“Father, were you aware that some of the children were taken by force from their homes before being delivered to the Center?”
I see the muscles around my father’s jaw tighten as he clenches his teeth and arranges his mouth to speak.
“Willem, please don’t preach your thoughts on false morals to me. Whatever is done is a necessary task, one that is often unpleasant for the men who undertake such work.”
“On the contrary, Father,” I say offhandedly. “I was merely curious if you knew.”
My father blinks slowly, perhaps relieved. I am better at pretense now.
“Just remember that you are there to serve Germany and the interests of the German people, Willem. That is your job.”
“And their best interests are exactly my intentions, Father. You have my word.”
It is easier to deal with him if I lay a bone at his feet.
The next day I drive back early. Matilda has been talking to Elsi more, though there is still distance between them. It will take time, and Elsi has the patience for it. The beatings Matilda endured, the isolation and separation from her home, and the final revelation of her family’s death: she is as resilient as a steel shield. It is something I admire in her. She will survive this period of time.
As for sweet Elsi, she will need more time to repair. She thinks I do not care, but she doesn’t know what it is like for me to wake up beside her before she rises. To see her face against the pillow, one long arm stretched out above her head. She does not know the joy I feel when she greets me in the evening. I have put much responsibility on her, and in time she, too, will know how resilient she is.
I am falling for her, Lena. Please forgive me for that, too.
I have just called in home to check on Elsi and Matilda and to wish them good day. Matilda appears happy and settled and pleased to be with us. We have found normality within the chaos happening around us. It is quiet and peaceful in the house, but it is a different story as I arrive at the Center. The guard leaves his post to greet me. He says that I must hurry, that one of the girls is having some kind of fit. That she has lost all consciousness.
I enter the house and follow the sounds of commotion to the kitchen. Cook has Alice cradled in her lap, and Claudia is beside her. Haus is ordering the other children back to their rooms.
“Commander!” says Claudia. “Thank goodness. It’s Alice. She is convulsing . . . has lost consciousness but still breathing.”
I smell Alice’s breath, check her pulse, then pick her up and carry her to the surgery to place her on the bed.
“The rubber tube,” I say. Claudia greases the tube before handing it to me.
I gently thread the tube into Alice’s throat until the tip has reached her stomach, then I carefully roll her on her side and commence to squeeze the suction pump near the end of the tube. It is not long before the foamy contents of her stomach trickle into a bowl. She is groggy and mumbling, and Claudia helps me sit her upright. I force her to swallow some charcoal tablets to dilute the last of the toxins. She vomits this up, and we repeat the process two more times before she can finally keep the tablets down.
After she is stable, I ask Claudia to check on the children upstairs.
“And, Claudia, not a word about this to anyone.”
She nods and leaves the room.
Once Alice and I are alone: “What did you take?”
She looks at me through narrowed eyes, nauseous still.
“I don’t know. I didn’t read the labels closely. Painkillers, sleeping syrup. I’m not sure.”
I pull my chair up near her head to look closely at her face.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“I am your doctor now. At this point I am not the commander. Everything you say is private. Tell me what you are thinking.”
“I don’t want to live. I don’t want to birth a Schutzstaffel bastard!”
I know that she is frightened about the birth. That she wants to return to her family. I have written to them, invited them to visit, but have yet to receive an answer.
“In a very short time this will all be over. Once the baby is born you will pass the infant over to German parents to raise. You can move on with your life.”
“And then where will I go? I will be considered too used. Do I wait here for another officer to plant his seed in me? My own parents despise me for the affair. They have denounced me. I have no family to return to. I do not see a life ahead that is of any value to me.”
“You might find there are other options. I can help you.”
“Unfortunately, Doctor,” she says spitefully, “since this conversation is private, I can say that your words come cheaply. The Führer teaches you all to lie so that you get what you want. I wasn’t successful this time, but I will try again. Next time I won’t fail.”
I do not doubt this. She is bitter and irrational. In previous conversations I learned that she once had plans to work close to the battle lines, to run errands for the soldiers, or at the very least to join the League of German Girls. But she is like so many who have had their dreams shattered.
When I open my medical bag to retrieve the stethoscope, my hand brushes past the bottle my father has given me. Coincidence, maybe?
No, it is a sign.
The image of the pills has taken control of my thoughts. Once again I find myself in a moral dilemma.
She is too close to giving birth.
I check the baby’s heartbeat, which is strong.
“Healthy, I suppose you are going to say.”
“Yes.”
What if I can save one life instead of losing two?
“What if I could do something to help you?”
“What kind of help?” Her tone with less acid.
“What if you lost the baby?”
She assumes a less defensive position as she leans toward me to get closer to the information, her head only inches from mine. She knows that walls can sometimes hear.
