Page 12 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

NINE

HALINA

With a sharp gasp, I jerk upright in bed, the thin quilt tangled around my legs.

A rumble of thunder stutters in the distance.

Maybe that’s what woke me up. My chest heaves.

Sweat sticks to my back in the stale, humid air.

The attic walls blur in the dim dawn light—faded yellow stripes turned gray.

The air is thicker now, laced with must and the leftover stench of Officer Sch?fer’s cigarette smoke from last night.

My fingers clutch the worn stitching of my stuffed bear, my nails poking through the small holes as if it might protect me.

Each morning before I open my eyes, I pray the prior days have been a nightmare. That I’ll wake up in my tiny bedroom at the orphanage.

But I don’t.

I’m still in their attic.

Trapped.

The sound comes again—masculine shouts, rough and berating, ripping through the walls.

A shriek follows, the sound I’ve become familiar with in the past day, Flora’s painful cry.

Rushed and panicked footsteps pound against the floors below as frantic squeals from the two older girls join the commotion. I can’t make out what’s happening.

My breath shudders as I kick my legs off the side of the bed.

Did I sleep too late? It’s still dark. I scramble for the old clock on the nightstand, my fingers fumbling against the scratched brass.

4:45 a.m. Too early for everyone in the house to be awake.

It’s too early for what I’m listening to.

The wave of relief that I’m not late is short-lived as another shout rumbles through the house.

I reach for the doorknob but a crash of wood startles me backward.

A chair splitting? A table falling to its side?

My throat is dry, each breath burning as if I’ve swallowed fire.

The girls are screaming. They need help.

I force my feet forward, gripping the railing tightly to navigate the old stairs.

My heart thuds against my ribcage as the shouts and screams grow louder—they’re not coming from the bedrooms. They’re from down below.

I press myself against the wall as I near the bottom of the stairs, then peek around the corner, just enough to see.

Officer Sch?fer stands barefoot in the hallway, his uniform disheveled, his shirt untucked, belt loose, and hair matted to his head. More unsettling is his face—beet red, veins bulging at his temples. His fists flex and curl at his sides as if he’s trying to contain his rage but clearly failing.

“What do I have to do to make you understand, Ada?” he snarls, his voice full of venom.

Ada . Frau Sch?fer never offered up her first name, and neither did he when he barely introduced me yesterday morning. A first name sounds too informal for him.

“She needs a doctor,” Ada says, her voice controlled, but also trembling.

“You know, your desperation and ignorance are going to cost us our daughter’s life.

And to be frank, I’m sick and tired of having the same conversation with you night after night,” he seethes.

He steps in toward the kitchen—toward Ada.

“As I’ve said before, Ada, if word gets out that Flora is unfit and unusual, our so-called perfect Aryan child will be seen as a threat to the ‘racial hygiene’ of the nation. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t call her unfit or unusual,” Ada interrupts, her words cunning, but desperate. “Flora’s delay and nerve pain might be treatable, but how could we ever know?”

“And if it’s not? If it’s proven to be a type of defective heredity, then what? What will that mean for you both?” he grunts. “How would that make me look? Do you think anything through, at all? Goddammit, Ada!”

“What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and watch our baby suffer in pain?” Ada cries out.

Officer Sch?fer releases a laugh with a cutting edge to it. “You’re supposed to be a better mother. An ideal mother. One who knows how to console her child.”

“We—we—what about if we can find a non-German doctor?” she suggests, ignoring his last insult, her staggering.

“And where do you think you’re going to find one of those right now? They’ve all been sent out to Hamburg to tend to the victims of the British and American firebomb attacks. How selfish can you honestly be right now?”

“Selfish?” Ada repeats. “You told me to keep her quiet so people don’t ask questions, and left me with no options.

It must be easy for someone like you to condone poisoning a baby while you flood your veins with those God awful ‘ storm pills ’ and nightly bottles of liquor just so you can block out the pain of being a monster.

” Ada’s words bleed with resentment, leaving me in shock.

“So tell me, Heinrich, what exactly do you want from me?”

He jerks his back, shocked by her insult. “Did you ever consider that I’m taking those Pervitin pills just to stay in a marriage with you?” He points his finger at her. “You know what I want, Ada? A decent wife. Wouldn’t that be grand? Huh?”

