Lilac Girls (21 page)

“We can take a break from this,” I said.

Halina sat up straighter. “Oh no, Madame Doctor, I'm fine. But I do have a favor to ask of you. Please tell me if—”

“Yes? Get on with it.” Halina had been a great help to me. Didn't I owe it to her to at least listen to her request?

She pulled a letter from her pocket. “I wonder if you could post this. Just a letter to my friend.” It appeared to be written on camp stationery.

“Post it yourself. You're allowed.”

Halina rested one hand on the sleeve of my lab coat. There was a piece of blue string knotted on her ring finger. “But the censors cut them to pieces, take out even remarks about the weather or one's digestion.”

I took the letter from her. It was addressed to Herr Lennart Fleischer at a Lublin address.

What harm was there in sending such a letter? After all, Halina had been valuable to the Reich. There was plenty harm in it, though. If I was caught, the punishment could be severe. I would be reprimanded at best.

“I will think about it,” I said and slipped it in my desk drawer.

Halina bent her head back over her task.

“Thank you, Madame Doctor.”

From my office in the
Revier,
I could hear music and laughter coming from Binz's party at the staff quarters at the far end of the camp in the woods. I chafed at the thought that almost every man in the camp had to leave before I was considered highest in rank.

Less than one hour into the evening, Halina and I were making excellent progress when a great bang was heard and the vibration from it shook the ground. Halina and I just looked at each other and then went about our work. Had it been a car backfiring? Loud noises were not uncommon at the camp and were often amplified by the lake.

Seconds later, Binz and others could be heard shouting from the direction of the party.

“Dr. Oberheuser, come! Irma has been hurt.”

Halina and I looked at each other, struck dumb.

In such situations, the instinct of a medical professional takes over. Halina stood and ran out. I followed close behind. We came to the main camp gate and could hear a great many cries from the direction of the house in the distant wood.

“Open the gate,” I said to the guard.

“But—” His gaze went to Halina. No prisoner was allowed to leave through that gate unless accompanied by an
Aufseherin.

“Do it. You know I outrank you.” Why does a woman's voice so often not command the respect it deserves?

After more stalling, the guard finally opened the gate.

Halina hesitated.

“Come,” I said. I needed an assistant, but would I be reprimanded for this?

Halina hurried with me toward the house, the sound of her heavy clogs muffled as we ran from cobblestone road to the soft pine needles of the woods. Abundant moonlight allowed us to see the house at the end of the pine grove, all light extinguished within.

Binz came running from the direction of the house. “The kitchen collapsed, and Irma's down,” Binz called.

Irma Grese was one of Binz's most fervent disciples and, some argued, more severe in her punishments than Binz. What would the commandant say?

Halina and I ran toward the house and Binz followed. “For God's sake, Binz. How did this happen?” I asked.

“The gas stove—she lit her cigarette there, and the damned thing just went up. I told her not to smoke—”

Halina and I entered the house and found Irma unresponsive on the living room floor. The electricity had been knocked out by the blast, and the room smelled of gas. The kitchen wall behind the stove had been blown clear off, and above the stove a mangled piece of metal swayed, making a strangely human groaning sound. Even the wall calendar near us was knocked askew.

Halina and I knelt beside Irma. Even in the near darkness, I could see her accelerated breathing. Shock. Blood soaked the shoulder of her dress.

“Someone get a blanket,” I said.

“And a candle,” Binz said.

“There is still gas in the air,” Halina said. “Get a battery-powered flashlight. A good strong one.”

Binz paused a second. Take orders from a prisoner?

“A flashlight,” Binz called over her shoulder.

I tried to apply direct pressure to Irma's shoulder but it was difficult to see in the darkness. The metallic smell of human blood was unmistakable, though. In seconds, I felt the rug become wet, turning into a sticky pool.

“Need to move her back to the
Revier,
” I said.

“She won't make it,” Halina said. “Have to work here.”

Was she mad? “We have nothing…”

Binz's guards huddled around us, quiet. Halina hesitated a long moment. Reluctant to save the life of an
Aufseherin
? She then reached over and ripped the sleeve off Irma's dress.

Binz lunged toward Halina. “What is she
doing
?”

I held Binz back.

“Exposing the wound,” I said.

