40. Emilie

FORTY

Dachau, Germany

The agreement between a man and his wife should be solid enough to trust, even after both parties have been neglectful. I’m not sure Otto and I will ever see eye-to-eye when it comes to our agendas for survival in this cold time, but the options for us are limited. He wouldn’t jeopardize my safety for the sake of Danner, and I’m supposed to understand this notion.

My response was that Dietrich didn’t want him to know of my involvement because he and his father came to an agreement, one that excluded my assistance, kept Dietrich safe with his team still appearing intact, even though neither Otto nor his father would have to be physically involved in his efforts anymore. If Otto were to tell his father I’ve been involved in writing reports being sent to Himmler, Herr Berger may see the opportunity to renege on their agreement, ultimately creating a spotlight over Dietrich’s head from high command. The outcome could be Dietrich’s head on a platter and the loss of my opportunity to help Danner and the others suffering within the camp walls. Therefore, nothing can change, and Otto has to accept our situation for what it is—blackmail.

Despite anger and resentment towards me for keeping this information from him, Otto has promised to keep quiet in the hope that it will keep us safe. It’s been a month now and thoughthe plan sounded simple at the time, I’ve come to realize it was much easier keeping the secret to myself than ensuring Otto and I had stories that lined up for whoever else we encounter. We’ve dodged dinner invitations from neighbors and our parents, becoming loners in our house, except for work.I keep asking myself whose fault this is, but when I draw the line back to the beginning, I can only believe Otto’s word, that he didn’t know what trap he was stepping into, which puts us on the same page, with the same problem, facing the same fears.

I sprinkle more flour over the ball of yeast I’ve been kneading and continue to stare out the window in a trance, watching leaf covered branches sway along with a gentle breeze. The moments I’m cooking or baking are the only tranquil slices of time I have during my day.

A sudden knock on the kitchen window startles me into tossing a storm of flour and clutching my chest. I only saw the blur of a clenched fist before gasping for air, but now I see Ingrid’s face, her sharp pointed eyebrows, and pursed lips. “Open the door, Emilie,” she demands.

I knew my avoidance would only last so long, but I’ve also run out of excuses and ignoring the relentless rings from the doorbell has landed me here, covered in flour.

I spin around, frazzled, looking for the dishrag pinned beneath the flour jar. While making my way to the front door, I dust myself off and tell myself to say that we’ve just been busy and I’ve been studying to prepare for my return to classes, which must seem like a joke at this point with how much time has passed since I began studying in the library at night.

Studying. It’s my only motive for hiding indoors.

I open the door, still cleaning myself off. “You scared me half to death, you know,” I say.

“Good. Now, you know how Helga, Ursula, and I have been feeling about how distant you and Otto have been. Something is clearly wrong, or one of us did something to upset you, and we need to know.”

I’m not surprised Ingrid is the one to confront me. The other two seem to have more understanding for privacy.

She steps in, forcing me to take a step back.

“I apologize for causing any worry, but that wasn’t my intention. Otto and I have just been so busy and quite frankly, exhausted.”

Her gaze drifts down to my stomach, and I’d like to tell her she can just stop looking there every time we see each other because it isn’t happening, not now.

“No, I’m not pregnant,” I utter.

“Okay, then what is it?”

“I told you; I’ve been studying every night so I can return to my classes.”

Ingrid presses her hands to her hips and tosses her head back. “Did we offend you? Just tell me, I can handle it…Things haven’t been right since that dinner event and that soldier said all those awful things about you.” Ingrid places her hand on my shoulder, her nails clawing at my skin. “Emilie, are you having an affair?”

I pull away from her grip. “No, Ingrid, I’m not. If you’re worried that I’ve been offended by something you’ve said, why would you suggest something like that?”

She shrugs. “You leave the house every night. We’ve all noticed.”

“To go study at the library,” I continue.

“Ingrid’s eldest daughter, Marie, has been going to the library these last couple of weeks and I asked her if she ran into you. She said the library was empty aside from herself and another couple of students.”

With the front door still open, I see and hear our car pull up and come to a sudden stop. Otto jumps out and races to the door. He’s never been home at this hour of the day.

“Goodness, I hope everything is okay,” Ingrid says, pressing her fingers to her lips.

“Ingrid, hello,” Otto says, breathlessly.

“Is everything okay, dear?” I ask him. His gaze darts between my face and Ingrid’s. “Yes, yes. I forgot to take my lunch this morning and wanted to come by for it quickly.”

“You don’t hand him his lunch on the way out the door?” Ingrid asks.

Otto shuffles his weight from one foot to the other. “Ingrid, would you mind if I have a moment with my wife?”

“Oh,” she says, touching her fingers to her chest. “I’m so sorry. I beg your pardon. I’ll just see my way out. I was worried about the two of you, so I?—”

“I appreciate your concern, but there’s no reason to worry.” Otto opens the door wider, re-enforcing his request. All the while I worry what has him so wound up. He wasn’t missing his lunch. I did hand it to him as he walked out the door this morning.

Ingrid, wide-eyed, and probably offended, walks stiffly out the front door before Otto closes us inside.

“What is it?” I ask him, noticing he’s pale, and the whites of his eyes are stained red.

“Something isn’t right. I’ve been light-headed and cold to the bone. I took my temperature in the sick bay, and I have a high fever.”

I take him by the arm and bring him into the living room to sit him down on the sofa. “It could be influenza,” I tell him, placing the back of my hand on his head. He certainly does have a high fever. “Did it all come on at once?”

