Page 40 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

No, I don’t, even less of a right than she does.

It’s difficult to walk around, now knowing I’m Jewish and living as if I’m not.

If I hadn’t found that letter, I might not have known for years or longer.

I could have a false sense of confidence, not knowing, or the truth might be written on my face now. I’m not sure.

I wrap my hand around the sun-warmed rusted door handle and push open the blue painted wooden door, the creak so loud I consider how many people have turned around to look at me walking inside.

With no windows, the inside is dimly lit by a few hanging lights.

Tall wooden cabinets create a thin maze within the cramped space.

Each cabinet is covered with smudged glass panes and each shallow shelf holds paper-labeled brown bottles.

Nothing looks new. Even the names written on labels are wearing away.

The air is thick with mold and mildew, or maybe old herbs, and the floor creaks with every step I take.

In the back of the shop is a counter with a middle-aged man in a brown wool vest worn over a white buttoned shirt, the sleeves neatly folded up to his elbows.

A woman in rags, hair in disarray, leans over the counter toward the man, speaking quietly as she slides a scrap of paper closer toward herself and simultaneously presses a small stack of coins away from her.

The man places a bottle on the counter from a shelf beneath and she snags it quickly, dropping it in her coat pocket, then turns around and hurries out the door.

“Can I help you with something?” he asks me in German. Though the sound is garbled by the rolling carts and wagons outside the door, I can tell German isn’t his mother tongue. I belong here, I tell myself, wishing my inner thoughts were more convincing…

“Yes, I’m looking for supplies to dress and disinfect a wound,” I say, making my way up to the counter.

“You’ll need iodine, bandages, gauze, and painkillers? Is there any sign of infection?”

“No, not yet.”

The man locks eyes with me, as if he’s waiting for me to give him more information.

Or maybe he’s wondering if I’m good for the products I’m requesting.

I reach down into my apron pocket and shuffle the Reichsmarks between my fingers and place them on the counter.

The man’s eyes light up when he sees the Reichsmarks then studies me once again, likely piecing together the sound of my bad German accent while carrying their currency.

“Whatever thirty Reichsmarks can get me.”

“Yes, of course. Come this way,” he says, peering past me toward the front door.

I follow him along the back side of the store until we reach a door in the farthest corner.

He pushes inside then pulls a string dangling from the ceiling to illuminate the storage closet he’s stepped into.

He swipes items from the shelves and reaches behind him for a paper bag that he hollows out before dropping the items inside.

“This should be enough to treat a moderate wound.”

I hand him the money and he drops it into his pocket while handing me the paper bag. “Thank you,” I utter before turning around and making a quick exit.

Rosalie turns to face me as I step outside, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“I got what I need.”

“Thank goodness.”

Our brief conversation has caught the interest of a Gestapo standing nearby but behind Rosalie and I didn’t notice him when I walked inside the shop.

He studies the bag in my hand then shifts his gaze to the carriage.

I tighten my grip on the paper bag and press Flora’s stroller forward over the cobblestone. “Let’s go.”

Just as we turn the corner to the next block, the hairs on my arm rise. The sound of boots closing in behind us…I hold my breath. Waiting.

“You, ladies, wait there.” The voice slings around my throat like a lasso.

“Speak German. Don’t show your fear,” Rosalie whispers.

“No fear. I’m not afraid.” It’s a lie.

“Officer, have we done something wrong?” Rosalie asks, her German far more fluent than mine.

He studies us and the children, stalling, my nerves fraying. “Where are you off to?”

“Back to our servants’ quarters,” Rosalie replies without pause. “We’re running errands for the madams.”

“Identification,” he demands, staring past us as if he’s lost interest and found something more important to focus on.

“The paper from the booklet, stating who you serve, will do,” Rosalie whispers.

The breathy words catch the officer’s attention, his eyes narrow with daggers as if I’ve cursed at him. “I’m new to the role,” I mumble, trying to hide my poor German.

“I’m responsible for training her,” Rosalie adds, handing him her paper. He scans it and returns it just as hastily.

My hand quivers as I dip my fingers into my apron pocket, retrieving the paper I slipped inside the day I set foot in the Sch?fer house.

With a long inhale, I struggle to steady my hand as I hand the paper over to the officer.

He doesn’t hesitate to take it from my pinched fingers, scans the information and stares as if puzzled by what he’s reading.