During her first weeks in the nursery, Allina’s arms and legs twitched with fatigue by the end of the day and creaked with stiffness every morning. The work was mindless, and the hectic pace gave her little time to think. It was better, really, to go from one task to the next, with her mind as sharp as a pin and focused on the present moment: the cradles to be stripped for the following day’s wash, or a counter in need of disinfecting, or a wriggling baby to be adjusted in its nursing sling.
Allina liked the early shift because it was the busiest. She’d rise in the dark, wash, and gulp down a raisin bun and enough bitter coffee to chase the sleepiness from her brain before reporting to the nursery at six o’clock.
Each morning passed in a hurricane of activity and always according to Hochland Home’s pitiless schedules. Her assigned nursery of eighteen newborns was small; other Schwestern were responsible for as many as thirty children. Nevertheless, by noon every child was breastfed twice, bathed, measured, weighed, changed, and wheeled into the garden for fresh air. She maintained files on each of her charges, noting dozens of characteristics—everything from the length of time the baby nursed, to its height and weight and the circumference of its skull, to observations on the shape of its eyes and nose and any changes in hair and skin color. Afternoons mirrored the mornings, with the added burden of laundry—there were mountains of diapers, towels, and sheets to fold—so her hands smelled perpetually of bleach and Persil.
Meals were quick and on the run because Schwestern were forever in motion, like chickens released from a henhouse. Allina learned to snack when she could, and to snag an extra roll or piece of fruit from the buffet at meals. After dinner, she attended mandatory character training classes that offered instruction on everything from hair and skin care (no cosmetics allowed, ladies, remember, natural beauty is best) to the art of conversation (be kind and pleasing with a soft voice and smile, and never enter into political discussions). The courses were as dull as rocks, but the droning lectures had one benefit. Allina fell asleep quickly each night, usually within minutes. Still, she often came awake in the early hours of the morning, gasping for breath and lurching off the mattress, with the taste of dirt in her mouth.
Her waking mind rarely turned toward Badensburg. She reached for them sometimes, the memories, to test herself, but any images faded like shadows into the corners of her brain before she could grasp them, leaving nothing behind but a spinning weightlessness in the hollow of her stomach.
It was curious how rarely she was able to conjure the faces of those she loved most. When she tried, their faces were like quicksilver, disappearing in a flash. Even the image of Albert—his teasing smile and warm, amber eyes—brought on a crushing weight in her chest.
On the rare occasion thoughts of her former life intruded, they were almost always childhood memories: of balancing carefully on a kitchen stool as she pushed dough through the spaetzle maker into a steaming pot of chicken stock, or of her sticky, red-stained fingers picking gooseberries for pastry. Each flash of memory was oddly flat and emotionless, like a scene from a movie, and she was always alone in them. These random thoughts concerned Allina. She knew she should feel something, but she didn’t.
Her coat—and the items she’d sewn into its lining—were the only things that caused a sense of restlessness. As the days passed and her physical wounds continued to heal, Allina’s interest in her father’s letters bloomed. But there was no way to get to those letters safely. She had virtually no free time and wasn’t allowed outside the compound—and since her sleeping room door was unlocked, there was no privacy. Getting caught would be disastrous. To keep from losing her mind, Allina focused on the children and reminded herself to keep the past in the past.
“Good morning, Berta. How are you feeling today?” Allina pasted on a smile as the tall, flaxen-haired blonde entered the nursery. Every mother seemed to be running late this morning, but no one was more obnoxious than Berta Schneider. Berta had the face of a bisque doll. She should have been beautiful, but Allina found her perfectly arched eyebrows, pouted bow lips, and turned-up nose annoying.
Allina noted Berta’s lateness in her file, satisfying one of Hochland Home’s rules, although the girl would never be chastised for her tardiness. The head nurse might preach about the need to stick to schedule, but she counted on her Schwestern to keep things moving smoothly.
Berta ignored Allina and the nursing mothers as she fluffed the embroidered skirt of her sprigged cotton dirndl. Loosening her blouse, she took the nursing sling from the arm of a wingback chair and looped it around her neck before taking her seat. Allina pulled Berta’s newborn from his crib and positioned him in the sling so his face was close to Berta’s breast. The infant latched on to her nipple and began to suck.
“Ouch!” Berta called out. She tapped her baby’s forehead and looked at him with exasperation.
