Page 7 of The Nanny Outside the Gates

FIVE

HALINA

With my suitcase and satchel settled on the floor beside the bed, I take a quick moment—the only quick moment I’m allowed, to sit along the edge, the lumpy wool flattening into matted knots as I sink.

I spot the mentioned booklet of rules and responsibilities on top of the writing desk.

From here, I can easily make out the words:

SERVANTS ORDERS

I reach toward the desk to take the booklet as anger sears through me.

Why should I be a servant? I dare not ask again if they plan to pay me, not when the other option would be prison.

Still, I’ve done nothing wrong. I wasn’t loitering, and I wasn’t begging.

I assume the man with the hammer is a prisoner—the blue and white stripes on his uniform says so. How many others are there?

The thin, gray covered booklet is several pages, bound by woven thread along the left edge. Above the bold title is an embossed emblem of the Imperial Eagle holding a wreath, framing a swastika—a branded version of their artwork from downstairs.

The Nazis are nothing new to Poland. They’ve been pushing the Polish out, taking over, and claiming this country as theirs since September 1939.

It’s been almost three years, but I could be convinced it’s been a decade.

After spending my entire life in the orphanage, I had plans to venture out into the world and start from scratch somewhere.

But then when I turned eighteen, I came to realize how difficult it would be to start anything from scratch without a single coin to my name.

My plans changed and Julia offered me a job, allowing me to work for the orphanage for a year, save up some money, then set out to make a life for myself. The war had other plans for me, though. Instead, I’ve been living under German law, told to fear the world beyond the walls I lived between.

I open the booklet to the first page, finding faded fingerprints along the edge of the hand-scripted text.

Servant Name: Paulette Sawla

List of Servant Rules and Responsibilities:

Servants must rise by five a.m. each morning then report to the kitchen.

Personal belongings must be kept out of sight.

No conversation between servants and prisoners.

Servants shall not leave property without consent from the officer or his wife.

Failure to comply with rules and responsibilities will result in removal.

Removal?

Servant meals are to be eaten within living quarters, out of sight from the family.

Do not enter the officer’s study, nor his and his wife’s bedroom.

Do not question orders.

Anything seen or heard within the household is to be kept confidential or consequences will be enforced.

A servant may be removed from your position at any given time, without warning.

A servant is here to work, not think.

I study the name at the top of the page and trace my finger over the letters, trying to make out the name beneath the scratched-out lines. What did they do to the last person?

I flip the page, the booklet weighing heavily in my hands as I find a detailed daily schedule for the children beginning at six a.m. sharp, breakfast waiting for them in the dining room downstairs.

We followed a schedule in the orphanage, both as a child and a caretaker, but nothing like what I’m reading here.

The bedroom door creaks open and my stomach knots. I peer up from the booklet in my lap, finding the man from earlier, the one with a hammer in a prisoner uniform. His hands, now empty, grip the top of the doorframe. The question of whether he’s dangerous returns…

He glances back down the stairwell before straightening his posture. “May I?” he asks, his voice eager and unguarded.

“Uh—well…” I know better.

But the look in his eyes doesn’t give me a sense of danger. More like…an ally of sorts.

I peer down at the booklet again, biding my time as I think of a response and thumb back to the first page.

“No conversation between servants and prisoners,” I enunciate, quietly.

“We already broke that rule,” the man says with a whisper of defiance, or perhaps, mischief. He arches his dark eyebrows, and the corners of his lips lift into a knowing smirk as he steps inside and gently nudges the door back into the frame without latching it shut.

“I’ve hardly been here an hour.”

“I’m sure that’s a new record,” he utters hoarsely, and I catch a hint of humor dancing within his eyes. “I apologize in advance for all the hammering. It will be frequent but not constant.”

I stepped into this house. He owes me no apology.

“I understand…” A short pause isn’t long enough before quietly spitting out my next question. “So, if you’re a prisoner…what did you do?” I stare directly into his soulful eyes, searching for an answer before he has a chance to respond.

His smile falters with something that looks like shame.

His gaze follows. “I’m just a Jew,” he says, pointing to the Star-of-David embroidered on his arm band.

He professes his religion as a crime. Not to me, but to the Reich.

He turns his arm over, pulls up his sleeve, and reveals an inked number emblazoned along his flesh.

“Oh my—” I say through a shiver.

The sight steals the breath from my lungs, having never witnessed a person being stamped like livestock.

My stomach clenches and my chest aches as a new form of horror reveals itself.

“No criminal act is necessary to become a prisoner of Auschwitz. Though, they consider all Jews to be criminals, I suppose.”

“You were sent to live in the Auschwitz prison just because you’re Jewish?” I know that’s what he’s saying, but I can’t wrap my mind around the idea.

