Page 32 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

TWENTY-FIVE

HALINA

It’s the night before school recommences for the children, and also the first night in a while that the entire family have been in the house together without yelling or shouting. Perhaps it’s just the calm before the storm…

Ada walks past me as the girls finish their supper and shoves two pleated dresses against my ribs. “You’ll need these for the morning.”

“Yes, do they have knapsacks, or school supplies I should prepare? And what about their lunches?”

“You,” Ada says, flapping her hand at Kasia. “You have all that, yes?”

With a simple nod, Kasia dries her hand on a rag and shuffles out of the room.

It’s getting close to the time when she, Gavriel, and Adam leave the house for the night to return to Auschwitz, but she still has a sink full of dishes.

And I’m just standing here. I push my sleeves up to my elbows and tend to the sink, avoiding any passing gaze from Ada.

I shouldn’t need to worry about Heinrich as he’s sitting at the table, unengaged, legs crossed, and a newspaper open full spread in front of his face.

With the first dish in hand, I take the wet soapy rag and begin to scrub.

Ada shoves her elbow into my side, and I swallow a gasp before looking over at her.

Her bulging eyes, scrunched nose and pursed lips sneer at me, telling me all but the word, stop.

She’s silent about her demand. Another unlikely gesture from her.

I figure she would want to put a target on my back and tell her husband to grab the gun.

I won’t bother explaining that I was trying to help since I know Kasia will be leaving soon, but there’s no purpose.

Kasia returns and hands me two brown canvas knapsacks, both weighed down with supplies inside.

She cracks open the refrigerator and points to two brown paper bags, each with the girl’s names written across the top.

She must not be allowed to speak. Though I’ve heard Gavriel speak to Heinrich.

“Both of you, go wash up and get ready for bed. You need your sleep tonight,” Ada tells Isla and Marlene.

It’s time for Flora’s bottle and I’m glad I don’t see one prepared on the counter. I’m quite sure Ada had her way with her while I was gone this morning. She’s been far too quiet all afternoon. It sickens me to know what state that poor baby is in.

“Flora cannot stay awake crying all night. Do you understand? You must keep her quiet,” Ada says.

“Of course.” Another impossible situation I must agree to, but I will not poison her daughter.

The bedtime routine for the girls drawled on for what felt like hours before they both settled down. All three of the girls are quiet and Flora is asleep even without a helping of bourbon in her last bottle.

I make my way up to the attic, my feet throbbing from not sitting down much today, and my shoulders heavy from tension. Inside the room, a folded piece of paper starkly contrasts with the old dark floors. I close the door behind me before picking it up to inspect.

I turn it from side to side, finding nothing written on the front or back, but I can see there’s writing inside. My hands tremble as I unfold the note, knowing it could be anything and from anyone given how absurdly this family behaves.

Hali,

Marlene is the only one to call me that since I was a young girl with a handful of friends living with me in the orphanage. I suppose I grew out of the nickname.

I hope you’re resting now, after a day that felt longer than most. I found this paper and pencil on your desk and I couldn’t help myself. Also, I needed to leave something behind, even if just a few lines. I hope you don’t mind.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried. When you were sent out of the house last week, I didn’t know what might have happened to you. Admittedly, I kept glancing out the window, listening for your footsteps along the gravel, hoping I’d see you making your way toward the front door.

Needless to say, I was relieved when you returned, and from what I could see, physically unscathed, I hope. But you’ve been quiet since then and our paths have barely crossed even though we’re under the same roof.

It’s incredible how quickly someone’s distance can make the entire world feel out of place…

I overheard the girls talking about starting school tomorrow.

I started working here just a few days before they were released for their summer break.

From what I noticed, Ada likes to take that time to run errands.

If you find the house too quiet or your thoughts are too loud, maybe you could come visit me. Only if you’d like to, of course.

Sleep well tonight, Halina.

I’m thinking of you.

Gavriel

The note sends a warm flutter to my heart, an unexpected warmth. He’s kind. Thoughtful. And it occurs to me that I’ve never lived in a time where I was allowed to see the people around me as anything but a sibling sharing the life of an orphan, or now, older, as children I care for.

