Epigraph

Dachau, Germany

Over the past five months, Otto and I have driven past the foreboding black iron gates of Dachau countless times since moving here as newlyweds. I promised myself the location wouldn’t be a bad omen for our new life together and I’ve done my best to avoid the sights since moving here, but this morning, sitting here now in front of this dismal spot, there’s nowhere else to look.

The gates are within a stone’s throw and though the air is hot and humid, a chill scurries up my arms like a spooked spider. Raindrops dribble down the iron rods, drawing my attention to a pattern melded into the bars, or…is it two patterns? An optical illusion, perhaps, depending on the perspective.

As a uniformed guard steps out from beneath the gated arch, my gaze clings to the words bent into the iron:

ARBEIT MACHT FREI.

Work will set you free.

Will the criminals ever be released from this concentration camp? The words on the sign don’t depict the amount of work necessary to be set free.

A tall, hard-eyed Gestapo approaches Otto’s car window and demands identification. Otto pulls out his papers and hands them over, and I can see the subtle nervous twitch of his right eyebrow. The guard’s gaze flares, likely noticing my trembling hands.

“Heil Hitler,” Otto says, saluting the man.

“Heil Hitler,” the man replies. “What is the purpose of your arrival to Dachau?”

“You must be a new guard. We haven’t met. I’m Dr. Berger, working in Block 5. Dr. Dietrich has requested that my wife, Emilie Berger, aid him with his work as I’ve been doing.”

I hand my identification to Otto, feeling the blood drain from my face. No matter how many times I cross paths with a man in this particular uniform, I feel like a meek mouse from the terror they emanate. Can they see through me, and read my thoughts?

He pivots on his heels, taking a couple of steps toward the cement arched wall over us and pulls a hanging clipboard off a protruding nail. He draws his finger down the center, studying it intently. “Dr. and Frau Berger,” he states, handing our identifications back to Otto. The guard steps back from the car and unlatches the gates for us to continue through. The way he referred to us made us sound much older than twenty-two.

I shouldn’t be surprised to see SS officers and more Gestapo scattered around the open gravel area. The number of convicts lined in rows or walking in groups is astounding. How could there be so many criminals? As if this place isn’t dreary enough, the inmates are soaked, with ragged garbs hanging from their shoulders. Of course, the SS and Gestapo have proper head covers and trench coats to keep them dry.

We arrive at a row of cars between two buildings, and my stomach tightens, knowing this is where we get out and walk amongst the crowded compound.

I regret agreeing to this idea. I ought to have taken Otto’s advice and stayed away from a conversation I shouldn’t have been a part of, but it’s too late to change my mind now.

Otto opens my car door, and props open an umbrella to shield me from the rain then takes my hand, his grip tight as if I might change my mind and run back home. He wouldn’t be wrong. If I could, I would. I can’t shake off the restless apprehension.

As the door closes behind me, my reflection in the neighboring car’s window catches my eye. My curled hair, lipstick, and fitted dress makes me stand out among the drab surroundings. With Otto in black dress slacks, a white-collared shirt, and suspenders, we don’t look as though we’re visiting a concentration camp.

A long, dark-brown wooden building with narrow windows looms, swallowing us within its ominous presence.A formation of military planes flies overhead, low enough to leave a whizzing whistle behind in a tail of smoke. Not a day goes by when we aren’t reminded of being trapped in the center of a hostile battle. There’s no clearer definition of war than the sight of barbed wired fences surrounding dark fields muddied by the sky’s tears. Uniformed, rigid men pace in every direction, and there’s no way to distract myself from the truth—the fear I live in daily.

Groups of male inmates wearing blue and white striped uniforms watch us as we walk along the muddy, rubble pathway. I can’t avoid the dread and grief in their eyes. They recoil upon eye contact, turning away as if it’s a sin to look in our direction.

“Just focus on where you’re walking, darling. Don’t mind any of the prisoners walking about,” Otto says, gripping my hand tightly. He leans in a bit closer to whisper into my ear. “It’s not every day these men catch a glimpse of gorgeous blonde beauty.”

In any other place or time, my cheeks would blush from his compliment, but here, in this place, I would rather go unnoticed. “It looks like the winds have pushed rubble over the path, be careful not to trip.”

The plaid red, black, and brown umbrella Otto is holding above my head does little to offer me comfort as we approach a new destination. A daunting wooden door with an iron handle stands between me and this solid confinement, a place I never imagined I would see.

“Is there a particular reason we’re going into this specific building and not the others?” I inquire, turning to Otto with a timid smile. Everything will be okay, I remind myself.

He squeezes my hand gently and whispers, “Darling, it’s the sick bay, as I mentioned earlier.” His response carries a hint of tension.

I squint at the sign above the door, straining my eyes to make sense of the marking “B.5”. My ankles ache in the heels I unwisely chose not realizing we’d be walking over wet rubble. “Are there different wings in this sick bay too?” My question comes across as mischievous, anticipating his response based on all the others he’s given me.

Otto huffs a quiet laugh from his nose and responds in a hush. “Yes, indeed, there are several wings. There seems to be an abundance of ill criminals, requiring the need for expansion.”

Though it’s becoming more difficult to keep my cheerful grin in place, the questions keep coming of their own accord. “But I thought you said you didn’t work with the patients?” I can’t help but add, “You know you’ve been a bit mysterious about your days at work. I guess I can’t help the questions.”

“It’s all right, darling. I did say I hadn’t been working with the patients. That’s correct,” he says, reaching for the iron handle on the door. He pulls it open and waves me forward. “Go on.”