This not only gave us access to the injury but also revealed the source of the bleeding. One of Binz's girls came with a strong light, and we saw the extent of the damage—loss of consciousness, multiple contusions, second-degree burns, and cyanosis—clammy blue skin—a symptom of shock. But the most immediate problem was the source of the blood loss, a gash the size of a deck of playing cards in her upper arm, perhaps inflicted by a piece of projectile iron from the stove. The wound was so deep the bone was clearly visible. I held my fingers to Irma's wrist but could barely find a pulse. These injuries were not compatible with life.

Halina slipped her uniform shift over her head, leaving her in only gray undershorts and wooden clogs in the cold night. She kicked off her clogs and ripped her uniform into long strips two inches wide. It was hard not to marvel at Halina's decisiveness as she went about this task. The exertion brought color to her cheek, and her eyes shone in the light. This was the work she was meant to do.

Until then I'd not realized how underweight Halina had become. Even on Block One rations she had become wasted, especially about the hips and thighs. But her skin was unblemished and creamy white, the color of fresh milk. She practically glowed in the low light.

“We have to get to the
Revier,
” Binz said.

I joined Halina and we ripped strips of cotton. She wrapped the cloth strips two inches above the injury and tied them with a perfect overhand knot.

“First a tourniquet,” I said to Binz.

I walked to the calendar on the wall and pulled the wooden dowel from it. I handed it to Halina, and she tied two cloth strips to the stick to make a torsion device. I helped her twist the stick until the material was tight and the bleeding stopped.

Soon the patient was responsive, and we made a blanket sling, onto which four
Aufseherinnen
lifted Irma, and hurried back to camp. I ordered an
Aufseherin
to fetch a blanket and arranged it across Halina's shoulders, for she was trembling after that performance.

Halina and I followed Binz and her girls out the door of the house as they carried Irma back to the
Revier.
I considered follow-up care. We'd start an intravenous drip…

Halina paused there in the darkness. What was she doing?

She looked out toward the lake, which shimmered in the moonlight as if diamonds were scattered there.

“What is it?” I asked.

Was she in shock too?

“Halina. There's much to be done.”

Then the thought occurred to me—she was considering escape! Could it be? A prisoner clothed only in a blanket and undershorts would not get far. Only three escapes had been attempted at Ravensbrück, and two had ended badly for those
Häftlings,
who were brought back to camp, made to wear a placard with the words
HURRAH, HURRAH, I'M BACK AGAIN!
on it, tortured, and then shot at the wall.

That was all I needed—an escape on my watch.

“Come
along,
” I said.

Halina stood still, her blond hair bright in the moonlight, face hidden in the shadows. In the quiet, I heard the lapping of the lake waves on the shore.

“Now,”
I said. “That patient needs follow-up care.”

Halina barely moved in the darkness.

An arc of light from the tower swept the yard and moved on to the lake. They were looking for us.

“You've done a great service to the Reich tonight, Halina. You'll be rewarded. I'm sure of it. Come along now.”

The dogs in the kennel barked. How long before we would be reported missing and the dogs would be released?

Still Halina did not move. Were the guards watching us from the towers?

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled, and the fog of her breath rose like a specter, lit by the moon.

“I just wanted to look at the camp from here,” she said in a faraway voice.

Why had I let her come out of those gates?

Halina inhaled once more. “It's been so long since I've breathed free air. The lake. It's so…”

“Hurry, now,” I said.

Quite slowly she joined me, and we walked back to the
Revier,
the sound of her wooden clogs loud on the road, my coat soaked through with perspiration.

Not until the gate closed behind us did I allow myself to breathe fully once again.

W
ORD OF THAT EVENING'S
events spread quickly the next day. Once the commandant returned and the men rolled back in from their brothel trip, the commandant personally told me how much he appreciated my quick thinking and said he'd write to Himmler of my ingenuity and bravery in saving one of the Reich's best workers. The whole camp lauded my efforts, except Nurse Marschall, of course, who remained cold and tight-lipped when the subject came up, jealous a Pole had assisted me.

L
ATER THAT WEEK
Halina and I sat finishing up some paperwork, side by side at my desk. By then we barely had to speak; we knew each other's rhythms and routines so well around the office. Her
Blockova
had given her permission to stay past lights out, so I knew we would have a chance to visit. That morning I had been to the
Bekleidung
building, known to all as the booty piles, the Reich's great assemblage of goods confiscated from Hitler's conquered nations. These materials—clothing, silver, dishes, and the like—were well sorted, and I quickly found many helpful things, including a warm sweater for Halina and a phonograph with a limited selection of recordings. I had a green badge set it up in my office, cranked it, and played some music with the volume low.

