Page 47 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

THIRTY-NINE

GAVRIEL

A bolt clinks; too much clinking. Metal grinding against rusty metal, a high-pitched screech drilling into my head. A hand grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me forward, a reminder of the first night I was blindly thrown in here for a crime still unknown.

I stare through the darkness, making out less than an outline of a figure in front of me. “Jozek? Is that you? My brother…you’re here? Is Natan here too?” My voice is cracked and phlegmy, but he must know it’s me. Am I really here?

“Shh, just a little longer,” Jozek whispers.

“Silly baby Natan will never find us here. He’s a-a-afraid of the cellar.

” Even as the oldest of us three at nearly thirteen, I don’t like it down here very much either.

No one should. The creaks from upstairs sound like ghouls dragging their feet across the wooden boards, and it smells like sweat.

I think I might be the one sweating though.

Jozek laughs, the sneaky laugh he makes when we’re doing something we shouldn’t be. He and Natan begged me to play hide-and-seek. I should have known better. It always ends with someone getting into trouble.

“Maybe we should spare him from this place. He’s only eight. I know a spot outside where we can hide. It’s a great hiding place,” I say, trying to convince Jozek to play fairly.

“Come on, Gav, you’re not talking about Pa’s toolshed that hardly any of us can fit inside, are you?” Yes. There aren’t many places to hide when we’ve spent entire summers doing nothing but hiding and seeking.

“Jozek,” I say, using the deeper voice I’ve suddenly developed. “Let’s be fair.”

“Your fairness will rub off on me someday I suppose. But it’s lame. It is. Come on, quick before he counts to a hundred.”

The memory of the cellar in my childhood home fades. The tender nostalgia of my brothers pales. I’m left with only the ripe stench of rot and sewage and the clatter of metal slabs.

“Shut up,” a man barks, his syllables spewing spit on my face.

“Or I’ll put you back in there.” A gloved hand tightens around my wrist and a handheld light blinds me despite the stark darkness surrounding me.

“Move it, trash.” A fist jabs between my shoulder bones, shoving me forward, forcing me to stumble, then jerks backward.

The fist drops but another grasp of my wrist follows, pulling me until my feet hit a barrier.

“Up!” The shouting continues, right in my ear.

With every bit of strength I can muster, I lift my left foot, my toe hitting the barrier twice more before finding a flat surface of the stairs.

I try to look behind me from over my shoulder, wondering if it really was Jozek I thought I saw.

There’s no one behind me though. The others are still in the cell, the door now closed again.

My limbs cramp with each movement and nerves tremor through me, a warning I might collapse before I reach the top of the uneven steps I’m navigating. A light much brighter than the one that just assaulted my eyes, bears over me so heavily I can’t keep my eyes open as I move closer.

How long had I been down there? Am I alive or dead?

I’ve promised myself I’ll stay upright, not give in.

Visions of Halina, her smile, the small moments of joy she’s given me, the craving for her has been worse than for food.

I need her warmth even after I’ve likely sweat every bit of water out of my body. She must be wondering if I’m dead too.

A warm draft of air washes over my face, leaving me with the stench of waste, mildew, and decay. The breeze chokes me, drawing out a dry painful cough that heaves my body forward. Again, I try to open my eyes, but the daylight burns, aches, weighs more than I can withstand.

My clothes drag underfoot, damp, soiled, and gaping at my waist.

Another flash of Adam’s face whips through my mind, the shock within his wide eyes as I lifted him from the ground. I didn’t do enough to save him. My mind is like a broken carousel, life spinning around me with no way to make it stop.

The gravel kicks up and slips into the gaping sides of my boots, adding more pain to each step.

The camp sounds different, more buzzing from the electric wired fences and fewer cries of pain.

A siren rings in the distance but I’m not sure from what direction.

Prisoners limp by or carry themselves past as if their only job is to keep themselves upright, and they stare at me as they do.

I’m the vision of a consequence. A consequence that had no cause.

I’m sure the sight of me is reason enough for no one to step out of line.

I catch a stare, holding on to it as if the world is moving slowly around us, a conversation full of questions pooling in the man’s eyes. Can he read the answers in mine?

Maybe the dirt is the same, the wooden buildings are just as dark, the people still sick and weak. It’s me who’s different, the sun burning my eyes, the air cooler than the inside of the cell, the burning ash less acidic than the bile inside.

A whistle in the distance repeats over and over, striking a sensitive nerve in my ear, causing a pain to shoot down my neck. Dogs bark too, one at a time, as if they’re conversing.

The hand still around my forearm releases, but not without swinging me forward into the side of a building. “Latrines. Five minutes,” the growling voice says.

I squint through my swollen eyes and lift my hand in front of my face to block out the sun as I drag my feet toward the opening of the latrine.

The wooden walls envelop me as my head wobbles like a puppet hanging from a string.

