Page 18 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

THIRTEEN

HALINA

Flora is already asleep in her nursery across the hall, likely because Frau Sch?fer beat me to making up her evening bottle.

In here though, Isla is in her bed, propped up against her pillow, sheets tucking her taut.

With neatly woven braids slung over her shoulders and a book spread open on her lap—she’s the least of my struggles when it comes to the bedtime routine.

Marlene, however, has her hands covering her head, twirling around, one braid frayed loose, the other one swinging like a rope. I can’t even slip the nightgown over her head. “It’s time for bed, Marlene. We must follow your parents’ rules.”

The second week in this house has dragged on even longer than the first, and I assume the third week will be worse. Eventually the days and weeks will never end.

“No! I don’t want to go to sleep. The sun is still up,” she whines, her words quieter than the conversation between her parents’ downstairs. “I can still hear the other children playing on the street. It isn’t fair.”

She isn’t wrong, but I don’t make the rules. I just enforce them.

“The sun stays out for longer in the summertime, but it’s still the same bedtime as it is all year round,” I remind her. “Plus, sleep helps our bodies gain strength, so we’ll be stronger tomorrow than we were today.”

“Mama and Papa must be very, very strong,” she mumbles with a roll of her eyes.

“They sure are,” I say, needing to bite my tongue before anything different comes out of my mouth.

With her thoughts swaying from her nightgown to her parents, she drops her arms by her side, allowing me a quick second to pull the silk fabric over her head.

“How about I read you a story before bed? Your choice.” I peer across the room at the ornate bookcase with hand-painted flowers along the trim.

Marlene walks past me to the bookshelf, slides one out from the end of the top row and brings it over to me. The front cover rings familiar right away. The Poisonous Mushroom book Isla was reading yesterday.

“That’s my book. You can’t read it,” Isla says, snapping upright and slapping the book in her hands shut.

“Mama said I can read it whenever I like,” Marlene argues.

“Yes, because you don’t know how to read yet.”

“How about I tell you a story?” I interrupt their argument.

“But then it won’t have pictures,” Marlene complains.

“That’s what your imagination is for.” I tap her bed, and she reluctantly climbs up and settles down.

“I could tell you a story about—” I tap my chin. “A princess, perhaps?”

“One who lives under the floor,” she says with a giggle.

“Marlene,” Isla scolds her. “That’s not nice.”

“It’s all right. Princesses can live just about anywhere,” I say.

“Even behind black iron bars?” Isla mutters.

I lower my voice with a narrow focus on Isla’s innocent face. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing.” Isla lifts her book and leans back into her original position to continue reading.

“Which iron bars are you referring to?” I press.

“The ones that keep us safe from the evil Jewish people. Shouldn’t you know this?” Isla raises a brow and snarls her lip, making herself a mirror image of her mother.

I step toward Isla’s side of the room and kneel by her bed. “Jewish people are not evil.” As the words fall out of my mouth, regret forms as Isla’s stare grows wide.

“Yes, they are,” Isla argues. “They lie, cheat, and steal. They’re mean and cruel—they even murder innocent people.”

“Are they going to murder me?” Marlene cries out.

“No, no. That’s enough. Not everything you read in a book is true, Isla.” I can only imagine the absurdity written in this propagated book I’m clenching between my hands. I heard enough after Isla told me the book was teaching her how to tell the difference between a good Jew and a bad Jew.

“I didn’t just read about it,” Isla argues. “Mama and Papa say the same.”

My blood boils beneath my skin. There were many Jewish girls and boys who lived alongside me in the orphanage. There wasn’t a difference between us. I’m not sure how to explain that to a little girl who has clearly been raised to think differently.

“She’s right,” Marlene says. “Mama and Papa do say the same thing.”

The truth bubbles on the tip of my tongue, wanting to tell them what their father really does all day. I don’t know if they’d question me after seeing the way he treats their mother. Plus, they have no reason to believe me, of all people.

No. That’s not true. I’m being a coward.

I want to make them see the world differently, better, through innocent eyes.

That’s what I promised myself I’d do in this forced situation.

Even Gavriel wouldn’t stay silent. I know that much now.

I saw the way he looked at the children.

He doesn’t hold them accountable for what they’re being manipulated into thinking.

