Page 2 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

ONE

GAVRIEL

I lay each brick slowly, pressing it into the wet mortar, knowing it will outlive me. I’m twenty-three, and already I know that these walls, when finished, will stand long after the last scream blurs into ash.

The long rectangular structure, shallow and partly underground, is unmistakable.

I recognized it once the foundation was set.

Same width. Same slope. The dimensions match the crematorium just south of here—the one where the chimney never stops sputtering and smoke drifts up until it becomes one with the sky.

There, the line of unsuspecting and innocent people never ends. They only move in one direction.

They go in.

They don’t come out.

Burning ash fills our noses and it sticks to us long after we’re done working, reminding us of what’s around us and what’s waiting for us.

The air at this end of the camp is dry with soot and the dust of limestone. Mortar gums up my throat and feels gritty between my teeth. I focus on the metallic scrape of the trowel and dull thud of stone, a familiar companion.

Pa wouldn’t recognize me now. Just skin, muscle, and bone. No fat anywhere. My hair’s been shaved to avoid lice, but I’m left with sunburns. I’ve never had that issue before, not with a thick head of dark hair.

Sometimes, I catch my reflection in puddles.

The sight is jarring. I tell myself the water distorts features, but…

the face looking back, the hollow cheeks, and eyes too deep.

It’s me. I feel it. Even my hands used to be calloused and ready to work.

Now, they split open too easily, always raw and bloody.

Pa may not be here to see what’s become of me, but at least I can still hear his words with every brick I lay.

“Don’t force it, Gavriel. Let it settle into the mortar.

Let it become a solid.” He said if we build slowly with a critical mind, the walls will shelter, comfort, and last for generations of families.

Not here. Families are a distant thought here.

Back in the suburbs outside of Krakow when I built walls alongside my brothers and Pa, I would imagine the people who would eventually live inside them: A young couple sharing their first home together, a baker preparing to become well-known for his fresh bread, or a schoolhouse that would keep the youngest generations educated and safe.

Before September 1939 and the invasion when the Reich took everything from us, we’d be up every morning before dawn. Nails in my pockets and sawdust stuck to the scruff of my chin. Every day felt like a new adventure.

Days blurred together until Friday. Shabbat. Ma’s table would be set like nothing else mattered. Wine filled our glasses, bread steamed from the wicker basket, and Hebrew prayers were sung with passion.

“ Music to my ears ,” Ma would say, gleaming with pride.

“ Feeding my hungry family of men is my life’s purpose—until one of you gives me grandchildren, of course.

” As the oldest son, she’d look right at me, then she’d say it again, so I knew she was serious.

I would then bite my tongue until she concluded her thoughts with: “Regardless, I am a blessed Jewish woman.”

We believed every word. Because we were a blessed Jewish family.

Our family had been building homes since my great-great-grandfather laid his first foundation with his bare hands.

Pa always had a dream of his three sons taking over the business someday, but Jozek, my younger brother, has plans to become a doctor, and Natan, the youngest, wants to be a world-renowned journalist who writes about the corners of the earth no one has discovered.

Me, though, I’m like my pa. I always knew I’d step up to the position someday. I just had to earn my way there first.

We prayed the war wouldn’t last long. That forced labor would be the worst of it. It wasn’t. A year and a half later, in March 1941, they tore us from our home and locked us inside the Krakow ghetto.

More labor awaited, but not the kind that builds anything. Just sweeping and shoveling streets. Tedious and relentless work. We dreamed of the next time we’d be allowed to build something again. Ma told me to be grateful. She said what we had was enough. I should have listened better.

Now I’m building again, but for cold-blooded killers, not families. The family business is long gone, along with my family who I was stripped from in the ghetto six weeks ago, brought to Auschwitz’s tall black gates that read: “Work Will Set You Free.”

Despite my anguish over being separated from my family, I consider myself lucky for being assigned to masonry work here. But everything we’re told at Auschwitz is a lie.

We will all work until we die. Even Pa’s promise that hard work is the ticket to a good life seems impossible here.

“The sun is going to fry us up here today,” Adam says, handing me the next brick.

His hands are raw, knuckles bloody. If I look anything like he does right now, then we both have black streaks of sweat carving trails through the ash stuck to our faces.

The mortar is drying up too quickly and there isn’t a spot of shade on this wooden scaffold that groans with every shift of our weight.

Adam doesn’t have masonry experience, but he was a farmer. He’s been quick to learn, has steady hands and is sharper than he lets on.

I’m a few years older than him, and he reminds me of Jozek.

Same way of moving, same quiet strength.

And his sense of humor—dry and unpredictable—is just like Natan.

He reminds me of my brothers in more ways than I’d like to admit, and somehow that helps.

He’s filled part of the painful void I was forced to leave behind.

It’s a gift to have a dependable friend in this place, and quite rare. Plus, we work well together. He has the bricks coated in mortar, ready and waiting for me. I scrape off the excess, place it, then level the row. It’s become a mechanical rhythm for us.

