses before continuing. “You would monitor the health of these young women and children and fertility issues, an area that I know remains of great interest to you. But you would also ensure that the women and children who are admitted all have Aryan traits. I know that you have seen this testing done at the ghetto. You know what is expected. If you take this posting, you will screen the ones who are brought in.”

  I had assisted with some of the orphans brought to the ghetto, taking their head and body measurements. Some farmed off to Germany, others to the camps. T
his testing was a task I avoided whenever possible.

  “So I am to nursemaid spoilt little Aryan children then.”

  My father’s smile extends suddenly to his startling pale-green eyes, which have always stunned me into submission. As a boy, they could freeze me to the floor.

  “Yes, I suppose that is the job I ask of you.”

  Our smiles meet briefly in the middle of our conversation, and just for a moment I remember a different father: gentle, something faded now, a memory torn at the edges and buried beneath others.

  “You should visit there before you return to Poland to collect your effects. I think you will be pleasantly surprised. You will find it very different from the camp.”

  My father thinks me soft, but this does not worry me. I no longer care how I appear to him. This posting is a cushion, an excuse to be rid of me. To place me somewhere where I will no longer embarrass him. I should perhaps be grateful.

  I travel in the new uniform my father has given me. It is gray with two insignias on the dark-green collar. It is the first thing that people look at, before the eyes. Mine says that I am a loyal and ranked Nazi member. That I will do whatever it takes. That those I instruct must do what I say.

  My father has given me a typed report on the Center that offers little more than what he has just told me. The older girls there are all German; the younger children come from the east, the occupied territories. These children have been given up by their parents or orphaned.

  As I drive near the entrance, I see that there are several girls standing in a line, presented to me like a row of horses to be examined. They wear white dresses with collars, socks and shiny black shoes. Their hair is either short or tied back. They are German virgins ready for reaping, I think, somewhat callously, here to be groomed for marriage and to provide more Aryan specimens for the future of Germany. It is hard to observe without cynicism.

  I greet the girls formally, nodding, a shake of their poised hands. They titter among themselves once I walk past.

  Frau Miriam Haus, the program supervisor, ushers me through the line.

  “I must say that we were only just told of your visit this morning.”

  “Please accept my apology. My father directed me yesterday to see the facilities. It seems that you are waiting on a commander here.”

  “Yes. Perhaps it will be you, Herr Gerhardt.”

  “Perhaps.”

  It is peaceful here. The only sounds are birds—a startling contrast to the guns, heavy boots, trucks, and cries to which I have become accustomed. I imagine that this is what life would be like without war. I have often imagined a life in a house such as this with Lena, though each time that memory surfaces I push it out again. It is certainly a place far from the ghettos and camps. Perhaps worth considering.

  I am given a tour of the ground floor, walking through the house to a kitchen where a woman is cooking. I am not introduced to her. She is not considered important enough for introductions.

  At the back of the house it is different, as if a facade has been lifted. Apart from patches of snow, the Center grounds are barren. Another guard sits lazily at his post. I wonder if the guards are keeping people in or out. Behind the property I see winter trees in a stretch of wooded forest. From the kitchen door, broken pavers lead to an old army-style hut at the side of the house. Miriam attempts to steer me back to the room where I was first received.

  “What is that building used for?” I ask, pointing to the hut.

  “It is where the younger children are housed and Germanized.”

  “The reeducation program.”

  “Exactly, Herr Gerhardt. Some are orphaned, and others have been given up by their own foreign parents so they can specifically learn to be loyal to our Führer, loyal to Germany.”

  A nurse walks into the house from that direction, muttering. She wears a frown, and her lips are pressed tightly together like washing rollers. She appears startled when she sees me, her gaze shyly dropping somewhere below my chin, before she looks to Frau Haus to offer an explanation.

  “Oh, it is a pleasure to meet you, Herr Captain,” says Nurse Claudia, morphing into something else, the skin on her face lifting, with some effort, into a smile.

  More pleasantries again, though I will not be deterred. The cook bangs a pot down hard on the sink, her plump, round back refusing to acknowledge any of us.

  “And you look after the younger children?”

  “Yes,” Nurse Claudia says. “They are just having their afternoon sleep.”

  There is a shout and a thudding on wooden floorboards, the sound stretching across the sink of mud between the buildings.

  “I would very much like to see them.”

  I sense hesitation on the part of Frau Haus.