“I can attempt to reverse the problem,” I say, “though I can’t guarantee the outcome.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying that whatever I say to you here, whatever I do, must never leave this surgery.” I know my tone has changed into that of my father. It is only a slight change, but I know it will have an effect. Her eyes widen slightly. She is suddenly not so full of bravado and strong words.
“Are you saying you can stop the pregnancy?”
There is no need to answer. I can tell she already understands.
“If I help you, do I have your promise that you will never breathe a word of this? That you will not try to end your life again? I will return you to your family, even if I have to threaten them to never abandon you again. And they will honor everything you do. They will do whatever it takes for their daughter to succeed, and never cut you off financially again.”
There is hope in a face that has been submerged in gloom since I arrived.
“We will wait a couple of days until you are stronger,” I say. “We will tie in the miscarriage with this event somehow. Do not talk of this to anyone in the meantime. If Haus visits your room, pretend you are sleeping or too sick to talk.”
I lock the medicine cabinets just in case, though I can tell that she believes what I have told her. She has not seen me go back on my word since I began the command.
“I do not know how you will react to the tablets,” I say. “I have never used them before. Are you certain you want to risk this?”
“I will die anyway if I don’t risk it. So what does it matter?”
It is a long drive, and I am exhausted by the time I reach the clinic for SS wives. The fertility work has offered moments of reward, but the travel and the hours I must spend here are becoming too much. I will soon need a replacement for Haus, someone who is good at what they do, someone who can keep the children safe.
The wives I see have too much money and idle time, and it is less than enjoyable treating them. They talk
of their husbands’ bravery, not knowing that some of them practice debauchery, and only a short distance away are the results of their so-called labors of bravery upon young women, not the battlefield.
But I am nothing if not officious and courteous. I listen to their desires for children, their failures to conceive. I listen to the early heartbeats of their babies. I listen as they babble about the war, parroting comments they heard on their radios and from their husbands during discussions at their dinner parties. I commiserate about the recent Allied air raids, smile when required, am as gracious as I need to be. By the time they leave, they are confident that whatever their medical problems, or psychological ones, I am the one to cure them. The receptionist comments that the women are very smitten and I must be careful since I am still single. Of course, this is my other life, the one that belongs to my father. The life at the Center, the one I want to live, is the one I will build upon.
One day it occurs to me—while I am sitting, listening to one of these women, whose knowledge of warfare is even less than my knowledge of planning for a women’s tea party—that perhaps here is another opportunity to stop what I believe is the most heinous crime of these times: promotion of one race at the annihilation of another. And in a small part only, I could help balance the score.
I have been going through the applications for adoption. Some families seem reasonable. I have visited their homes, examined the environments. I am not looking for German loyalty, though they all think otherwise. The Nazi flag flies everywhere, as if they will earn points by the flag. I am looking for signs from the other children in the family, from the smells and the food on the table, and in the gardens and animals they tend. I can tell whether they will beat the children or nurture them. I observe them closer than they know. I ask for two letters of recommendation from people who know them well. None of this is policy. If the young children can’t have their real parents, then I must find the next best option.
Two days have passed since Alice attempted suicide. She is sitting up and strong but has spoken very little in the surgery. She is anxious. To ensure success, and given her late stage of gestation, I decide to give her two tablets from the bottle my father gave me, and I pass her these to swallow with a glass of water. She waits a moment, examines them, and then takes them both at the same time, greedily almost.
I then write a letter to her parents, telling them to meet with me or else face a visit by another official who may not show as much courtesy as I. The two other pregnant girls are only weeks from delivering their babies, one of them only days from now.
Since I did not ask my father anything about these tablets, presuming I would never have need of them, I have no idea how long it will take for them to work. It is almost time to close the surgery, but I am reluctant to leave. I tell Claudia that I have seen a change in Alice’s color and temperature and will stay in the surgery for the evening. While I wait for a change in Alice’s condition, I sift through the children’s files again. I make notes and plans for each of them. It isn’t long before my patient calls out in pain. She is cramping badly, and bleeding has commenced.
I give her an injection to dull the pain. It is a long and difficult birth. I call Claudia back in, and the infant I have murdered is taken quickly away before I have time to question what I have done. The remains will be cremated. I write the necessary report. It seems too simple.
My report does not mention Alice’s hatred for her unborn child. It says that she had not felt the baby kick and believed it dead, then attempted suicide over her failure. She will back up this story if she is ever questioned. In the report, I conclude that the baby had been dead for several days prior to her fit. Otherwise, the attempt on the life of a live Nazi baby would have dire consequences for her.
Alice is sleeping now. I have saved one and destroyed another.
You had no choice.