There’s only one difference between us. He’s a dreamer, and I’m too honest with myself. But I need him. Just like I needed my brothers. We were always dependable, and a team, even when arguing over stupid things. I try to be that to Adam now, and he does the same for me.

I guess we balance each other, which gives us each a sense of purpose to make it through another day.

“You know,” I say, squinting toward the clear sky, “we should have made a weak spot somewhere so the whole thing collapses in a week.”

Adam scratches his eyebrow, a faint smirk creases along the dirt smudges. “We’d get two minutes of celebration before they made us rebuild it. Twice the bricks, half the mortar.”

He has a point. “You’re right. They’d want us to build a bigger, more reliable chimney of death,” I say, nodding toward the other crematorium building. But would it even matter? Would the setback save anyone? Or slow the inevitable?

Adam stares toward the other crematorium, his jaw shifting side to side. “That’s not what this building is. You can’t believe every rumor that goes around—I keep telling you, my friend.”

“But you can see it’s the same layout. Same design.”

He shakes his head, his mouth pinched shut as if he’s holding in more than words. “It’s different. You’ll see. It’ll be another kitchen or something.”

“Another kitchen for who?” I ask. “They don’t feed us Jews as it is.” The truth and reality are so ridiculous that I chuckle. “Don’t you remember when you thought the sauna was for relaxation rather than a delousing station?”

“Point taken. Point taken,” he mutters. “Then a barbershop. Now, that’s something you can’t argue. The guards are always eager to shave every hair off our heads. They probably just need more space to do that.”

I let his dry joke land between us. “Maybe you’re right.” I can’t tell if I’m watching out for him or allowing him to watch out for me. There’s no real method of protecting anyone here, but we’re in this together no matter how we end up.

The mortar has gotten too thick. “We need to add water,” I say, tapping the trowel against the rim of the bucket.

“I’ll grab it,” Adam says, already climbing down the rungs.

While he’s gone, I push the last few bricks closer and stir up what’s left of the mix.

The wooden handle of the trowel shakes in my grip, the metal neck threatening to snap.

But it holds. I smear on a wad of compound, line the brick, and guide it into place.

My makeshift plumb-bob swings once, twice, then stills. And on to the next.

When Adam returns, he’s flushed, the whites of his eyes reddening as he winces from something. He scans the scaffold plank from one side to the other. “Load up the next stack,” he hollers down to the man below, his breath ragged.

“Want me to get the pulley this time?” I ask. If we don’t finish up soon, one of us is going to drop.

“I got it,” he says, setting the bucket of water down. “This should be the last load.”

I scrape the extra mortar from the edge and take a step back, staring down at the chimney’s rectangular column.

I glance through the trees toward the identical structure across the way and shame simmers in my gut.

I built this chimney. I ensured that each brick was lined up to perfection and the sturdiness could never be in question.

The smoke will rise high into the clouds, bringing fragments of innocent people to heaven.

Pa would be so proud of the craftsmanship…

until he found out what this chimney is being used for.

I lift the hem of my jacket and dry the sweat off my face, noticing an SS officer standing between a couple of guards.

They’re staring up at the chimney, pointing and chatting.

Did I work too fast or too slow? Did I forget something?

I return my focus to the brick pattern, studying it for inconsistencies, but finding none.

A whistle slings through the air, recapturing my attention.

“You there, brick-boy, come,” the watching SS officer shouts up to me.

Me. He’s talking to me, just me. I curl my hand around my throat, where my pulse hammers.

I grip the ladder’s side and take another glance down at the officer, wondering if he’s laughing because I’m sure he can sense the fear from where he’s standing.

He’s still, just staring with his arms folded across his chest.

He told me to come. As if I’m a dog.

I scale down the ladder and make my way over to the officer, trying to hold my posture straight as my stare falls to the ground. My fingers twitch by my sides, coated in mortar dust and sweat. The moment I stop working, the pain and hunger set in. I clench my fists to steady myself.

I step up to the man, nearly a head shorter than me, and wait for him to speak.

“You have experience with masonry, yes?”

“Yes.” My response is muffled by a passing laborer pulling a wagon over dirt-riddled rocks. The clatter is so loud it sounds like a metal rubbish bin rolling down a hill. I can’t help but stare at the pile of cans the man is transporting. Each of them is stamped with a single label: Zyklon-B.

There it is.

The poison they use to kill people.

The ultimate proof.

Even Adam reacts to the sight. From the corner of my eye, I notice him stiffen, staring at the cans.

The officer clears his throat as the wagon stops to the side of the building. “Your attention to detail is—” he says with a hard blink before continuing. “Your skills are needed elsewhere.” They would never pay a Jew a compliment, and I don’t want one from him or any of the other beasts. “Come.”

No one in the vicinity speaks. No one moves. They just watch me go—like they’ve already decided I won’t be coming back.