1959

It took me some time to get out of my car at the checkpoint, for the door would not open, no matter how I tried. I climbed across and out the passenger side, much to the amusement of the border guards, standing there flaunting their rifles.

The rain was down to a fine mist, and I watched it collect and bead on the shiny cap brim of the officer who had ordered me out. I braced myself with one hand on the hood of the car, for my legs felt about to fail, then snatched it away, for the metal was hot from the engine. Was the car about to overheat?

“You have fancy papers,” the officer said. “They have, however, been replaced with a one-day pass.”

“But they are—”

“If you don’t like it, turn around,” the officer said. “Either way, get this car out of here—it’s on its last leg.”

I took the pass. Did he see my fingers trembling? The pass, soggy by then and no bigger than a pack of cigarettes, was a miserable exchange for my beautiful papers.

“Make sure you are back here by six tomorrow morning, or you will be living here in this house with us.” He waved the next car forward, signaling the end of the conversation.

Back in the driver’s seat, I broke out in a cold sweat of relief. The second checkpoint was easier, and once the West German border guards checked me through, I crossed into the West, and drove north toward Stocksee.

West Germany was like a different world, a wonderland of green fields and neat farms. The road was smooth, and modern trucks passed me on that popular trucking route, for my car refused to go over fifty miles per hour. I stopped only once, at the first telegraph office I saw, and sent a wire to Caroline saying I was on my way.

Somewhere on the outskirts of Stocksee, I heard a terrific clank and turned to see my muffler fall on the asphalt and clatter to the side of the road. I backed up and retrieved the lanky hunk of metal and hurled it into my backseat. After that, my car sounded like the loudest motorbike when I pressed the gas pedal, but what choice did I have? I had to keep going.

I chugged into Stocksee in the early afternoon and shivered as I passed the flowered sign: WILLKOMMEN IN STOCKSEE! Herta’s home base? It was a rural town close to a lake with the same name, a big lake, tranquil and dark. She always did like lakes.

I drove past rolling farmland and into the heart of Stocksee, a tidy little place. If the dress of the inhabitants was any indication, Stocksee was a conservative place too, for most wore traditional Tracht, the men in lederhosen, Trachten coats, and alpine hats, the women in dirndl dresses. I slowed my car by a sidewalk and asked a man for help in my best rusty German.

“Excuse me, sir, could you tell me where Dorfstrasse can be found?” The man ignored me and kept walking. A stab of fear went through me when I saw a woman resembling Gerda Quernheim, Nurse Gerda from the camp, pass by on the sidewalk. Could it possibly be her? Out of prison already?

I found the doctor’s office, a single-story building of white-painted brick. I parked far down the street, relieved to turn my car off, and sat there attracting hostile looks from passersby. One peered into the backseat in a pointed way, looking at the muffler lying there. I tried to steady my breathing and gain courage. Should I just return home? Call the police and ask for help? That might not end well.

A silver Mercedes-Benz slid by me and docked at the curb in front of the doctor’s office. It was an older model but the kind of car Pietrik would have admired.

A woman got out of the car. Could that possibly be Herta driving such an expensive car? Why had I forgotten my glasses? My heart beat like a crazy, flip-flopping fish. The woman was too skinny to be her, wasn’t she? My hands were slippery on the steering wheel as I watched the woman walk into the doctor’s office.

I slid to the passenger door and exited, the hinges complaining, and shook my hands about like two wet mops, trying to calm myself. I entered the doctor’s office, and stopped to read the brass sign next to the door: FAMILY MEDICAL CLINIC. The words WE LOVE CHILDREN were painted below. Children? It couldn’t be Herta. Who would let someone like her touch their little ones?

It wasn’t a big waiting room, but it was unnervingly neat and tidy. The walls were painted with schools of manic fish and turtles, and an aquarium bubbled in the corner. I sat and thumbed through magazines, glancing now and then at the patients, waiting to see if she’d walk by. It was hard to look at those well-fed infants with their velvety skin and know Herta might be the one touching them. As their names were called, the mothers went in to see the doctor just as we once had. Did she give them their inoculations or leave that to a nurse?

I watched an angelfish in the tank suck in and spit rocks from the pink-gravel bottom. A German mother sat across the room, the picture of Aryan purity. The Nazis would have put her on the cover of every magazine during the war. I considered telling her how they killed babies at Ravensbrück, but then thought better of it. Never volunteer information. The Germans were always suspicious of that.

Though it was cool in the room, sweat ran down my back. To calm myself, I paged through German Mother magazine. The war was long since over, but the Hausfrauen had not come far. Still working hard, but no longer for their beloved Führer. If the magazine was any indication, the Germans worshipped a new idol—consumer goods. Volkswagens, hi-fis, dishwashers, and televisions. At least that was an improvement. The receptionist scraped her glass window open.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked, blue eye shadow on her lids. Makeup? The Führer would not have approved.

I stood.

“No, but if the doctor is free, I’d like one.”

She handed me a clipboard, a long form trapped under the silver clamp.

“Fill this out, and I’ll check,” she said.

The Germans still loved their paperwork.

I filled in the form with my real married name and a false address in the nearby town of Plön. It was barely readable, my fingers shook so. Why worry? The war was long over. Hitler was dead. What could Herta do to me?

I listened to the music as I waited. Tchaikovsky? It wasn’t calming me.

The last patient went in to see the doctor, and I sat alone. Would she remember me? I was certain she’d recognize her own handiwork.

The receptionist appeared at her window.

“The doctor will see you after the last patient. I will be leaving soon, so may I have your paperwork?”

“Of course,” I said and handed her the clipboard.

I’d be there alone with the doctor? Should I just leave?

I went to the wooden coat-tree in the corner, empty except for a white lab jacket, to hang up my coat. The nameplate pinned to the breast pocket said DR. OBERHEUSER. A chill ran through me. How strange to see that name in print. At Ravensbrück the staff had been careful not to reveal their names. Not that we hadn’t known them.

The receptionist stood and tidied her desk, ready to go home.

Why stay? If I left then, no one would know I’d been here. Caroline could send someone else.

The last mother walked through the waiting room, baby at her shoulder, and smiled at me as she left the office. I thought of Mrs. Mikelsky’s baby with a pang of sadness. I could follow that nice girl out of the waiting room and go home to Lublin. I hurried my coat on and started toward the door, openmouthed, sucking in air. I made it and felt the knob smooth in my hand.

Just go.

Before I could turn it, the receptionist opened the door that led to the back rooms.

“Kasia Bakoski?” she said with a smile. “The doctor will see you now.”