Page 29 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

TWENTY-TWO

HALINA

I spent several hours scrubbing the stench of vomit out of my black dress and apron last night.

I can still smell the rot of partially digested food.

But I have to change out of the striped prison uniform before showing up at the gates of Auschwitz.

Heinrich saw me in that attire last night, didn’t question it, didn’t even know his daughter was vomiting from drinking the same bourbon-laced milk as his infant.

Ada handed me a map on my way out the door as Marlene was pleading to go with me on my “walk.” I could run.

I could escape. There’s a false feeling of freedom as I walk down the street, but as I turn a corner, I find guard posts, roads blocked, and only one direction free to pass.

I might be living in an attic of a house rather than a cell, but there is no way out of this prison town.

The unfamiliar road I’m following by points on the map, reminds me of the time I tried to run away from the orphanage when I was twelve.

There were no Nazis here then, just tall trees, unmarked paths and an idea that there could be a life waiting for me somewhere.

If I could find my parents, they’d see me and wish they hadn’t left me.

I didn’t consider how I would go about finding these two strangers.

I guess I just figured I’d walk past them someday and feel a sense of connection—know it was them, and that they had been looking for me just like I was looking for them.

It was such an outlandish thought and dream, one that got me lost in the woods and eventually found by the police who took me back to the orphanage.

There was no escaping the life I was destined to live then or now.

A red post box catches my attention at the next corner I’m taking.

I was hoping to find one so I could mail my letter to Julia.

I pull the sealed envelope from my apron pocket and quickly drop it into the box as I continue walking down the street, doing what I can to avoid extra attention from onlookers in the nearby buildings.

Within view is a wide, brick building the trains travel through.

I look down at my map, finding my destination to be in a different spot to the main gate.

A train passes, the rumble startlingly loud with a faint murmur of cries beneath the steam whistle.

I can’t help but watch as the train passes, spotting hands poking out between the wooden slats of the cattle cars.

Bile rises from the depths of my stomach from the overwhelming grief, the sound of pain, and the violent odor of rotting earth mixed with thick smoke. All those stories—the rumors and assumptions. Do these people know where they’re being taken? Where they’re going to end up?

I should be focused on where I’m going. I could be walking in as unsuspecting as them, just through a different entrance.

The path I’m on runs alongside a tall fence, topped with barbed wire.

At first, I avoided looking beyond the fence and into the camp, afraid of what I might see.

The truth. People are everywhere, just men from what I can see though.

They’re all dressed in the blue and white striped uniforms, standing in a line, walking in a line, dragging a wagon, or doing nothing at all except staring back at me.

The longer I keep my eyes set on what’s happening within, the more I see.

People falling to their knees, some crawling, others not moving, face down.

I straighten my focus, promising to only look straight ahead rather than at the reality I’m passing.

A watch tower looms over my head, making me feel like nothing more than an insect as I pass.

Another wooden tower unfurls ahead, but it’s short and behind a gate.

The people in front of me have the same badge as the two kapos I saw at the Sch?fers’ house. They show their forearms as identification, a number that’s matched up to the notes in the guard’s hand.

I don’t have a number but I know Gavriel has one. I step up to the tall guard, his face hidden in the shadow of his low angled cap. “I’m here to see Officer Sch?fer. I’m the nanny at his household for his children. My name is Halina Wojic.”

The guard watches me in silence for a long moment—a form of intimidation maybe.

It’s not needed. I don’t want to be here.

He finally glances down at the papers clipped to his board and flips a few pages then drags his pencil down the center of the page.

He turns to his right, presses his fingers beneath his front teeth and whistles to whomever is listening.

“Another guard will take you to him.”

A minute doesn’t pass before another identically uniformed guard approaches the gated entrance.

Without a word, he gestures for me to follow.

As if I’m stepping over the ledge of two different worlds, the weight of my body pulls me into the soggy ground, my shoes smacking from the tackiness of the mud.

Fumes of burning rubbish assault my nose.

There are no prisoners in my path, but I feel them around me.

The air is quiet, no birds, or chirping insects, just distant groans, and muffled shouts.