  “Certainly, Herr Gerhardt.”

  From the back door, I briskly cross the mud that has replaced a broken pathway, as the nurse and Miriam nip at my heels, attempting to keep up with me. At the other end I try the door to the long, hall-shaped building, but it is locked.

  “Afternoons the dormitory is locked . . . for their safety,” says Nurse, who has stepped quickly beside me to turn the key in the lock.

  Inside the room is dark with only a few small, high windows. It reeks of urine here, and that of old vomit left to fester for too long—smells that have leeched into the wood grain.

  Several children jump up to stand beside their narrow wooden beds. They appear shocked to see me: eyes wide and still. All four wear the Nazi symbol; they are fair.

  I smile, but they sense it is not sincere, for there is nothing here to smile about, and they do not smile back. They do not recognize it as a smile.

  “They come here somewhat damaged and out of control,” says Miriam. “It takes some time.”

  “How long does it take to obtain control?”

  “It can be months. Two have been here for nearly a year. They are sometimes difficult to tame.”

  “They are children, not mountain lions, Frau Haus.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I am just curious about the degree of difficulty.”

  She is temporarily shocked into speechlessness. I suspect she has had the run of the place too long, and I gather from her querulous expression that she does not like to answer to anyone.

  “They come with certain baggage from their foreign homes. It is different from most of the older girls who are already German, who come here because they want to.”

  I turn toward the other faces in the room.

  “Hello,” I say.

  There is no response at first, and then a greeting is spoken from somewhere in the room. I scan the four pale faces awash with hope and fear to find the source.

  A girl, around eight at a guess, appears to be the one with the voice.

  I walk between the beds to reach hers at the end, my boots making a scuffing sound on the untreated, moldering pine. There are eight beds and several shelves of books. I scan the titles: Mein Kampf, The Poisonous Mushroom, Trust No Fox on His Green Heath and No Jew on His Oath. I doubt they understand anything from the first, and much more from the others.

  As I pass the last girl, I see that she is hiding something behind her back, some paper. She sees that I have seen, and her expression is frozen, I suspect, with fear. Something inside me sinks. These are the places I have sent the little Aryan orphans: locked, drafty, dark rooms. From one prison to another.

  “What is your name?” I attempt to sound soft, but the words are terse even to my ears.

  “Matilda.”

  I think it is a sweet name, though it suits a strong nature, something I believe she might have. I am not good with children, but I am good at summing up a person in the briefest possible time. She stands very straight. She is the only one to look me in the eyes. I think that her mother has named her with foresight.

  She scrunches the papers behind her in an attempt to make them disappear. I cannot put her through any more suffering. I turn to leave, and the two women fall in line behind
me.

  “What will happen to those children?” I ask once the door is closed and locked again.

  Miriam tells me some of the wives of the SS like to adopt, and that these children will soon go to good German families to be raised. “The younger ones anyway. But children like Matilda . . . well, she is a difficult one, though her German is exceptionally good, and she is particularly bright and useful in some ways.

  “These children barely passed the Aryan testing,” continues Frau Haus. “And so, unfortunately, they are not so easily disposed of. However, if you are assigned here, Herr Gerhardt, you can sign the paperwork that will order all those unlikely to be Germanized sent to the camps. It is difficult and time-consuming sending the paperwork to Berlin and then waiting for the response and collection.”

  “Do some not return to their parents if they fail the testing?”

  “Most parents sign them away, Herr Gerhardt. I hardly think they would want them back again. We will perhaps be doing them a favor.”

  I do not fail to see the glance exchanged between Frau Haus and the nurse. They are guilty of things, too. But possibly no more guilty than I.

  I nod politely and tell myself that children left in cold rooms is no worse than other things I have already seen. We return to the reception area, where the older girls still hover.

  I sit on a sofa in the sitting room where guests are entertained. This is, I realize, where the older girls learn to speak to visitors to learn manners and etiquette, in order to serve distinguished gentleman. I have been given tea in a fine china cup and served cakes.

  “I understand that you still have work to complete in Poland,” says Miriam. “Will you be there long?”

  “I will be returning to Germany very soon.”

  “Your wife must be looking forward to it.”

  Wife. They would not know of her death. It occurs to me that this is one place where she can remain alive.

  “Yes,” I say. “Could I trouble you for some coffee instead of tea?” There is a thickening at the back of my throat.