Page 11 of The Nanny Outside the Gates
EIGHT
HALINA
A train in the distance cries out for help as I retreat from my duties of the fourth day in this house after finally getting Flora to sleep.
All I can say is I’ve at least figured out which of the attic stairs distort beneath my feet, threatening to snap with a growling moan.
Every third step, I skip. So long as the train doesn’t wake the baby, she’ll stay asleep.
The moment I shut myself into the—my—dim moonlit attic bedroom, I slide down against the back of the door, still defeated and overwhelmed. “It hasn’t even been a week,” I utter, trying to reassure myself that I’ll get used to this trapped new life. I’m not sure any amount of convincing will work.
Frau Sch?fer insisted on making Flora’s bottles ever since I prepared one my first day here.
That changed this afternoon because she was too distracted.
She regretted it quickly. I forgot to add the three drops of so-called-chamomile.
Maybe it isn’t my place to question how they raise their children. I’m here to follow orders.
I’m also here to do what I can to keep these children from becoming the next generation of cruelty. No good comes from poisoning a baby. I won’t be a part of that. If they can lace their infant’s milk without guilt, what hope is left for any of them? They deserve more. A chance to be good.
Despite that, Frau Sch?fer hasn’t even mentioned what she suspects might be wrong with Flora.
I wonder how long they’ve been giving this poor thing bourbon in her bottle?
She could be dependent on it now. Maybe that’s why she’s been crying so hard.
Which came first? The issue with her nerves causing pain and tears, or the bourbon?
I’ve seen enough cruelty to children in the orphanage throughout my life, but for a woman carrying her fourth child, she doesn’t appear fit to have the first three.
With the door closed, the heat swells quickly and I pull myself up to see if I can crack the window above my bed.
The hinges are rusty, but I manage to shove it open enough for the air to move.
I fold the quilt back, and slouch into the lumpy bed.
The branches scrape against the windowpane, the hum of a conversation carries through the floorboards, and a dog is barking down the street.
I’ve yet to notice a bird chirp or even a buzzing bee, and never a gentle breeze. Even nature hates it here.
I curl up on my side, my face pressing against the thin pillow, taking in a potent odor of oil and sweat. A scamper of tiny claws grasps my attention—a gray mouse makes its way from one hole along the floor to another. I would be hiding too if I could.
My unblinking stare catches on my small suitcase and I take it back to the bed with me. The clasps clack as I lift the top. The scent of lavender from a dry flower left in the pocket comforts me as I pull out my stuffed bear and folktale book.
The book has always been a mystery to me. I’ve lain awake through many long nights wondering about its intended purpose. Why leave me with that? To read for joy, or find a meaning?
On the other hand, the stuffed bear has brought me unconditional comfort.
I slept with it pinched beneath my arm every night until I was twelve.
But after I failed to find any information about my parents, I decided I didn’t need the bear’s comfort anymore.
It joined the folktale book in my lone suitcase beneath my bed, banished along with the childish fantasies that I would someday find my parents again.
“It’s time,” I whisper to Lulek, my trusty stuffed bear.
I snatch my folktale book from beneath my mattress and roll off the bed, careful not to make a sound.
The other girls in the eleven-to-twelve-year-old room will wake up and ask questions.
None of us manage to keep many of our thoughts to ourselves here, but I didn’t want anyone to know about my plan.
I tiptoe around each creaking board as I make my way down the narrow stairwell and around the side of the building toward the main door we go in and out of.
A lantern flickers against the chalkboard, still showing Monday’s routine even though it’s Wednesday.
Next to the chalkboard are a line of coat hooks, each with name tags pinned above.
I’ve always had the third hook from the right.
I take my coat and scarf and quickly drape them over my shoulders.
The door is in sight, and so is my chance to slip outside.
The lock grinds unless I lift the panel just right…something I’ve nearly perfected. Outside, the air is bitter. Winter still has a grip on us. It might never let us go.