My mouth becomes bone dry—I’m unable to swallow while questioning why I’ve been told to be here.

A long, narrow one-story building with a harrowing pitched roof is in front of us and a cold sweat climbs up the back of my neck as we approach the foreboding entrance.

Damp wood, mildew and musk taint the air, despite the modern appearance of the interior.

The floors are unfinished, and the wallpaper pattern is dark and busy. The atmosphere is tense.

Officers and guards stride by me, ignoring my presence as if I’m nothing more than the shadow of the man I’m following.

We walk past rooms, bleak with desks with typewriters, chairs, and filing cabinets.

A larger room with one long table and many chairs appears to be a meeting space.

Then there are closed doors, slimmer than doors to the offices.

The corridor appears endless as we continue walking ahead until the guard stops and pivots on his heels to face an open door.

“Officer Sch?fer, your enslaved laborer has arrived.”

The introduction makes me curl my fingers into fists by my side.

I’ve been many things in my life, but to be referred to as a slave when slavery has long been abolished can only be seen as a purposeful method of intimidation—name calling.

Though, I’m not sure what else he could refer to me as, as I’m working against my will.

“Come,” Sch?fer commands.

He speaks to people as if they’re household pets.

This man has nothing more than traits of inferiority masked with his ability to make a one-shot kill.

The guard steps aside, allowing me to walk inside of Sch?fer’s barren workspace: a simple oak desk, typewriter, telephone, pen, inkpot, and a leather-bound notepad.

Through the windows, rows of identical wooden barracks stretch into a foggy gray horizon.

My pulse hammers in every vein as I stare at this man.

He opens a desk drawer, retrieves a folder, and drops it flat on his desk. “Sign these.”

“What are they?”

He snickers, an odd sound from the permanent scowl he wears. “I take it you can read?”

I take the folder into my hands and open the flap, finding a short stack of German typed papers. While he continues to stare at me as I struggle to read through all the text and decipher unfamiliar German terms, my focus catches on one line I can clearly make out:

In corroboration to your position serving a lieutenant of the Reich, you agree to any necessary retrieval of birth records, school records, and religious affiliation records.

“Fill these out and sign the communication agreement at the end,” he states.

“Now? I’d like time to review them properly.”

“These papers do not leave the room. You have ten minutes.”

He leans back in his seat and folds his hands behind his neck.

My throat swells and I dip the pen into the ink and begin writing.

By the time I reach the last section, my hand is stiff and shaking.

It’s a rewritten copy of the house rules, a reminder not to speak to any prisoner or other slaves working under his roof.

No speaking without permission. And never mention what I’ve seen or heard.

Consequences for not obeying these rules will be at Officer Sch?fer’s discretion.

He takes the papers from my hand and flips through the pages. “You’ve missed answers.”

A raucous scream drives through the rumbling window. Sch?fer doesn’t flinch, but I can’t stop myself from looking out for the source of noise.

I squint at what I’m seeing outside. “There’s a man having a seizure or something of the sort just on the other side of the fence.”

“Not a seizure,” Sch?fer says.

“How do you—he’s?—”

“He’s dead,” Sch?fer drones. “Those fences have electrical currents running through them, and some of the—” he clears his throat, “—Jews can’t accept their fate in this world and turn to other means of escaping.”

If I react, I will be giving him exactly what he wants. I will not react. I didn’t want to see another person die. It’s been a day. Just a day.

“I gave you everything I have. There’s nothing more to find. I tried to explain this to you last night.”

“And why is that?”

“I don’t know my parents’ names.”

“You were a ward,” he says. “An orphan.”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I can help.” He taps the pile of papers into alignment. “There are sealed records, protected information—children born out of wedlock, adoptions, that sort of thing. These files are not easily accessed.”

My stomach twists into a painful knot. “Unless, what?”

“Unless a person has certain privileges, of course.” He means himself, clear by the prideful glow in his greedy eyes.

“That’s not something I want to be involved with. And I doubt most others would either,” I say.

“You’d be surprised.” He taps his fingers against his desk and squints at me. “However, I’ve noticed there is one matter you haven’t kept your distance from…”