Ada steps out from behind the dividing wall between the kitchen and family room.

She’s still in her nightgown, her gold curls now a rat’s nest. With shaking hands, she reaches out for her husband’s chest. “I’m sorry, darling.

It’s the pregnancy moods. They come and go, and—I’ll do better.

I will. You’ll see,” she says, her response coming as if she’s said it many times before.

He shakes his head and shoves her hand away. “When will I see? How long do I have to wait, Ada? Just prove it already, won’t you?”

“Papa,” Isla cries out from the kitchen. She must have been hiding behind her mother. “Don’t hurt Mama again! You could hurt the baby!”

Officer Sch?fer lunges into the kitchen and I take in an unruly breath, holding it— please don’t touch that little girl …

“I wouldn’t lay a hand on our baby, Isla.

Your mother, on the hand…Well, I wouldn’t have to keep teaching her a lesson if she’d just learn to obey.

” His words whip and crack through the air.

“Let this be a lesson to both of you girls.”

“Papa, no,” Marlene utters between hysterical sniffles.

“Never argue with the man of the house,” he hisses. “Never!”

The word echoes through the hall and into my bones.

I spin back toward the attic, each step deliberate, toes skimming the wood to avoid the creaking boards. Almost there. Just a few more steps…

“What do you think you’re doing?” A voice I don’t recognize, deep and rusty, his German words spoken with a Polish accent.

I freeze, clutching the banister as the shadow of a figure rises behind me, then slowly turn to face him. A kapo, his armband stitched with a star beneath his branded title. I’ve seen him before, hovering over the prisoners as if he’s proud to do so.

“I work here,” I say, trying to sound composed, though my voice wavers. My skin prickles.

“You’re not due to report downstairs for another hour. You were spying on the officer and his wife, weren’t you?” His accusation seeps through his gritted jaw. “I’m due to inspect the construction, but instead, I find you moseying around an opportune time.”

“I wasn’t—” I swallow hard and warn myself not to repeat his words. If someone in this house didn’t hear him at first, they could hear me.

“Then what? What is it you were doing?”

I want to tell him I don’t owe him an answer or explanation, and I could point out that he’s the one in a striped uniform. But I’m not a fool. Authority is the result of loyalty…a secret teller. A traitor.

“I was using the washroom.”

“Liar!” he grunts, pointing his finger at me.

“You aren’t permitted to use the washroom on this floor.

You think you’re special? Like the others before you?

You think because you’re not wearing stripes, you can do as you please?

” His voice strains with each word as if he’s losing his steam. This isn’t discipline, it’s resentment.

“No. That isn’t the case,” I say, complicit to his unnecessary rage.

“Sure,” he quips. “Come.” The one word snaps between us. “We’ll see what the officer has to say about your little spying habit.” He takes two steps up the stairs.

“Leave her alone, Oskar.”

Gavriel’s voice slices through the air like a switch of a match. With haste, then silence.

My pulse thumps, and my stomach turns sour.

“Who are you to tell me what to do, fool?” Oskar whips toward Gavriel and backhands him across the face, a crack so sharp and loud it echoes between the walls.

I flinch, my trembling hands clutching the sudden ache in my chest. This is my fault. I was spying.

“I—I was doing as he says,” I stammer, desperate to undo what’s been done. “I forgot my apron. I was going back for it before continuing my tasks.”

Oskar sneers at me, his eyes narrow with a cold stare as if he can extract a truth he prefers.

“You’re late!” he shouts at Gavriel instead, then drives his shoulder into his side in passing, sending Gavriel into the wall with an unforgiving thud.

Gavriel doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He straightens his shoulders and starts up the steps. Something fragile cracks inside of me as I watch Gavriel amble up the stairs, fresh blood dripping down his cheekbone from the blunt force.

“You shouldn’t have…” I whisper.

He glances at me as he passes, and for a brief second, I think he might smile, but he doesn’t.

“It’s better me than you.”

He disappears into the unfinished workspace, leaving me with guilt, despair and a pit in my hollow stomach.

No one has ever stood up for me before. Not like that. I should thank him. Apologize. Or…I should keep quiet and hold on to the words that always seem to search for a way out but never quite find the way.

Gratitude could cost me more than trust.