After several days of rest, I feel somewhat buoyed by my progress, not just with children, but with the administration of the Center. Alice has recovered fully, and I have received a letter from her parents saying they will honor their promise to look after her financially. I have written a letter of commendation to the German League of Girls—at a location that is far away, where no other girls will know Alice—to say that she would be of excellent value to the war effort. Her parents will pick her up from here, take her home for a break, and then she will commence her new role in the autumn.
The first live baby was born, and I did not see the need to report it to Berlin, or the need for Nazi ceremony. I did, however, find suitable parents for this child. It has been my sole discretion whom I think suitable. The birth mother has now returned home. Another came in her place in the early stages of pregnancy, although sadly, after some initial consultations, she miscarried. I have sent her back to her family.
We have received several new orphan children. They have arrived without paperwork. Whereas once upon a time, some arrived with former addresses and forms signed by parents, these have none. All have passed my Aryan testing, though I have seen the way Haus looks at these children and meets my eyes. She suspects that I am not who I appear to be.
On my wall behind me is a painting that Matilda has drawn especially for me, of the flowers in the garden at the entrance to our house. She has given each flower a name. One is Willem, one is Elsi, and the third is Matilda. Each petal is meticulously drawn and shaded. She has even drawn their shadows. The smallest one is Matilda. The faces in the flowers are neither happy nor sad, but each one appears vibrant. It is a message, perhaps, that there is still some way yet for us to go, though I feel hope that we have become a family, that she has drawn us together through art.
Claudia arrives at my office to report that one of the children has developed a cough. As she is talking, I notice a folder on the corner of my desk. I draw it toward me and discover it contains several documents.
“What is this?” I ask.
Claudia leans forward to look at the first document in the open file.
“It appears to be one of the children’s files.”
“Do you know who put it here?”
She shakes her head. “As far as I know, you have all the files, Commander. Perhaps it has come from Frau Haus.”
I wish to be alone. There is something about its odd arrival that disturbs me, and that I caught sight of a photo of Matilda when I briefly flicked through the contents.
“Claudia, please check the temperature of the sick child and report back.”
“Certainly, Commander.”
I open the folder to examine the documents. The first is a statement that is usually signed by the children pledging their loyalty to the Führer. This particular document is unsigned. Underneath this is a photograph of Matilda clipped to a sheet that contains her measurements and description. In a handwritten note at the bottom, Haus has stated that Matilda has only just qualified as an Aryan. This is simply a duplicate of a document I have already.
The third document is one that I haven’t seen before in the file I have for Matilda. I turn the pages of this custody document slowly, fearful of what I will find. On the last page is the signature of someone who shares the same surname as Matilda: a shaky scrawl, perhaps made in haste or under duress. I have already learned from Jacek’s parents that he was not parted with willingly. Underneath the signature is a title: Mother.
A tremor begins in my right hand as I close the file. The coldness that plagued me shortly after my arrival in Auschwitz is back. Finding Elsi had sent it away but only temporarily.
I call Claudia back to the room.
“Matilda was found orphaned, was she not? Her parents killed in a bombing?”
“No, Commander, you are thinking of one of the others.”
She stays a moment, made curious by my sudden distractedness, until I wave her away and ask not to be disturbed.
I remember the smugness of Haus and her bestial thin-lipped mouth when she told me her fabricated story of Matilda’s family, recounted to dete
r me from the thought of returning her to her parents. If Matilda wasn’t to go to the camps, she also was not to be returned home. This outcome was a personal win for Haus in her vendetta against the child.
The dread I feel that I may lose Matilda is nothing compared with what it must be like for her parents not to know whether their child is alive or dead. My head begins to throb. I draw the shutters closed and switch off the light.
I whisper into the darkened room, telling myself that it is right what I have done, that it cannot be undone.
Yes, it can!
I picture Elsi and Matilda waiting at home for my arrival. I think of all that I have lost and all that I have again: a wife and a child, these soon again broken angels.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
ELSI
Building my relationship with Matilda is like slowly building a bridge one stone at a time. Any faster and the other stones might crumble beneath the weight. Sometimes she disappears from me. Not in person, it is just that she has gone to some other place in her head: somewhere she prefers to be.
I have let her speak in her own time, and in doing this, in staying quiet, I have learned much about her while we cook together. She has shown me some of her dishes from home, and we are sharers of stories now. I have learned of her brothers and parents, of her house. We have a secret of our own: she will not tell Willem that she knows about my past. I do not want to give him anything else to worry about.
It was shortly after our meeting on the hill that Matilda’s writing became lighter, that she preferred to sit a short distance from wherever I was. When I open her door in the morning, I am no longer greeted with scorn. While Willem has been very busy, working late, we have had much time together.
One night, of her own accord, she called him Vati, and from that point she has thrived. We all have. On Sundays we spend as much time as we can on the hills before the cold that is soon to arrive.
The sun has settled for the night by the time Willem enters. His hair sits forward across his forehead. His uniform looks crushed.
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