He must believe they can be saved too. This is what I need to be doing.

“Your mama and Papa have to follow certain rules and laws in order to keep you safe, but the truth is…”

“What? What truth?” Isla snaps back.

“Never mind. I wouldn’t want to get in trouble with your parents. It’s not my place to teach you about this topic.”

My sigh is heavy as I wait for Isla’s curiosity to peak. “I want to know,” she says.

“It’s not my place. I would be sent away from here for breaking rules, and?—”

“No, you can’t leave us!” Marlene cries out. “Please. We want you to stay.”

“My parents wouldn’t listen to a word I say anyway,” Isla says. “I won’t tell them we talked about this. I don’t want you to leave either.”

My chest is lighter, as if I’ve broken through the outer layer of Isla’s steel walls. “Love is stronger than hate. Forgiveness is easier than staying angry. And seeing both sides of a story? That’s like reading two books in one—twice the truth, twice the understanding.”

“Like a book?” Isla asks. “Two characters who have different stories instead of one being a side character to the other?”

“Exactly,” I tell her. She understands. “You see, the Jews can’t be monsters, killing, stealing, or lying because they’re the ones locked behind those black gates.

They’re scared and hungry. They want to live.

That’s all. They don’t want your life. They just want their own back.

But someone decided to read only one side of the story.

And now that’s the only one being told.”

They’re both staring at me as if I’ve told them the sky isn’t blue.

“That’s sad,” Marlene says. “I wouldn’t want to be scared and hungry all the time.” If I say any more, she’ll be up with nightmares tonight. I think I’ve said just enough to encourage a moment of understanding to set into their fragile minds.

“How about we talk about something different,” I suggest. “Have either of you come up with any names for your new baby brother or sister?”

“We don’t want another brother or sister,” Isla grumbles.

“Why not? Having siblings must be the most wonderful feeling in the world. Or so I imagine.”

“You don’t have any sisters or brothers?” Marlene inquires.

“No,” I say. “Or not that I’m aware of. I grew up without a mother or father. But I had orphan siblings, and they were lovely.”

“I bet they didn’t cry all day and night,” Isla says.

“Some did. The crying doesn’t last forever. And before you know it, they’re walking, talking, and might just become your very best friend.”

“That won’t happen with Flora,” Isla says. “Mama says there’s something wrong with her.”

“And what’s that? What’s wrong with her?” I’m surprised Frau Sch?fer has said something like this in front of the girls. Children repeat everything. Surely, the woman knows at least that much.

“She has a bad tummy,” Marlene says.

An hour was far longer than I expected it would take to get Marlene to sleep. The previous nights, they’ve both gone to bed right away without a fuss. They must be getting more comfortable with me, which I suppose is good, but will also become more trying, I’m sure.

The stairs to the attic feel steeper and longer. I imagine I won’t have much trouble sleeping tonight at least.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the grimness of the rainy night with dark clouds that stole the entire sky just before the sun set. Thunder rumbles in the distance and rattles the glass of the window.

I reach for the writing desk and scoop my hand into the front pocket of my apron, retrieving a tea candle, a book of matches, a piece of notepaper, an envelope, and a pencil I’ve managed to scrounge up from around the house.

Most of the items were scattered along their formal dining room table, a resting place for papers and junk.

With the candle lit, I lift the chair away from the desk and place it down gently.

Julia used to sit on the edge of my cot with a candle just like this one when we had bad thunderstorms. She would hum old hymns to help soothe me.

I hated thunder. I still don’t care for it.

She was always there when I needed her, even if I didn’t say so out loud.

I miss the sound of her voice, and the way she gently combed her fingers through my hair until I fell asleep.

I write her name at the top of the paper and press my fingers to it as if it will somehow bring me closer to her.

She must be so worried with how quickly I was forced to leave and say goodbye two weeks ago.

Of course, I don’t have much to say that won’t make her worry more.

I’ll be vague, say enough so she can rest knowing I can handle the situation and myself.

An hour has passed since I put the tip of the pencil to the paper, and now I’m humming on and on about the amount of bourbon lacing the poor baby’s bottle. The guilt of knowing and doing nothing, or not enough, is beginning to chip away at me.