He leans back into the sofa and stares through the coffee table as if he’s trying to recall when these symptoms began. “I suppose I felt a bit weak this morning, but I was fine after a while. A dizzy spell hit me just an hour ago and then the chill.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. You work in a hospital. You’re bound to pick up germs. I’ll make you tea and get a cool compress for your head.”

“I’ve never felt so awful before,” he says as I walk out of the room.

I run the teakettle under the faucet, filling it halfway before placing it down on the stove top and igniting the burner.

“Emi, what if it’s something contagious?”

He’s right. “Don’t worry, just close your eyes and try to relax. Everything will be okay.” The words just emerge on their own, a side-effect of having a nurse’s mindset.

I pull a handkerchief from my pocket to cover my mouth and nose and return with a rag I ran under the faucet. I’m quick and it’s been less than two minutes, but he seems to have fallen asleep. I place the compress over his forehead and stack the decorative pillows by his side to keep him from getting a neck ache.He could have been exposed to anything at any given time while working at the field hospital.

I sit down beside him on the sofa and hold the handkerchief over my face and the compress on his forehead. The innocence of his panic isn’t something I’ve seen in him for longer than I can remember.

I’ve been tending to Otto for days, working for Dietrich at home and making my trips to Dachau to drop off Dietrich’s paperwork. While slipping the folder into his desk drawer the other night, I came across half a bottle of penicillin and swiped it to give to Otto in case he has an infection. My assumption is that he might have contracted streptococcus, but he hasn’t complained of a sore throat. Still, even after several doses of penicillin working through his system, there hasn’t been much of a change. I have him resting in bed, trying to give him as much liquid as I can, but he’s been refusing to eat, saying he’s not hungry. None of this makes sense. What kind of nurse am I if I can’t help my own husband? With all the studying I’d done and should have been doing, I feel as though I should be better at diagnosing him, but the list of possibilities is beginning to grow, rather than shrink.

“I’m so sorry for keeping you up all night,” he mumbles, reaching his hand out. I lean toward him from the chair I’ve settled next to his bed side and take his hand, first spotting his wedding band overlapping mine. While shifting my gaze to his eyes, I notice a pink welt forming along his wrist. I push up the sleeve of his pajamas, finding more pink welts and small bumps scattered between.

“What is it?” he asks, focusing on the expression I didn’t hide well.

“You have a rash. Does it itch?”

“Now that you mention it, I have been itchy.”

“Don’t scratch any of it,” I tell him, dropping his hand to run downstairs. “I’ll get ointment.”

“Emi, it’s okay. It’s just a rash,” he says, calling after me.

I make my way into Otto’s office then fall to my knees in front of the bookshelf full of medical textbooks. I pull out several and flip through the pages until I reach the diagnosis of rashes, finding several different variations to compare his to.

Just as I’m tracing my finger down the center of the text, there’s a knock at the door. I’m beginning to hate that godawful sound. Ingrid has come back three times since Otto asked her to leave. She’s wanted to extend an apology for her behavior, which I accepted and told her was unnecessary. She heard Otto moving around upstairs so I had to tell her he’s ill, but likely with a case of influenza. She then returned with soup, then dumplings.

I open the door, feeling as though I just ran up and down the stairs a dozen times. “Ingrid, now isn’t?—”

Instead, I find Dietrich standing in front of me. I would much prefer Ingrid over him.

“I’m here to check on Otto. He must be quite sick if you made the decision to steal a bottle of penicillin from my desk drawer. At least, I assume he’s the one who’s sick, since you appear perfectly healthy.”

“Yes, he is,” I say, running my fingers through my knotted hair. “Otto is sick with symptoms of influenza and a fever, but I’ve just spotted a rash that I’m trying—” I can’t believe I’m explaining anything to this man. I would like nothing more than to kick him all the way to the curb.“I have everything under control. He’ll be back on his feet in no time,” I say hastily, still gripping the doorknob in my hand. “I’ll give you money for the penicillin I stole.”

He repeats my words in a quiet mutter before replying. “A rash?” he questions.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Yes… Good God. I was afraid it was serious,” he says. “Where is he? Upstairs in bed?”

More than anything in this world, I hate that Dietrich is the only certified doctor that either of us know. I wouldn’t trust him if my life depended on it, and I don’t think he knows much more than I do with my year of nursing classes and self-studying.

“Yes.”

He rushes past me and storms up the stairs. I close the door and follow him, worried about what he’ll say or ask Otto, who isn’t thinking too clearly at the moment.I find him inspecting the rash on Otto’s arm.

“Did you touch his rash?”

“No, and I had my face covered until today in case he had been contagious, but he’s been taking the penicillin for three days now.” I lift his shirt sleeve.

“No… That’s odd,” he says.

“What’s odd? What is it?” I shout, demanding a clearer answer.

“What is it? We only see rheumatic fever in children, but this jagged rash is most definitely a common symptom. It’s good you started him on penicillin, but unfortunately with this rash, it means the strep has already spread to other parts of his body.”

“I had rheumatic fever as a child too,” Otto says, coughing against his words.

“As a child…” Dietrich repeats to himself. “Making you more susceptible as an adult.”

“It can affect the heart and liver sometimes. I had a sore throat a few weeks back—it must have been strep throat,” Otto says.

He knew he was susceptible and surely knows strep throat is the most common precursor to rheumatic fever, but ignored his health for the sake of work. I can’t wrap my head around the logic.

“Why would you ignore symptoms like that?” I ask, perplexed.

“I—I don’t know. I guess I was too busy to concern myself over a silly sore throat. The pain subsided and I didn’t think anything of it again.”

“Shouldn’t the penicillin be working by now?” I question, knowing it should.

There must be something else wrong. Something serious.