Connections with others have never been a part of my life, not with how frequently people come and go.

And if I leave my heart unguarded, I know pain will inevitably find me.

On the other hand, I don’t remember the last time I allowed myself to risk a chance of pain.

Maybe pain is the consequence of something wonderful. Could that be?

I press the note to my heart just long enough to feel the weight of each written letter.

I’ve been quiet around him, so I don’t chance him getting in trouble, or myself for that matter.

I signed a paper. A foolish paper. Allowing someone to dictate more of my life.

I’m tired of the rules. I hate being afraid.

I want to feel something. I want to live. I want to be me.

I slip the note beneath my mattress, tucking in the corners with a gentle touch. A smile tingles at the edges of my lips before I can stop it.

I sweep away the dander from the bed quilt that’s accumulated throughout the day. The ceiling must be covered in dust, but aside from the slope in the corner, I have no way of reaching the top panels.

Within seconds of dropping down on the lumpy mattress, the silence stews and I’m convincing myself the house is making noises when I know that’s not what I’m hearing.

Flora slept all day. I shouldn’t expect her to be asleep all night too.

Part of me knew I wouldn’t get a chance to change out of my clothes.

I whisk down the steps and rush into Flora’s room to scoop her up before her cries grow any louder.

“I know there may be mice and rats upstairs, but I’ll keep you safe from them,” I hush as I carry her upstairs.

Once closed in my room, I sway side to side with her, finding her cry softening but not stopping completely. “What if I tell you a story?” I whisper to her. “Would you like that?”

As if she understood, she takes a breath and coos a response.

“Is that so? Do you understand what I’m saying?” I ask, gently poking her little nose.

Another coo and a touch of a smile this time.

“Very well. I have just the thing!” I sing softly.

I kneel beside the bed and pull down my old folktale book from the nightstand. I can’t remember any of the stories now. Julia used to read them to me until I was old enough to read on my own, but I suppose I lost interest in children’s tales at an early age.

I twist around and take a seat on the edge of my bed, cradling Flora in the crook of my arm. “Which story shall we read?”

Flora slaps the first page and grunts. “I don’t think you’ll find the copyright page too interesting,” I tell her.

She slaps every page I open. “How about, The Frog Princess ?”

I jump right in without checking to see how many pages the story is, but after the sixth page, not only are my eyes starting to close but Flora has fallen asleep. I gently place her down on the bed, careful not to disturb her.

The book falls off my lap, slapping against the wooden floor and I nearly shout at myself for being so careless.

Thankfully, Flora remains asleep. I lean down and pick it up, grabbing it by the back cover.

I shut the book and place it down beside me and curl Flora into my arms, so she doesn’t roll off the bed.

Despite nearly falling asleep moments ago, all I can do now is listen to Flora’s long, deep breaths, and stare at the side of my book, glowing from the moonlight peeking in through the window.

I never noticed the pages didn’t align before.

The pages must be warped. But I’ve always been so careful with it, so I don’t know how that could have happened.

I flip the book open to the end, where the last page doesn’t meet with the back hard cover.

It’s warped—the thick paper coating beneath the bound canvas covering.

Staring at the slightly raised center, I notice the beveling is in the shape of a perfect rectangle. I sweep my fingers over it again, finding a distinct edge on each side. Along the bottom as I find both corners, the protrusion budges upward. Something’s behind the paper lining.

I pick at the canvas, seeing if the glue will come loose easily and it does.

The fold is so tight around the edges that it must have been holding the back flap together.

Even the lining is loose. I slide a finger between the back panel and the lining and catch the corner of what must be a folded piece of paper.

It takes me a minute to fidget my finger in the right position to pinch the paper enough to slide it to the open edge, but once it’s free, I’m dumbfounded to find another piece of paper worn and soft, old, but untouched.

What is this? My fingers tremble unsteadily as I try to carefully unfold the paper, scared to tear whatever it is. Once it’s unfolded completely, I find crisp penmanship, perfect lettering—the hand of a calligrapher maybe—of a letter made out to:

My Sweet Halina