A man is sprawled out on the ground in front of me, alone.

No one else is in here at this hour, whatever hour it is.

It’s not dark, and the sun isn’t rising or setting. At least, I don’t think so.

I grab the rim of the trough, feeling a searing burn in my hand, forgetting about the wound that’s still masked by the original bandaging.

I don’t know if I’ve been healing or if the wound has grown.

I’ve had no means to see anything or care for myself in any way.

The pain isn’t a good sign after the many days that have passed since the injury.

I switch hands and twist around, hovering over the man and pressing against the aching joints in my legs to reach my fingers to the man’s neck. His cold neck.

His neck without a hint of a pulse. Someone just left him here. Dead.

My stomach quavers from hunger and nausea, and the thoughts compiling in my head. I need his pants. I won’t be able to work in mine. I won’t be able to work at all right now.

How can I consider something so awful? Taking away a man’s dignity when he’s already lost his life.

I pull myself back up and crank the water nozzle adhered to the pipe, tilting my head below the weak stream of warm water.

My head grows heavier as the stream runs over the sides of my face, useless as watering a dead plant in the middle of a desert.

A groan escapes my throat, and my eyes roll back into my head as I imagine being home, soaking in a tub—a thought so far gone, I’ve almost forgotten the sensation.

I gulp in the water, mouthfuls at a time, as much as possible before the nausea becomes unbearable.

With a few splashes of water on my face, neck, and chest, I glance back down at the dead man.

“I’m sorry. I wish I knew your name, so I could politely ask if it would be all right if I borrowed your pants?”

Please God, forgive me.

I was hoping today was a Sunday, the one day we don’t work, but it’s not, or so I should assume since I’m being led down the familiar path to the SS residences.

I still don’t know why I was locked up. I’ll never know.

The others locked in there with me said they likely needed to blame someone or people for something and I was one of them.

No crime is necessary to end up in a cell.

What was the purpose if they’re keeping me alive?

It doesn’t make sense. I don’t know what I’ve done wrong, if I did anything wrong, that they know of.

Will Halina still be there?

Will she recognize the mess of a man I’ve surely become?

My face is swollen—I can feel it with every blink and breath. The top of my uniform reeks of manure and it’s falling off my shoulders. Who would want me in their house?

“You better pull yourself together before stepping back into that house. Officer Sch?fer expects the completion of his attic expansion by the end of the month,” a kapo tells me, a man I’ve never seen before. I should just be glad it’s not Oskar, that bastard. “That’s in ten days.”

How should one pull themself together after being locked in a dark prison cell with God only knows how many others, but enough that no one could sit or lie on the ground?

We leaned on each other for support, and the support came from the outer layer of people next to the walls.

We fought over scraps of food like rats in a sewer and water was dumped over us as if we were a fire they were trying to put out.

No toilet. No light. Just daily beatings.

Pain, hunger, and images of people dying.

What if they got rid of Halina while I was gone? I would never see her again. Then again, even if we do see each other once more, I’m almost sure it will be a temporary encounter. This is likely just a continuation of my punishment.

I wish I had gotten a chance to spend more time with her, live a real day with her. As if the persecution against innocent people isn’t horrible enough, I ache for what could have been if life had been normal, even a semblance of normal. Though, perhaps we would never have met then…

We step off the path surrounded by the woods, over the very spot where Adam’s body had fallen.

I clench my fists in silent agony. We walk around the back of the house toward the servant door, over the stone patio with pockets of puddles.

I struggle to step over one, nearly losing my balance that still isn’t right yet.

I catch my reflection in the swirling water, finding a disfigurement of a person, wondering if it’s me that’s disfigured or an illusion from the water.

“Go on inside,” the kapo says.

Why is he being so much kinder to me than Oskar was? Is he real? Or am I seeing him like I thought I saw my brothers. If Halina’s here and she walks past me, I guess I’ll have my answer. Maybe I’m stuck somewhere in between living and hell.

I step inside and glance into the kitchen, toward the oversized clock on the wall, marking the day at ten in the morning. Kasia isn’t in the kitchen, and I don’t know what’s become of her. Did she suffer the same punishment as me? I hope not.

The stairs are painful and higher than I recall, and I use my good hand to do the heavy lifting along the banister. A momentary sense of relief washes over me when I reach the bedroom floor but then I remember the awful stairwell to the attic and how much more painful those will be.

“And so, they were married, and they lived happily ever after. The end.”

Hali? I glance around making sure no one else is around before limping toward Flora’s bedroom and poking my head inside.

She’s still here. Or am I imagining this?

“Hali?” I call out in a whisper.

I watch her playing with a stuffed bear, moving it from side to side as Flora rocks back and forth between her knees and hands. But she doesn’t turn toward the door—toward me. I don’t know if my voice came out at all…