15. Emilie

FIFTEEN

Dachau, Germany

Otto and I are seated next to each other, but somehow, I feel like there’s a table between us. Most everyone seems like-minded, except me and maybe Helga. She’s sitting to my right, and I would venture a guess that she’s feeling the same way, considering how quiet she is.

I place my hand on Helga’s forearm to grasp her attention so I don’t have to shout over everyone else. “So, Helga, do you have any hobbies?”

Her pale face brightens as she glances in my direction. “Hobbies?” she repeats. “I do, in fact.” She smiles and her eyes illuminate with elation. “I enjoy building furniture.”

I’m stunned by her response, a brave response I’m not sure I’ve heard from any woman I know. “You build furniture? What kind? Where do you do something like this? That sounds enthralling.”

She lifts her index finger to her lips and shakes her head with a subtle movement. “Wilhelm has asked that I don’t overshare.”

My face strains in response to confusion over her statement. “I don’t see how talking about a hobby could be considered oversharing. In fact, I’m jealous that you know how to build something—anything at all. I would love to learn how.”

Her lips press together into a smile that appears to be holding in a response. “What about you, Emilie? Any interests you enjoy?”

“Wait, but what do you do with all the furniture you make?” Our houses are a decent size, but surely not big enough to store extra furniture.

“Wilhelm sells most of the pieces, but with his name attached, of course. No one would buy furniture built by a woman.”

“Well, that’s just nonsense. I would buy it from you. In fact, I want to see your next piece before you send it off to be sold. Would you agree to that?” I have a bedroom upstairs that is still in desperate need of furniture.

Helga gives her husband a casual glance, maybe wondering if he’s listening in on our conversation, but he’s caught up in whatever the men are all shouting about.

“Yes, of course. I’m almost done with my latest piece, a writing desk. Perhaps next week sometime, you can come over during the day and I’ll show you.” Helga’s cheeks flush.

“I would love that.”

“Wonderful,” she says.

Otto reaches for my hand beneath the table and closes his fingers around mine.

“I have to be frank with you men, Dietrich made it clear to me today that if we don’t find a solution in this research soon, we’re going to have correspondence trickling down from Luftwaffe’s commander in chief.” Herr Berger’s rigid interruption blankets the table with a coat of silence.

“We’re doing everything we can, Herr,” Karl says. “Many of our assistants have been needed elsewhere to keep up with the incoming patients. There aren’t enough of us to cover all bases. Although, we do hope to have a breakthrough soon.”

I pull my hand out of Otto’s to rest my forearms on either side of my plate, wishing I understood more of what they were talking about. “I’m sorry, but what does the cancer treatment research have to do with the Luftwaffe?” Otto had asked that I not insert myself into business matters with his father present because the topics were always so sensitive, but I can’t help my curiosity.

Otto squeezes his hand around my knee making his gentle reminder clear. Of all people, he should know that keeping quiet is not a strength of mine.

My question disrupts the flow of conversation much like it did for Herr Berger. I scan the table, taking a fleeting second to look at each person’s reaction to my question. The women are all unitedly staring down at their laps, except Frau Berger. She’s glaring at me, making me aware my audacity is not appreciated.

The men, however, don’t seem bothered by my question. In fact, they appear intrigued. But for what reason, when they should already know the answer?

Herr Berger is looking at me with an assessing look. With his elbow pinned to the table and his palm holding up his chin, he lowers his index finger and points directly at me. “Emilie, let me ask you something. How confident are you that you can treat mild cases of…say a common cold, or a stomach flu, a rash, or a wound, perhaps?”

“Quite,” I say, perking my right eyebrow up into a point.

“Vater,” Otto speaks up as if he could close the door on the question.

“In a crowded setting, what is more important to you, speed or bedside manner?”

“I’m not sure I understand your question?”

“I think you do,” he says.

“Both. A person can be both kind and diligent at the same time. Per my training, thus far, they are one and the same.”