He presses his lips into a straight line and nods. “Yes, but I’m escorted out of there every morning to work here. Then I return each night.” He speaks of his days as if they’re ordinary. As if he’s accepted this unfair punishment.

He studies me for a moment, noticing my dress, apron, and long bronze braids dangling over my shoulder. “What about you? Where have you come from?”

“I was a caregiver at an orphanage. One of the little girls tried to run away this morning and I caught her just beyond the ‘restricted zone.’ Bad timing to be spotted on the side of the road by an officer. I’m just thankful the little girl made it back safely.”

The man’s jaw tightens, stiffening the defined features of his face. “Officer Sch?fer grabbed you?”

Should I have had more of an option? It doesn’t seem as though anyone has choices when it comes to the Reich. Especially the Jewish people. I shrug. “It was either this, or he threatened to arrest me for loitering. Begging on the street, he said.”

He shakes his shaved head, and rubs the back of his sunburned neck before letting out a disheartened breath. “Whatever you do, hold on to this role here in the house.” His gold-flecked eyes strain and his forehead creases with concern. “You don’t want to become a prisoner.”

My blood turns cold and chills shiver between my shoulders. “Of course,” I say, though his concern becomes my dread.

He takes a hesitant step closer toward me like he’s crossing a forbidden line. Though, the ceiling slope keeps him from moving in too far. He tilts his head, gauging the space.

Sun spills across his face, highlighting a cluster of freckles on his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. In another world, he might look sun-kissed from a day at the lake.

“It’s a good thing you’re petite,” he says pressing his hand to the ceiling above his head. The cuts along his knuckles, some fresh, others scabbed, capture my attention. Poor thing .

“Well, I suppose my shorter height will come in handy here.” I didn’t consider how much worse this room would be if I was a head taller. “Any other tips?”

“I’ve only been here a month-and-a-half, not long. But Marlene, the middle child, tells her mother everything. Be careful what you say.” His wide stare is filled with sincerity.

The thought of the children turning against me hadn’t crossed my mind yet, but I know better than to assume a child’s loyalty, especially given the family she’s being raised under.

“No child that age can be trusted with a secret,” I say, matching his whisper.

I learned that lesson at a young age before I understood what trust even meant. Secrets were like treasures, high in worth for selfish gain.

“And the baby—” he says, looking over his shoulder despite the door being nearly shut. The quiet lingers for several long seconds before he speaks again. “There’s something wrong. I don’t think they know, or maybe they do and don’t care. But the poor thing cries day and night unless?—”

“Unless what?”

He takes in a hesitant breath and holds it for a long second. “Sometimes…they put bourbon into her bottle. To quiet her.”

The breath escapes my lungs and I bring my hands up to my neck, choked.

“That can’t be. Who could—” I don’t need an answer.

I know who could do something so awful. But would they?

To their own blood? Perhaps it’s a rumor that’s spun out of context.

How could he be so sure when he’s up here all day?

Though that might explain the limpness and disconnected stare.

How has no one protected this poor baby?

The rulebook rests heavier in my lap.

“They hide things well,” he says.

“Anything else?” I ask, my hushed words sticking to my throat.

“There’s a lot more,” he says delicately, “But for now, don’t make eye-contact with Officer Sch?fer. And you should know…they don’t give second chances.”

“A second chance for what?”

“Just—just be careful around them.”

He reaches into his pocket then pulls out a scrap of newspaper and presses it into my hand. “Take this.”

“What is?—”

“I’m Gavriel,” he says, just as heavy footsteps clomp downstairs, sharp heels chopping louder and louder against the wooden floors.

I clutch the scrap of paper and hesitate before finding my voice to respond. “Halina,” I reply.

He slips through the door, disappearing into shadows within the construction.

I unfold the newspaper in my hand. A clipped German headline on one side, but on the back, a message is scrawled in pencil:

You can trust me.

I’ve heard these words before.

A nun once told me my parents loved me—something a young child would want to know. But my parents left me without a reason. That isn’t love.

Then, there was once a friend who said she’d keep a secret safe. She didn’t.

Even Julia, who always promised me “ God brought us together and together we shall be ,” couldn’t stop the evil from taking me away.

Trust is poison laced inside the ripest berry, just within reach…when hunger hurts the most.

I tuck the scrap of newspaper into my apron pocket and press the rule book against my ribs as if it will protect me.

One rule already has already been broken.

For a stranger who seems to have far more to risk than me.

As I make it up to the bedroom floor, another faint sound—a whimper, or a whine circles me before the sound is swallowed up by the low hum of chatter coming from the main floor below. My nerves buzz on alert, but I clench my eyes and push back on the fears sneaking into my mind.

It must be a cat, locked up or stuck somewhere. What else could it be?