A Bible girl brought us bread and cheese from the officer's dining hall, more for Halina than me, and I put a record on the phonograph, “Foxtrot from Warsaw.”

“I love this song,” Halina said.

I turned the volume down. No need for the whole
Revier
to hear me playing a Polish song.

Halina swayed slightly to the music as she addressed her envelopes. “I learned the foxtrot to this song.”

“Can you teach me?” I asked. What was the harm? Everyone at the camp knew this step but me. There had been no time for these things in medical school.

Halina shook her head. “Oh, I don't think—”

I stood. “I insist.”

Halina rose quite slowly. “Madame Doctor, I'm not the best teacher.”

I smiled. “Hurry, before the song is done.”

She reached one hand to my back and took my hand with the other.

“The hold is up,” Halina said, “like other ballroom dances.”

We took two steps forward and then one to the side in time to the music. Halina had sold herself short. She was an excellent teacher.

“Slow, slow, quick, quick. Do you see?”

It was not a difficult dance. Right away I mastered it. Halina kept me turning about the small office, the two of us perfectly in sync. Soon we both were laughing at how ridiculously well we danced together. I hadn't laughed like that since coming to the camp.

We stopped, out of breath. I brushed a lock of hair back off Halina's forehead.

Halina turned, and I felt her stiffen. I turned as well and found Nurse Marschall in the doorway, a supply requisition form in hand. Neither of us had heard the door open.

I tried to catch my breath. “What
is
it, Marschall?”

Halina lifted the needle from the record.

“I have a supply order,” Marschall said. “I was going to leave it on your desk, but I see you are busy.” Her eyes flashed to Halina. “Plus, you left the apothecary closet open.”

“I'll take care of it. I am busy, if you don't mind.”

Nurse Marschall handed me the form and withdrew, but not without sending Halina a penetrating look.

Once Marschall left and shut the door as quietly as she'd opened it, Halina and I looked at each other. Something intangible had been let out of a box, something dangerous, and there was no going back.

“She needs to learn to knock,” I said.

Halina stared at me, her face drained of color. “She seems unhappy, Madame Doctor.”

“The barking dog never bites,” I said with a shrug. “She's useless.”

If only I'd known the price of underestimating Nurse Marschall.

I
gripped the edge of my file cabinet drawer. “What is it, Roger?”

“I just heard, Caroline. They found Paul's and Rena's names on an arrest roster.”

Paul arrested?

“Thank you for not telling me in front of Pia.” I kept the tears at bay, but my manila files swam in a blur. “Any word on Rena's father? He lived with them in Rouen.”

“Not yet. I check the sheets every hour. You know, of course, we'll do whatever it takes to track them.”

“At least we know they're alive, right? On what charges were they arrested?”

“Wish I knew. Our London intelligence is spotty. No destinations listed, either. There's more, C. Three million German troops have begun marching into Russia.”

“What about the nonaggression pact?” Hitler was a lying madman, but every new reversal came as a fresh slap.

“Hitler ignored it, C. The Bear is not happy.”

Roger loved referring to the Soviets as “the Bear.” It did seem an apt name.

“Hitler's taking whatever he wants. This doesn't bode well for us.”

He didn't have to say it. Before long, Hitler would own half the world. Would England be the next to go?

“I'm sorry about all this, C.”

Roger seemed genuinely sad. Perhaps he regretted not acting on Rena's behalf.

I barely functioned that day, numb with what-ifs.

What if Paul had stayed here, safe in New York? What if I'd pushed Roger more to wrangle Rena a visa?

To complicate the day, I received a call informing me that Betty Stockwell Merchant had delivered a seven-pound baby boy she named Walter, after her father. Though work was busy, I snuck away at lunch to visit her at the hospital. I was desperate to see the baby, though I'd been stuffing down jealousy since I'd heard the news, along with a few jelly doughnuts. I hoped a change of venue would clear my head. It would be nice to share my concerns about Paul with Betty.