“Good answer,” he says with a snicker. I’m not sure I’m reading his reactions properly.

“Vater, please. Let’s discuss this later, perhaps?”

Herr Berger’s scrutinizing stare pierces through me, making it known I can’t slink away from the conversation that’s become the center of attention at the table. Of course, he doesn’t scare me like he does Otto. “A boy should always have a certain level of fear in his father, or he will never know the meaning of respect.” Otto’s repeated mantras about his father still make no sense to me, even after all the time I’ve known them both. I’m quite sure the Bible states that one shall, “Honor thy father and thy mother.” Period. there’s no mention of fearing the people who put us on this earth.

“It’s all right to allow your wife to speak, son,” Herr Berger says.

I peer at Otto from the corner of my eye, watching his cheek move against his grinding jaw—a common reaction he has to his father’s behavior.

“Emilie, let me ask you this…if a patient came to you with a case of hypothermia, how would you assess and treat them quickly and effectively?”

“Well,” I begin. “Hypothermia occurs when the body temperature falls several degrees below our core body temperature. When this occurs, the heart, nervous system, and organs are unable to function properly. If hypothermia isn’t treated immediately, heart failure or respiratory distress are possible—both could lead to death. However, there are methods of treatment.”

“How would you determine the signs of hypothermia?” Herr Berger continues.

“Symptoms can include a weak pulse, shallow breaths, fatigue, and unconsciousness. Most often, hypothermia sets in so quickly that the person in trouble isn’t aware of their symptoms and won’t always speak up about them so it’s purely based off an initial observation, measuring vitals, and interaction.”

“Where did you learn all of this?” Otto asks, quietly in my ear.

“My nursing books. I’ve read them all several times from cover to cover. Just because I’ve had to stop my classes doesn’t mean I’ve lost interest in what I plan to do someday.”

Chirping sounds erupt from around the table—feminine choking sounds. I’ll take them as quiet sounds of encouragement.

“Emilie, we are struggling to keep up with the intake at the hospital and are in desperate need of help. What would you say to joining Otto and the others, assisting and gaining experience as well?”

“What kind of help?” I ask, wondering why I’m even asking after fearing the fact that Otto has been working within the confines of a camp all day.

“I don’t think that’s a wise idea,” Otto says, his eyes bulging through a grave stare at his father.

“Well, why not? What would I be doing there?” I’m curious why Otto is closed off to the idea before I’ve had a chance to respond properly.

“Each day is different, really. There’s nursing assistance needed in many areas, obtaining data on patient vitals, and notating intake and release forms. You would be in a safe environment, of course.”

“Vater, I’d like to speak to you in private,” Otto says, raising his voice.

“That’s not considerate. Emilie has a right to her own decisions, has she not?”

“Of course, but this isn’t a common?—”

“Son, your uncle is the one reporting back to the Luftwaffe’s commander in chief and he’s expecting answers from us as to why we have not submitted certain reports or patient data. We are behind and we need extra assistance.”

“I wouldn’t mind finding out more about how I can assist, dear,” I tell Otto, finishing my sentence with a polite smile.I’m still not sure what their work on hypothermia has to do with curing cancer, and me assisting with ill political prisoners, but I’d at least like to know more before declining the offer.

“I think it’s a fine idea,” Karl says.

“Agreed,” Hermann follows.

“We’re all in this together,” Wilhelm says.

Helga takes in a harsh breath and slings her head to the side to look at her husband. “We’re all in this together? Since when?”

“Helga,” he replies, shock lacing every syllable of her name.

Helga turns quickly to me, “I apologize, Emilie, but I’m afraid I’m not feeling well tonight. I’ll see myself out.”

I push my chair back just as she does, planning to walk her to the door. “Please don’t leave,” I say.

“Thank you for being such a kind host this evening. I’m sure I’ll see you all soon. I can see myself to the door, Emilie. Please, stay here,” she says. Her cheeks tremble as if she’s trying to keep in a cry, and my heart breaks for whatever pain she’s going through.

