Page 33 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

TWENTY-SIX

HALINA

My body deflates on the bed, and I can’t figure out how to make my eyes keep reading past “My Sweet Halina?—”

There’s two pieces of paper that were folded in together and I desperately flip each paper over, in search of a signature. Then I find it…

With all my love to you,

Your mama

(Nora Belle Wojic)

The papers flutter to my lap as my eyes fill with tears.

I haven’t read any other words. All I see is a blur of script in soft brown ink, each loop of a letter elegant but purposeful—like she was trying to define herself through the ever curling sweep of her pen.

I don’t know what she has to say or how I didn’t know this note was folded into the seams of the book.

Why now? She couldn’t have known when I’d find this.

My questions are endless, which is why I’m struggling to lift the papers back up. What if there are no answers?

My entire life…I’ve just wanted to know who they are, what they looked like—why…

I shove my hand back into the book’s torn seam, searching for anything else, a photograph, anything, but the note is alone.

I turn the pages back over and lift them up, my hand unsteady as I try to keep the pages still enough to read.

Nora Belle Wojic, I repeat in my head .

With a long, tired blink, I resettle my focus on the top of the page and push through the salutation:

My Sweet Halina,

I hadn’t planned to write you a letter, not before you ever took your first breath.

But a heaviness inside of me, something I can’t explain told me I should.

My parents, your bubbie and grandpa, God rest their souls, used to tell me that when great life events are imminent, we gain a sense of clarity. I see now that must be true.

The doctor tells me you’re a girl, by the way I’m carrying you, and he also said you are quite spirited, so much, you keep me awake many times with all your little kicks.

Sometimes I press my hands to my belly and whisper to you as if you’re already here.

I cannot yet see your face, but I know I love you more than I ever thought I could love anyone.

If this letter finds its way into your hands, it means the worst of my fears were in fact a premonition. You may not yet understand what this means. If you’re young, I ask you to tuck this away. One day, when you are older and the world makes more sense, read it then. And you will understand.

Your father and I never wed. We spoke of it, the idea of exchanging vows during a small ceremony, nothing grand, but the idea was always talk for another day. Then, I took ill with what I thought was a passing sickness, which turned out to be you.

There in a small medical office, your father and I seated side by side, the doctor asked about our religious affiliations. Of course, with great pride, I told him that I am Jewish.

Your father stood as if he’d been struck with a mallet.

He hadn’t known. I hadn’t been to a temple in some time, not since your bubbie and grandpa passed.

But when I learned that I was to become a mother, I promised I would return to the temple, reconnect with tradition to do right by our faith, for you—for us.

Your father changed in an instant. His silence was deafening. Like too many men who returned from the war, he carried grief and blame within his heart. He believed the lies and whispers that trickled down our city streets that our people, the Jews, were to blame for the nation’s loss.

From that day on, he turned against me. I became his enemy. He demanded I rid myself of you. I would not. Could not. I already loved you with everything I had. You were already a part of me, and I would do anything to protect you.

He grew violent. First with words. Then with hands. He tried to force my decision through fear, bruises, and threats. I’ve begged him to leave and told him I would raise you alone. We would be fine. But he told me…no Jewish child, would live to carry his name.

I’ve been hiding at night, slipping from place to place, watching over my shoulder for him. I’ve saved what little money I could for a train ticket to get away from here. But I fear I’m running out of time. He’s much faster than a weary, swollen woman.

This is the part I’ve been dreading: If he finds me again, I don’t know what he’ll do. He may try to rid us both before you’re given the chance to draw your first breath. But if by a miracle, you enter this world and survive without me, you must find someone kind and show them this letter.

Even if your father puts on a gentler face, I don’t trust he will remain that way. He’s hurt me far too many times. Men like him do not change. Ever.

You are Jewish. And that means you come from a line of people who were born in bondage before being led to freedom.