I bought Betty's favorite parrot tulips on the way to the hospital, not that she needed more flowers. Her suite at St. Luke's looked like Whirlaway's stables at the Kentucky Derby, flowers in great sprays, a horseshoe of roses, and carnations on an easel with a sash across it reading
CONGRATULATIONS!
In a vase, two dozen roses dyed baby blue hung their heads in shame.

“Thank you for the tulips, Caroline,” Betty said. She lay propped up with down pillows in her custom hospital bed, lovely in a pink satin bed jacket and matching turban. “You always know what I like.”

A nurse came in with the baby, her crepe soles silent on the tile. Seeing him pushed my troubles to the background.

“Go ahead and hold him,” Betty said with a wave in our direction. The baby settled in, warm against me, swaddled tight. His fists were balled under his chin, his face prizefighter swollen. Little Walter would have to be pugnacious to survive parents who got along best when in separate time zones.

“I know it sounds ungrateful, Caroline, but I'm not ready for a baby,” Betty said. She held a hankie to one tear duct.

“How can you say that, dear?”

“I told Phil I didn't want a child this soon, but he didn't listen. And after all I've done for him. I wore golf shoes for that man.”

“You'll be a wonderful mother.”

“The service is excellent here, Caroline,” Betty said, brightening. “Better than the Plaza; I'm telling you. They were bringing the baby in at all hours, and I had to tell them to keep him in the nursery. They specialize in infants.”

“What a beautiful baby,” I said.

I stroked his fist, petal soft.

Walter stretched in my arms, and his eyelids fluttered in a baby dream. I felt the familiar ache and the tears welling up. Not now.

“Now we just need to get you a husband and a baby, Caroline. In that order.”

“I'm done with all that,” I said.

“Have you started borrowing your mother's underwear yet? No, right? Then you're not done.”

The nurse came and took Walter, as if Betty had pressed the call button under her dining table for the maid. I held on to him until the last second before handing him to the nurse. My arms felt cold and empty as I watched them go.

“Roger told me today that Paul and Rena were arrested,” I said.

“Oh no, Caroline. I'm so sorry, dear. Do you know where they were taken?”

I stepped to the window, arms folded across my chest.

“No one knows. To a Paris jail or some transit camp probably. I don't know what to do.”

Outside the window, down in the park, a boy tried to fly a kite, but its bottom bumped along, refusing to lift. The tail is too heavy, I thought. Just take off the tail.

“How terribly painful for you, darling,” Betty said.

“I can't work.”

“I'm having a luau party when I go home. Help me plan it. Or you could be my bridge partner for the Vanderbilts' party. I'm playing with Pru, but she'll gladly step aside.”

“I can't think about parties, Betty. I need to find out where they've taken Paul.”

“Let it
go,
C. It's all terribly sad, but you'll never have a normal life with Paul Rodierre.”

“Who's to say what's normal?”

“Why do you always take the hard way? You and David could have—”

“David left
me.
”

“He would have married you if you'd been around more. A ten-city theater tour doesn't strengthen a relationship. Men like to be the center of your world. Now that you're more settled, you need to hurry up and get married and have children. A woman's eggs disintegrate, you know.”

Just the mention of eggs floating inside me, fragile and microscopic, made me wince.

“That's ridiculous, Betty.”

“Tell that to your ovaries. There are eligible men all over New York, and you're chasing one in a French jail.”

“I have to get back to work. Would it kill you to be sympathetic? We're talking about people's lives.”

“I'm sorry you don't want to hear it, but he's not quite our class, dear.”

“Our class? My father made his own way in life.”

“After his parents sent him to St.
Paul's.
”

“With all due respect to your brother, being pampered by one's parents fails to build character.”

“That coming from a woman who was dressed by maids until she was sixteen. Oh, let's be practical about all this, Caroline. It's not too late, you know…”

“To what? Save my reputation? Marry someone I can't stand just to have a luau partner? You may have the baby and the husband, but I want to be happy, Betty.”

Betty picked at the satin hem of her blanket. “Fine, but don't cry to me when this ends badly.”

I turned and left, wondering how I could have such a friend who didn't give a fig for my true happiness. I didn't need Betty. I had Mother. That would have to do for now.

There was no earthly way I would give up on Paul.

L
ATER THAT WEEK,
Roger told me the consulate could no longer help me fund the comfort packages I sent to France. The postcards and letters kept coming from the French orphanages, requesting help in the nicest possible way. How could I turn them down? I didn't dare ask Mother for money from her household account. Since Father had died, she'd been on a short leash. For a while, I hoped for a miracle, but then realized where I needed to go.

