Page 19 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

Frau Sch?fer has been diligent in making sure she prepares most of Flora’s bottles before I can, which means Flora doesn’t scream or cry much at all, because she’s constantly asleep or barely awake. I’m sure she must have realized I was skipping the drops in any bottle I prepared.

I drop the pencil. For a moment, I let myself drift back to the last embrace Julia and I had—the precipice of no turning back to the only life I’ve ever known.

Her words against my ear, a whisper and a reminder that “ God brought us together, and together we shall be ,” she’d said with a tremble of certainty, as if repeating those very words would make them hold true.

I believe them.

Her.

She’s all I’ve ever had.

And being without her—it’s as if I left a part of me at the orphanage.

The words in my letter stare back at me.

How can I tell Julia about this horrible behavior and not follow it up with a way to stop it?

I should be doing more to help Flora. I’m not sure if I’ve gotten through to Isla at all, and Marlene, I think she listens when I talk.

I had higher expectations for myself of what I would do here and it’s becoming easier to see how irrelevant my existence is in this house.

Except for Gavriel. He notices me. I notice him. I shouldn’t, not here in this death trap of a house. But I can’t stop it from happening.

With each interaction we have, something blooms inside of me. Giving him those sandwiches earlier—the way he looked at me in return—as if I was doing more than just giving him someone’s scraps of food.

It’s one thing to make a difference with these young children, but it’s another to feel seen by someone, seen in a way I didn’t know anyone might desire.

Julia would worry more if I told her about Gavriel, and worse, what it might take for me to save these children.

I just need to do it. I seal up my letter, shove it under the mattress, then slip my hand into my suitcase to pull out the pajamas I never changed into last night. I need to wash up. The thought of going up and down the steep stairs again sends an ache through my legs.

Even the quiet creaks of the floor are louder than they’ve been. No matter how hard I try to avoid each worn spot that bends and moans, the attic stairs are the only ones I can make my way around in silence. The rest of the house seems like a minefield sometimes.

The kitchen is dark, the hallway is darker, but the light in the servant washroom casts a glow across half of the bottom floor.

My mind circles around a thought—one I should push far away, but that isn’t who I am.

I knew my conscience would get the best of me.

As quietly as I can, I tiptoe into the kitchen and grab the tincture of chamomile from the counter, then bring it with me into the washroom where I close myself inside.

The medicine cabinet doesn’t have much aside from an empty bottle of aspirin, smelling salts, dandelion root, and castor oil.

I’m not sure what I was hoping to find, but something more natural than bourbon at least. Without a second thought, I spill the bottle out beneath the faucet.

The strong punch of bourbon waters my eyes.

I’m sure the bottle will still reek of liquor despite replacing it with water. The color is different too.

I stare up at the bottles once more and grab a hold of the dandelion root, twisting it around to read what it’s used for.

Pure vegetable

Remedy for sore muscles, aches and pains

It’s natural and honey colored. It will work.

At least to keep the bottle from being filled with liquor.

One drop of the dandelion oil and I mix the bottle around and replace the dropper.

Hastily, I wash up then press my ear up to the washroom door first, listening for anyone who might have come downstairs while I’ve been in here, but the house is still silent.

I leave the washroom light on so I can hurry into the kitchen and replace the tincture in its right place, then return to the washroom to shut off the light and head back upstairs, wondering what my future will hold tomorrow.

I need to find a way to calm Flora tomorrow. It’s the only way this will work.

“What were you doing downstairs?” a small voice asks as I set foot on the first step up to the attic.

Marlene.

“What are you doing out of bed, young lady?” I ask her.

“My tummy hurts again. Mama and Papa’s door is stuck. I can’t get into their bedroom.”

I take her by the hand, leading her to the washroom on the other side of the nursery, but she stops abruptly and vomits all over the hallway floor. The sound and stench funnel around us, gnawing at my stomach.

The master bedroom door, just a few steps from the puddle of bile, flies open and Frau Sch?fer struts toward us, one hand covering her mouth, the other holding her robe closed around her nightgown.

“I’ll get something to clean up,” I say, my focus set on the washroom door.

“What happened, little darling?” Frau Sch?fer coos at Marlene as she kneels beside her, an unexpected gesture of compassion. “Mama’s here. I’m so sorry.”

Marlene wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“After dinner, I was playing house with my doll. I was the baby this time and I—drank Flora’s bottle.

” My throat tightens as the truth chokes me.

“Did I get sick because I’m not a real baby?

” she asks, her body trembling. She must have done this while I was cleaning the dishes from their meal.

The kitchen prisoner returns to Auschwitz once she’s done cooking for the night.

At that hour, the cleaning becomes my responsibility until she returns in the morning.

The girls were in the family room with their parents after dinner and that must have been where she was playing “house.”

Frau Sch?fer pulls her close and strokes the side of her cheek.

“No, no, my sweetheart, I’m sure you just have a little tummy ache, but you should never drink Flora’s milk.

Her milk isn’t meant for big girls like you.

Promise me you won’t do that again?” Her gaze shifts to mine with a narrow glint, one I’m sure she expects me to decipher as…

I better not mention a word of this to anyone.

“I promise,” Marlene utters.

Clearly it’s not just Flora I need to protect from her mother’s evil ways…