Chapter 30
THIRTY
Auschwitz, O?wi?cim, Poland
It’s as if I was never married.
Never Noah’s wife.
Never a mother.
Never Celina.
For six months, I’ve been serving in the Drexels’ home, silently following orders. I rise before the children, return to my bedroom after they’re asleep. I warm milk, slice apples, and smooth hair with my fingers. I speak when spoken to, and smile when expected. Then I disappear to be alone.
That is the role I serve. I’m a Catholic nanny brought from Amsterdam through church contacts, after Frau Drexel insisted she would not have a Polish girl raising her children.
By the time the parish responded with my name, my language skills, education, and my experience with children, I was the only one available to travel east.
I had no say in the matter, and most of what the parish said about me wasn’t even true. I know enough German to get by, I’m educated in Art History, and I’ve never cared for a child—aside from my own that didn’t live long enough to make it out of my womb.
But the children have grown accustomed to me, they listen and obey. They’re kind and accepting and never ask questions about where I came from or why my German slurs across the wrong syllables.
All they know is I’m there when they wake up, or afraid of passing thunder, I wave goodbye as they run into school, and I’m waiting for them right outside when it’s over.
It’s simple. So simple, I could go on forever believing only the lies my mind has been rebuilt upon.
The truth of who I am, who I was, where I came from, and how broken I am inside, could remain swept beneath a carpet if it weren’t for the oldest Drexel child.
Conrad. A child who lives in a house where my kind—Jewish people—are spoken of like rodents. I know if I say one wrong word to him, anything that might tip him off, there would be German soldiers waiting for me at the door by morning.
He refuses to accept my lies as truths. He’s ten. Just ten. But he acts as if he’s ready to step right into his father’s footsteps—a man who walks into a room and expects a crowd to stand and bow at his presence.
From the moment I set foot in this house, he has been watching me like a hawk.
From doorways and the top of the stairwell.
He watches his father ask me questions at the dinner table, as if studying his form.
Then he’ll add his own questions like… “Why is your hair shorter than the other women like you?”
Each night it’s something more direct, and more terrifying than the night before. As if he’s figured out how to extract the information I keep locked away in the back of my head. But he’s ten.
“You speak differently than the other women on the street.”
I answer each question carefully, with as few words as possible.
The way Noah always reminded me to speak when someone was prying.
I’ve gotten good at keeping my stare steady on whatever I’m doing, and my hands even busier, leaving his question on the table as a pesky fly I’ll pretend isn’t circling around my head.
“Why don’t you have more belongings in your suitcase?”
I’ve never left my suitcase unattended or out in the open.
Or so I thought.
* * *
It’s evening. The house smells like overboiled carrots, and the children are finding their seats at the dining room table while Herr Drexel studies a ledger, his glasses hovering low on the bridge of his nose. Frau Drexel straightens the linen tablecloth then takes her seat.
Conrad is the last to approach the table, and before taking his seat, steps up behind his father with a paper folded and pinched between his fingers.
He stares at me, his eyes lifting along the outside corners, concealing a burgeoning smile. My gaze floats back to the paper, the pink and brown hue, folded only once, wrapped around a photograph from mine and Noah’s wedding day with our names and the date written along the back.
“Father, I have something for you,” Conrad says, holding it out by Herr Drexel’s side.
He takes the paper from his son’s hand and inspects it before smoothing it out on the table.
“I found this in the lining of our nanny’s suitcase,” Conrad says, lowering his voice as if playing the role of a grown man.
Herr Drexel smooths the paper covered photograph down on the table and unfolds the flaps. “Mr. and Mrs. Noah and Celina Felsheim, the sixteenth of November 1941. Mazel Tov,” he reads out loud. “Should I know who these people are, son?” He turns the photograph over.
An icy chill burns through my core, freezing my bones and muscles, the realization paralyzing me at once.
Conrad continues to stare at me, a sickening show of pride in his rigid posture.
Herr Drexel leans back in his seat, straightens his glasses and studies the photograph in his hand.
“A beautiful synagogue for a Jewish couple. I spent time in Amsterdam when I was younger. That’s the one near Sarphatipark—the one settled between the row houses, yes?”
My lungs constrict. He knows exactly what he’s looking at.
I stay silent, knowing nothing I say will help me now.
“You haven’t aged since this photograph was taken, but I suppose that makes sense since you were just wed two years ago.” His eyebrows lift and he presses his tongue to the bottom of his front teeth. “Celina Felsheim, not Kaatje Janseen.”
I haven’t heard my real name spoken in so long. Hearing it now sounds like a death sentence.
“Dear, what are you mumbling about?” Frau Drexel interrupts.
“The Jewish star on your necklace clears up any possible doubt—and your husband’s tiny hat, what are they called again?”
I can’t find my voice, or anything to make me speak an answer. My pulse beats so hard, I’m certain everyone in this room can hear it.
Herr Drexel slams his fists on the table, the photo falling from his hand and landing on his dinner plate. “I asked you what the tiny hat is called by you people…” he barks.
“A—a yarmulke,” I utter, a response that formed on its own.
“You are a married Jewish woman posing as a Catholic widow and a practicing postulant.” Herr Drexel sighs. “We wanted to believe you had suffered an unfortunate series of events with the loss of your child too, but it’s clear now that it was all a lie that went terribly wrong. For you.”
Every lie I’ve been living with collapses at once.
“I never claimed to be anything other than what I was at that time,” I say.
“A grieving woman searching for shelter. I followed a path to aid.” My fingers interlock beneath the table, nails biting into my knuckles to stop my hands from shaking.
Neither of them says a word, as if waiting for me to continue my explanation.
They already have me pinned into a corner.
Why look for more? “I believed that if I devoted myself to the church, God would understand.”
“What a sinful act for Jew, and an insult to the Catholic faith. You thought you could hide your identity under my roof because you claim not to have papers? This is why the Jews have earned a bad name. You’re all liars and cheats. And you’ve been hiding under my own roof.” He spits toward me.
The heat surging through me is enough to raise the temperature in the dining room. I’m sure the distress is written cleanly across my face in red splotches as well. How will he punish me? Does he even know?
Herr Drexel squeezes his fingers around his temples and shakes his head. “So unfortunate.” His eyes graze up and down the upper half of my body as he snarls with disgust.
“Her name isn’t even Kaatje. A Jew has been in our home. My God,” Frau Drexel groans in disgust.
Herr Drexel doesn’t look at me again. He pushes his chair back and stands.
“Children, go to your rooms.” The room grows unbearably hot like I’m standing beside an open oven.
My heart quakes so hard, I might pass out and fall to the floor.
And knowing how ruthless the SS are, I may never wake up again.
Though it may not be worse than whatever he plans to do with me.
None of the children look at me as they leave.
“Please, let me leave. I won’t return. You never have to see me again,” I beg.
Herr Drexel scoffs. “You already know what we do with Jews. You know quite well, in fact. Too much. Now you’ll have to see for yourself, firsthand.”
“No, no, you—please… I won’t say a word—” But there isn’t a hint of pity in either of their eyes.