Snyder and Goodrich Antiques.

Years before, Mother had actually hinted we might consign some of the less used silver and donate the proceeds to charity. I wasn't surprised, for she'd inherited Mother Woolsey's inclination toward charity along with her sterling. She never measured our worth in troy ounces, so I knew we wouldn't miss a few oyster forks that hadn't been touched since the Civil War.

I'd never part with the dinner forks, of course.

The Snyder and Goodrich Antiques Shop was just far enough downtown to be discreet, located next to a thriving little shop that sold realistic hairpieces. Everyone acted differently once they ended up at Snyder and Goodrich, selling their family heirlooms to support a rummy uncle or an overdue tax bill. Betty's second cousin, whose husband went to jail for tax evasion, swallowed a bottle of pills the day her wedding china went down to Snyder and Goodrich. She recovered, but her reputation never did.

Those with buckets of money to spare didn't care a fig about appearances. After spring cleaning, they'd send a liveried chauffeur or uniformed housemaid down to S&G with the items to be disposed of. A dingy Hamadan carpet. Limoges finger bowls.

Mother never kept a chauffeur for the city, and our few maids left on staff were up at The Hay, so one morning I took a roll of oyster forks from the pyramid of rolled Pacific cloth bundles in the silver closet at the apartment and delivered them myself. Mr. Snyder would no doubt be glad to see the Woolsey silver.

I stepped through the shop door into a haze of cigar smoke. Inside, one got the impression there were more glass cases in that room than in the entire Museum of Natural History. The walls were filled with floor-to-ceiling cases, and more ran around the perimeter of the room, counter high and a body's length from the wall. All showed the linty evidence of fresh Windexing and stood choked with household artifacts arranged according to category: swords in ornate, tasseled sheaths; coins and paintings and legions of matching stemware. And the sterling silver and silver plate, of course, in separate cases, kept a discreet distance apart.

A trim man, well into his sixties, stood at one of the waist-high cases. He'd spread out pages of
The New York Times
there and was polishing a silver caviar set atop them with his wooden matches, orange sticks, and polishing rags arranged in a ring around an article. I could read the headline upside down:
HITLER BEGINS WAR ON RUSSIA, WITH ARMIES ON MARCH FROM ARCTIC TO THE BLACK SEA; DAMASCUS FALLS; U.S. OUSTS ROME CONSULS.

The man introduced himself as Mr. Snyder, unfurled my felt roll, and extracted one oyster fork, as gently as one extracts saffron from a crocus. With his jeweler's loupe to one eye, he examined the Woolsey family crest atop it. Mr. Snyder would no doubt be impressed with that coat of arms, extraordinary in sterling: two filigreed lions in silhouette holding the crest aloft, above it a naked arm, shinbone in hand, rising from a medieval knight's helmet.

Mr. Snyder read the words inscribed on the band of the crest:
“Manus Haec Inimica Tyrannis.”

“It's our family code. It means ‘This hand with shinbone shall only be raised in anger against a tyrant or tyranny itself.' ” How could Mr. Snyder not be eager to have such history in his shop?

“What is your best price?” I asked.

“This is not a tag sale, Miss Ferriday—Clignancourt flea market is that way,” he said, pointing in the direction of Paris with one tarnish-blackened finger.

Mr. Snyder spoke excellent English with just a trace of a German accent. Though his name sounded English, he was of German extraction. I assumed Snyder was once spelled Schneider and was anglicized for business reasons. After World War I, transplanted Germans had been the targets of American prejudice, though that tide had turned recently in the United States, and many Americans were decidedly pro-German. The name Goodrich had probably been added to make the store sound British, for there was no evidence of a Mr. Goodrich.

Mr. Snyder felt the oyster fork all over as a blind man might feel a face, flexed the ends of the tines, then huffed a breath onto it.

“Tines not stretched. That's good. Hallmark is clogged. Have these been dipped?”

“Never,” I said. “Only cotton wool and Goddard's.”

I fought the urge to curry favor with a smile. With the French at least, smiling was a tactical error, a sign of American weakness.

Mr. Snyder took the four-sided end of a wooden matchstick and twirled it in the hallmark. The pink of his scalp, which shone through his thin white hair, matched the polish on his rag.