Page 6 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

FOUR

HALINA

The maroon Baroque door towers above me with whittled embellishments, curling like vines around the edges.

It’s the kind of door that might swallow a person up and never spit them back out.

I force my feet forward, one step, then another over a stone threshold and into a breath of cool air that cloaks me like damp linen.

The sunlight fades behind me and I debate whether I’ll ever see it again.

Frau Sch?fer, the officer’s wife, stands as if sculpted, poised with golden curls pressed against the collar of her olive-green dress.

Pearl earrings frame her pale complexion, but her eyes—they’re dark, shadowed beneath thick lashes.

Her lip curls—just a smidge—as she sweeps a hand over the slight swell of her belly.

A reflex, or a warning. She watches me with cat-like eyes as if I’m a common thief who wandered into her home.

“Children,” she says, her voice smooth but stern, “come meet your new nanny.”

A succession of hammering or banging fills the quiet as two young girls step out of an adjoining room just beyond the officer and Frau Sch?fer. Both spitting images of their mother except for their chocolate brown hair, neatly braided down their backs.

The older of the two girls holds an infant in her arms and steps forward first as they walk past their parents and up to my toes.

When the hammering ends, the girl takes the moment to speak.

“We’re pleased to meet you,” she says. “My name is Isla. I’m ten.

This is my sister, Marlene.” The younger daughter steps up to her sister’s side, her expression shy.

“Marlene’s five. And this is our baby sister, Flora.

” Isla tugs the blanket down from Flora’s chin as if presenting her. “She’s ten months old.”

While inspecting each of them, I catch the reflection of the chandelier against the polished floors.

The hammering begins again. The walls rattle, the floors vibrate. The children seem unaffected though. Even the baby stares up at the shimmering crystals dangling over her head. She must be entranced by the sparkles.

These children don’t appear to be miniature versions of evil yet. Maybe it’s not too late for them after all. Though the sight of Flora’s stillness has a hold on me. Her body is limp in Isla’s arms, her expression vacant.

“Very well. Now that you’ve all met, I must return to work. If any problems arise, ring Administration,” Officer Sch?fer shouts above the racket of banging.

He straightens his cap, nods his head at the girls and walks out the door without so much as a goodbye. Despite the cold exchange, Frau Sch?fer’s tight-lipped smile doesn’t speak of an issue. His sudden movement stirs up an overpowering aroma of a powdery-rose perfume.

“Follow me. I’ll show you around,” she says, curling her finger toward the adjoining room the girls came from. “It won’t be long until the girls are heading to school once the summer break ends, but for now, they’ll need to be kept occupied.”

Her heels stomp on the hardwood floors in contrast and off beat from the hammering above us.

We walk into what appears to be the formal sitting room.

We pass an ornate mirror with golden trim where I catch a glimpse of myself as we pass by.

My braid is fraying at the edges, singular strands sticking to my damp temples.

My apron has a yellow-tint I didn’t notice before, and the fabric of my dress has a burgundy hue rather than the flat black I’ve always seen.

My pale complexion and cracked lips are the only familiar features I notice.

It’s clear, I don’t belong here, surrounded by all this luxurious furniture and expensive wooden side tables.

My focus latches onto the brick wall above the fireplace, a large, framed piece of a black eagle clutching a swastika inside a wreath.

The eagle eyes stare back at me with venom as if it might swoop off the wall and gauge my eyes out.

“This is the formal sitting room. Family and guests only. There won’t be a need for you in here,” Frau Sch?fer says, her final words ending in venom as she was speaking over the upstairs thudding that paused suddenly.

“We had another nanny before you,” Marlene says, her words a mere whisper. “But she didn’t listen. Isn’t that right, Mama?”

Frau Sch?fer grips Marlene’s shoulder, silently telling her to be quiet.

I shouldn’t be jolted to find out this information.

She circles around the room, walking back into the hallway, toward the front door.

We pass a narrow door on the left, and a muffled whimper, so faint it might have been a creaking floorboard, grasps my attention.

It wasn’t the floor, I know it. I stop and tilt my ear toward the door. A scratch, or a sniffle. Then nothing.

“Come,” Frau Sch?fer snaps, smoothing her hands down the side of her dress as she turns for the stairwell. “It would be wise of you to do only as you’re told. Do not take liberties. This is our home, not yours. You are merely staying here as part of your servitude.” Servitude. A servant.

“Of—of course, Frau Sch?fer,” I reply, peering back once more toward the door before following them up to the next floor. “What will the pay be for this position? Your husband didn’t mention.”

Frau Sch?fer rumbles a laugh, cupping her hand around her swollen abdomen.

“My…husband…” she speaks slowly as if I can’t keep up, “is an SS-Sturmbannführer, a major, and the top rank in his position as the Director of Camp Labor Services.” She huffs and turns her nose up at me.