My feet crunch against the icy snow, the crackle booming between the trees. This is why my attempts never work. Something always gives me away.
Still, I make it into the woods and begin counting my steps so I don’t get lost. I should make it to the library by morning.
My body shivers, the cold eating right through my coat and scarf, making it hard to move my legs. I have to keep going. It’s the only way I might learn something about my parents, or where they might be. The dream is within reach. I’ll never give up trying to find something.
“Halina!” My name weaves between the trees. How could she have known I left? I didn’t make a sound. She’s been asleep for hours. I’ve been walking for what feels like half the night. “Halina Wojic, I know you are out here, young lady.”
Despite Julia calling my name, I press forward. How can I tell her she’s wrong about my parents when she says she has all the information available? I force my legs to move faster, gritting against the struggle and heaviness of each stride along the sinking snow.
Her hand grasps my arm, stopping me from making it to the exit of the woods. She’s breathing so hard, I could pull away. But I wouldn’t do that to her. I would’ve come back tomorrow, hopefully before she noticed I was gone…
“Halina, what on earth has gotten into you?” she asks, gasping for more air. “This is the fourth time this month. I’m not a spring chicken. I can’t keep chasing you.” I should apologize, but words don’t find my tongue. “Is this about that foolish library again?”
“It isn’t foolish,” I reply. “Sister Mary was talking about a person finding a long-lost family member with the records located there. That means there’s a chance I might find mine.”
Julia groans. “Sister Mary believes every thread of gossip she hears in the market square and usually misses the first half of the conversation.”
“Please. If I don’t try to find them, I’ll always be wondering. I’ll never give up trying to find something.”
“This age is going to be the death of me,” she grumbles.
“Twelve and we know everything known to man.” Julia loosens her grip and slides her hand down to mine.
“I will take you to the library myself tomorrow.” She pulls me into her side and wraps me in her warmth, an instant relief.
“I told you I will always do whatever possible to help you find your parents…” She isn’t finished with her statement, and I know what comes next.
“Sweetheart.” Julia takes my cold hand into hers and wraps her other hand around them as we walk back toward the church.
“People aren’t always who we wish them to be, and that doesn’t mean your parents don’t love you or didn’t love you.
It means they knew you would have a better life without them, and that’s what they wanted for you. ”
“How could you know that if you don’t know anything about them?” Maybe she does know something. Maybe she doesn’t want me to know what that is. Maybe my parents are horrid people and knowing that would steal every bit of my hope.
“I’ve been doing this a very long time—my whole life, really.
I didn’t ask for you to be placed on my doorstep as an infant, but I took one look at you and knew we were meant to be together.
I would give you what someone else couldn’t.
I would keep you warm, fed, and clothed.
I’d take care of you for however long you need.
You ended up with me for a reason and I don’t question fate. ”
“I would never leave you,” I tell her. “I just ? —”
“I know, sweet girl. I know. I have written to the registry offices in every city of our country, requested help from the Parish Priest, and have repeated the process once a year since you arrived, but nothing with your surname has ever come back. All I’ve ever had is the scrap of paper that was pinned to your blanket with your name and birthday. That’s all there has ever been.”
“I’m sorry for upsetting you.” It’s my parents who I’m truly upset with. How could they just leave me with no trace of information about who I am or where I came from?
I set the folktale book on the worn square nightstand next to the small table clock then tuck the bear into my chest and press my nose to the side of its head for another inhale of faint lavender—the faint scent of Julia’s hugs.
I close my eyes, pleading for sleep, imagining Julia’s soft fingers stroking the side of my cheek.
She always made me feel better. Always. I wish she could help me forget about this horrific week, but the sound of footsteps against the stairs holds me stiff.
The wooden boards on the other side of the wall creak several times, leaving me to wonder if Frau Sch?fer or Officer Sch?fer have come up here for something.
Stillness follows the last creak.
Is it him? Her? Or someone worse?