Otto releases my hand to close the umbrella and steps inside after me. Sweltering sticky air clings to our skin as we walk over unfinished wooden floor panels, between matching walls, and beneath ceilings with dark beams crisscrossing in every direction. The stench of ammonia is the only familiarity in this setting. Nothing about this vacant space reminds me of a medical ward. An icy chill spreads up my arms.

A distressing moan echoes between the corridor walls and I can’t tell how near or far from the source we are. “Oh my goodness. Whoever that is sounds to be suffering horribly. Is someone helping them?” I ask, peeking into dark windows as we pass closed doors.

Otto takes my hand back into his, caressing the pad of his thumb over my knuckles. “I’m sure someone is tending to them, and I know you’re going to do so well here. You’re the most brilliant nurse I know, and with the prettiest eyes, I might add. I can’t think of anyone more qualified than you.” Otto has a way of charming me, even if I’m overwhelmed with fear at the moment.

“I’m not a nurse.” The reminder isn’t necessary, but the words arise.

“Yes, but we both know how you spend your days. You and those medical books—well, they’ve gone right to your head, in fact.” Otto’s tease comes along with a belly laugh, but the humor is at my expense. I don’t think he takes me as seriously as he once did, back when we were at university.

Another wailing moan carries down the hallway toward us. It isn’t an unusual sound to hear in an infirmary, but no one wants to hear another person suffering.

Otto stops in front of a wooden door and my heart thumps in my chest as he pushes against the slab to reveal what’s waiting on the other side. Before he steps forward, he pauses and peers down at me but doesn’t make direct eye contact. “There are patients in here, but we’ll be continuing on to the lab where I work. Don’t look at any of them. It will give them a reason to talk to you. We shouldn’t converse. I know that goes against your good nature, but these men are still criminals, even if they aren’t the dangerous kind.”

“I understand,” I say. But I’m not sure I do.

Men line the walls: some are standing, others are sitting on the floor, heads hanging between bent knees. Most are wearing filthy yellowing-white prisoner uniforms with dark blue stripes.There’s a damp, sweet smell in the air, forcing my throat to tighten as we continue forward. Our steps feel slow and unhurried, as if we’re trekking through thick sand.

“Help,” someone groans. “Please, miss. Help us.”

“Ignore them. They do this to everyone who walks through that door,” Otto mumbles beneath his breath.

I wish I could close my eyes or pinch my nose to avoid the stench of what must be a mixture of body odor and sickness, but I’m not that type of person. That would be rude and disrespectful, even to a criminal.

I do my best to block out the cries for help as we near the next door, but a distinct sound yanks me to a firm stop.

“A rare honeybee,”I hear.

Groggily and softly spoken, those familiar words strike me like a punch to the gut. A rare honeybee…the world couldn’t survive without them. I’d never forget that fact. I search for where the words came from. There are so many men, and they all look alike. My free hand flares to my chest and my breath catches in my throat as I search, knowing those precise words were meant for me to hear. I was sure there wasn’t a single person here that I could possibly know. Not under these circumstances, but I must be wrong.

Otto stops alongside me, inspecting the area for whoever spoke out, confirming he heard the words too.He wouldn’t understand the meaning, though.

“Dr. Berger,” another voice calls. Otto is addressed formally with a commanding inflection. “Might I have a word with you?”

“Yes, of course,” Otto replies. “Go on and wait over by the office door ahead. I’ll only be a moment.” He’s leaving me here, in the middle of an enclosed area filled with ill, desperate criminals…and the person who spoke those words. I clutch my hands to my stomach knowing I can’t move any closer toward the office door yet.

From the corner of my eye, I see an inmate lift his limp arm, holding his palm toward me. I want to screw my eyes shut, to close off my ears.

But then I hear, “Is it really you?”

Unable to resist, I twist my neck slightly to the left, toward the man holding out his arm, and step in closer, his words pulling me over. My blood runs cold as I come to a stop in front of him, my brown leather day shoes scuffing against the dirty floor. He has no body hair, is malnourished, and pale. His eyes are heavy as if he hasn’t slept in weeks, and…

Bile rises from my stomach, burning through my insides as I notice a small but prominent dent on the bridge of his nose.A dent along the bridge of his nose…that I know happened when he tripped on a knot-riddled log, landing face first in a pile of splintered wood, requiring eight sutures.

I shake my head furiously as my stomach drops. I’m mistaken. He wouldn’t be here. He couldn’t be here. With my eyes shut tightly, I pray that when I open them again, I’ll see that my mind has been playing tricks on me.

But I know it’s not.

Those eyes…I would recognize them anywhere—even here, in a place like this. My breaths become frantic, and my lungs struggle to inhale. A whimper rattles deep in my throat as tears burn at the back of my eyes. He looks close to death.

“No, no—” I whisper. The sensation of his name flickers across my tongue, a relic of nostalgia that sears in my brain.

“You’re here,” he utters, his voice dry and scratchy.

My brain catches up with what I’m seeing, and I hold a finger to my lips, signaling him to stay silent. A heavy wave of dizziness hits me, but I glance over my shoulder to find Otto still having a private conversation out of view.

I swallow against the thickness in my throat, keeping myself still so no one will notice our encounter.

“Why—why are you here?” I gasp. “Did you break the law? You wouldn’t do that…you-you wouldn’t,” I whisper, my words fumbling as I try to ask everything all at once.

He tilts head to the side and the faint line of his eyebrows arch with despair. “Of course I haven’t?—”

“Tell me what’s happened. Let me—” I swallow hard and peer back once more to see if Otto is returning, but he’s not there. “Let me help. Why would anyone bring you here if you’re not a criminal?”

His sharp, bony shoulders slouch forward, and he stares up at me for a long, painful second. A second I’ll never forget.

“Emi, you must know why I’m here…”