We were taught to show compassion and kindness, to offer bread to the hungry, and never let cruelty slip into our hearts.

That is who we are—that is what runs through your veins.

It is sacred, and unbreakable. Be proud of it.

As I write this, I picture you with my smile, dimples, your small hand curled around my finger. I pray with all that I have that I will live to see you laugh, to braid your hair, and teach you the Shema prayer. But if I cannot…let these words be my voice when you need it.

I pray this letter remains tucked inside your folktale book, never needing to be read. But if you are holding this letter in your hands, you must know…

You were a dream I prayed would come true.

I protected you with everything I had.

You were always and will always be loved by me.

With all my love to you,

Your mama

(Nora Belle Wojic)

The Third day of May, Nineteen-Twenty-One

I brush my finger across the date beneath her signature. I was born just one week later according to the paper pinned to my baby blanket. My body trembles with fury. Tears burn behind my eyelids—tears I’ve refused to let fall since I was little.

Yesterday, I was an invisible nobody. An orphan. A mishap. Today—today, I’m the daughter of a woman who fought to protect me. And I’m still here. Alive and breathing. That must mean something, mustn’t it?

My hands shake so violently the bed frame rattles against the wall. I squeeze my hands together to stop myself, but the tremor moves into my legs. I can’t stop shaking.

I carefully slide off the side of the bed, onto the floor so I won’t wake Flora.

I fold myself into my knees, the pressure against my chest not doing enough to suppress this ache.

It hurts too much. I’ve never felt this type of pain.

I’m not sure what it is—if other people feel like this when…

their lives were ruined before they could form a memory.

Who is this man—my father?

What did he do to her?

She didn’t say his name in the letter.

This letter has been with me my entire life. Hidden and out of sight. The truth was tucked in beside me every night.

She loved me. My mother loved me.

She loved me.

And my father hated me.

Because I’m Jewish.

Because I’m like her.

I’m Jewish.

And I’m working for the Nazis.

Serving them. Feeding their children.

My stomach heaves, and my hand flies up to my mouth. I hold my breath and close my eyes, my body swaying back and forth. Back and forth. Why? Why did it have to be this way?

I fold the papers back up, as tightly as they were, following the original creases, and pull myself up onto the bed to slip the note back into the seam of the book. I shove the book back into the interior pocket of my suitcase and button the flap.

No one has ever searched for my mother’s name. Will Heinrich have access to papers that Julia didn’t? Could that happen?

“ You look like a Jew .” His voice bounces around in my head, the memory of those words he spoke to me the day he found me along the edge of the woods.

I have to get out of here before they realize the truth.

Out of this house.

Out of this prison.

What if I can’t? What if it’s too late?

I scoop Flora into my arms, careful not to move her around much. She’s still very much asleep and I need to get her back to her crib while I figure out how I’m going to escape a life behind those tall iron bars of Auschwitz.

The beat in my chest is erratic, like fists pounding the head of a drum as I steady myself to amble down the stairs, then keeping my arms from shaking as I lower Flora into her crib.

A cold chill snakes up my spine and I manage to return to my room without causing a stir.

I’m still trying to picture my mother writing these words without a foggy hint as to what she looked like.

Do I look like a horrible Jew hating person or do I look like a woman who would give up everything for a baby she never met?

What am I made up of?

What part of him is in me?

Is it the chill I’ve learned to use as battle armor?

Or the sharp use of tongue I sometimes can’t control.

What if I’ve been the one keeping him a part of me all this time? I don’t want it. I don’t want him to be a part of me.

Julia will know what to do. I have to get to her. They can’t keep me here. I am not their servant. I will never be their slave. They don’t own me.

I don’t think…

How can someone hate an unborn child? Where does that kind of hatred come from?

I thought I knew who I was.

Doesn’t everyone by this age?

Not me. I don’t know anything about myself.

I’m a stranger in my own body.

And I can’t think of a lonelier, worse feeling.