When the door closes, it’s already been long enough to notice that Wilhelm hasn’t stood up to follow his upset wife home. Though delayed, he soon realizes he should have gotten up too. “I’m sorry to cut the evening short. I’ll see you gentlemen tomorrow.” He stumbles around to push his chair and the napkin from his lap falls to the ground in the perfect place for him to step right on top of it and nearly go flying across the freshly cleaned floors.

Karl catches him by the elbow. “Take it easy, fella. She’s just your wife. She won’t kill you.”

I don’t know if I would be so sure about that after hearing her confession about building furniture. I believe sharp, dangerous tools are required for such a hobby.

Once Wilhelm has left in Helga’s footsteps, a vocal sigh of relief wavers around the table. “She’s just jealous,” Ingrid says. “Don’t worry about her. She’ll get over it.”

I don’t think her outburst had much to do with jealousy, more like resentment for the way her husband treats her. “We all have our moments, I suppose,” is all I can think to say.

“Well, maybe their moment tonight will finally land them with a baby. None of us are getting any younger.”

Helga and I are at least a decade younger than Ingrid and Ursula, so I’m not sure her reference to biological clocks is applicable, but I keep my mouth closed.

“I don’t love this idea,” Frau Berger says. “However, if this gets your brother to stop nagging you for assistance, take whatever help you can get.”

Ingrid and Ursula appear bored by this conversation, inspecting the polish on their nails, acting as if they were wall fixtures.

“Emilie, if you think you could assist us in any way, it would be much appreciated,” Karl says.

“Yes…so long as I’m not in any danger among the prisoners,” I agree, hesitantly, but I’m not sure I want to decline with the hopeful look Otto’s parents are giving me. If I had let the idea simmer for another minute, however, I might have debated the thought of being inside the prison that I’ve been worried about Otto working in every day.

“The prisoners aren’t criminal convicts,” Karl says. “They’ve just verbally gone against the Reich’s beliefs in a public setting and the act is punishable by imprisonment, and that is why they are there—as unfortunate as it might be.” Otto had said the same. I suppose helping them would be a good deed considering the prisoners feel the same way as many of us who choose to keep silent.

“That’s good to know. Well, in that case, I suppose I can be of help,” I offer.

“Perfect. You can start tomorrow, yes?”

“Uh—ye-yes, of course,” I haphazardly agree, wishing I had taken an extra moment to think through the proposition.

Herr Berger says with a wink, “I told you she was a keeper.”

If Herr Berger ever told Otto that I was a keeper, I’m sure the word “house” came before keeper.

I let out a quiet sigh while pushing my chair out once again. “Well, I’m going to prepare dessert.”

I collect the nearest plates to where I’m sitting and Ursula and Ingrid follow, doing the same. Frau Berger trails the three of us into the kitchen, once again, empty-handed.

“You do realize you’re going to have to report back to us what it is those men do all day long, right?” Ingrid says, the moment we’re in the farthest spot in the kitchen, away from the dining room.

“Yes, you’ll have to dish everything,” Ursula says.

Frau Berger fiddles with a pin in her hair. “Ladies, some things should just be assumed and not told. Let’s not get Emilie in trouble before she has a chance to set foot into that rat-infested landmine,” she says.

Rat-infested landmine. How lovely. I should be up with nightmares most of the night.

“One of us should bring Helga and Wilhelm plates of dessert,” Ingrid says.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? They might be having an argument. No one would want to bear witness to that at their front door,” Ursula says, speaking as if she has experience.

“Good point. We can wrap something up for them and hold on to it until tomorrow,” I say.

The word “tomorrow” sends a chill down my spine as I imagine myself walking through rows of criminals. I’ve heard the stories about men in captivity and the thought is enough to make me want to fake a headache tomorrow. But knowing how much we all want to know what goes on within those stone walls each day, I feel it’s my responsibility to carry through with the plan, on behalf of us all who wait at home each day to receive nothing more than half the story our husbands choose to share with us.