“You should be honored to be working in this household, never mind worrying about being paid.”

Anger boils through me as she releases a sigh. I won’t respond. Not because I agree, but because I know some people…people with a sense of authority mistake silence for obedience. That might become useful to me here.

At the top of the stairs, there is a bedroom with two beds framing a center window and floral wallpaper. “And this is Isla and Marlene’s bedroom.” She pushes open the door across the hall next. “This is Flora’s nursery.”

Is she going to mention anything about the baby so obviously growing in her belly? Maybe she did and her words were lost among all the hammering. It’s rude to ask a woman about her assumed pregnancy but I would think she’d tell me there will soon be a fourth.

The thuds grow in volume and ricochet between the hallway walls.

Only now does Frau Sch?fer press her hands against her ears before releasing a hand to open a closet door at the end of the short hallway.

“Your bedroom is in the attic, to the left. There is a list of house rules and household responsibilities on the writing desk. Bring your belongings upstairs, read through the list, and report back downstairs. Make it quick. This racket is giving me another headache.”

Some of the housemothers who came and left the orphanage acted similarly to Frau Sch?fer.

Their cold demeanors made me wonder what reason they had to be watching over abandoned or parentless children.

I learned to ignore their attitude and instead focus solely on the directions they were giving.

The older I grew, the more I realized the women acting out in such a cruel manner toward children were often abandoned or neglected themselves.

Thud, thud, thud, thud…Each thud grows louder and louder as I ascend the narrow stairwell, my slender frame barely fitting between the walls. At the top, I find the right-side wide open, exposed to the outdoors but framed by wooden beams crisscrossing like stitches. No walls. No roof.

The banging ceases again, and a man steps between two large beams. A hammer gripped in his bruised, scratched hand. The ashen blue and white striped uniform startles me.

Is he a prisoner? A criminal? In any case, he’s certainly responsible for all the racket. With short, shaven dark hair, red cheeks, and sweat dripping down his sun-darkened complexion, the late-morning light pins him in a spotlight. He must be melting without shade.

The young man, maybe just a couple years older than me, looks as if he’s lived an entire lifetime.

And yet, he smiles. It’s bittersweet but holds charm.

The expression tugs at the corners of his lips and presses up into his eyes—teardrop-shaped with swirls of various brown hues that catch in the light like gold dust. My breath sticks to my throat and something within my chest tumbles, like a collapsing house of cards . Could he be dangerous?

With a quick wave, he whispers, “Good luck,” as a scrap of newspaper drifts from his fingertips to the floor within reach.

My eyes lock on it, just for a short second.

My hand twitches with an urge to reach for it.

A headline in bold ink peeks from the curled edge, but I’m not sure what it says.

Is it something I need to know? I glance back up at the man, trying to read the answer within his mysterious eyes.

I don’t know him. I shouldn’t care. But his two simple words weren’t mocking. They were wrapped in hope. Why offer something so fragile to a stranger?

“There is to be no conversing between a servant and prisoners,” Frau Sch?fer says, her monotone voice yapping up the stairwell.

A prisoner. For what?

My arms stiffen by my sides, my grip tightens against my belongings, and I shift my direction, as if physically forced, and move toward the room on the left. The man’s words weigh on my shoulders, questioning if I can hold on to them, keep them for a while.

The tarnished doorknob wobbles in my hand, sticking when turned to the right. After a few jiggles and a shove, the door creaks open, a warning as if I shouldn’t enter.

Dust rises in a cloud, catching in the light that threads between the two tree branches outside the small square window ahead.

The room is small and cramped. Yellow-striped paper lines the short walls beneath a low sloped ceiling tucked into the roofline.

To the left side of the window, a rusting metal-framed bed leans against the wall.

The far posts scrape the ceiling, and a rumpled cream quilt drapes the thin mattress and pillow.

To the right of the window is a small wooden desk, leaning crookedly into the corner with a backless stool tucked beneath. A tinge of mildew and sweat cloaks me like a blanket as I step inside the constricted space, and as a form of welcoming, the warped floorboards complain with an exhale.

I bow my head forward while stepping up to the side of the bed, careful to avoid a collision with the ceiling, then sweep the fallen debris, along with a layer of wiry hairs that are too short and bristled to belong to a person, from the bed quilt’s creases.

With the swift movement from my hand, another stench, something rotten, strikes my nostrils and gnaws at my stomach.

Then I notice the mattress is still molded to someone else’s body shape.

Julia would have found this room appalling but wouldn’t have said so out loud.

She would have clucked her tongue at the mildew and thrust open the windows.

She’d spin around in search for something beautiful, even if just a patch of sunlight forming an unlikely shape on a warped piece of wood.

She would tell me it’s something special, meant just for me, even in a place like this.

I didn’t hug her back.