Sabine Hindz, a new resident who’d arrived at Hochland Home just days before her delivery, glanced at Berta and chuckled. “Your son is a healthy eater,” she said, adjusting Johann, her newborn, in his feeding sling. Sabine was older than most of the others in the nursery, married, and at twenty-nine had come fully into her beauty. Her glossy chestnut hair was cut in a fashionable bob and styled in soft finger waves. The fine lines around her mouth and eyes did nothing to diminish her porcelain skin or silver-gray gaze.
“I wish my Ingrid would latch,” added Lotte Menke, as she looked down into her newborn’s face. Lotte’s chubby face was wan and her blond hair hung down her back in a lank mess. The smudges under her mint-green eyes spoke of perpetual distress and made her seem much older than her seventeen years.
Allina set a hand on Lotte’s shoulder. “Worrying never helps. Little Ingrid’s feeding habits will improve, she just needs a bit of encouragement.”
“Schwester Allina is right,” Sabine said, speaking with the confidence of an older, experienced mother. “Klaus, my first child, was a poor eater in the beginning. Now he’s an eighteen-month-old terror.”
“Do you plan to keep this baby, too, Sabine?” Allina asked.
“Of course,” Sabine replied, smiling down at her perfect son. “We’ll try for another as soon as we can. My husband is very excited for more sons. Or even a daughter.”
“Why didn’t you have Johann at home?” Lotte asked. “When my parents found out I was pregnant, they couldn’t wait to send me here, but…”
“Viktor serves in the Sudetenland,” Sabine explained with a quick lift of her shoulders, “and neither of us has family close by. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to Schwester Ziegler. I don’t know what I’d do if she hadn’t allowed Klaus and me to stay here.” She stroked Johann’s cheek tenderly. “A few weeks at Hochland Home is better than any vacation. I’ll be fully recovered when I go home.”
“Schwester Ziegler always says it’s a special privilege to serve the families of soldiers,” Allina assured her. “You’re welcome here for as long as you need us.”
“Schwester Ziegler knows what a privilege it is to serve us,” Berta said, pinning Allina with her chilly blue gaze. “I wish I could say the same for the rest of her staff.” Shifting in her chair, Berta snagged last week’s issue of Die Dame. She didn’t look at her baby or touch him again.
Allina straightened her white nurse’s cap and walked the room’s perimeter, checking on the fifteen other mothers and their babies and adjusting nursing slings as necessary. Soon feeding time was over for everyone but Berta, and the rest of the women handed over their infants and filed out of the room. Allina settled the newborns down for their naps, grateful that full bellies would mean at least twenty minutes of peace. She walked to the work counter and amended her files, adding a few last notes about each child’s feeding behavior.
She checked the clock—10:45—and sighed. She should weigh them in another fifteen minutes, but the children were sleeping quietly and an overflowing basket of laundry was waiting for her on the back counter.
Rilla Weber rushed into the room carrying a small cloth-covered bowl, but she skidded to a halt as soon as she saw Berta. “Oh. Hello,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
Berta waggled her fingers in Rilla’s general direction without looking up.
Rilla hurried over to Allina. “You have to taste these,” she whispered. “Chef Greiser made the most delectable cinnamon biscuits.” Rilla dug under the red-and-white-checked cloth and handed her one. It was still warm from the oven, and the spicy scent of cinnamon and brown sugar made Allina’s mouth water. She bit into it with a happy moan.
Rilla laughed. “Schwester Ziegler thinks you need fattening up.” Her rosy cheeks dimpled as she reached into the basket and took one for herself. “You don’t mind, do you? I’m starving.”
Shaking her head, Allina couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. She tried to keep to herself, but Rilla had made it clear that she wanted to be friends. At fifteen, Rilla was three years younger than Allina—one of the youngest residents at Hochland Home. She reminded Allina very much of a playful kitten. Her gray eyes tilted up at the corners and her pointed chin jutted whenever she was being stubborn or expressing an opinion, which was most of the time. Intrusive but kind, Rilla was different from the others. Softer. And Rilla sparkled. If Allina had ever been this lighthearted, she couldn’t remember.
Allina placed her hand on her friend’s belly, which strained the fabric of her pink gingham jumper. “Your little one will be fat and healthy for sure.”
“Is he done yet?” Berta called out, jabbing a finger at her baby’s head.
“Nearly so.” Allina checked the wall clock again and hurried over to Berta. “Is Neils your first child?” she asked, attempting to find a neutral topic.
“No.” Berta frowned. “It’s my second. I want to give five children to my Führer by the time I’m twenty-five.”
“I see.” Allina took the baby from Berta’s feeding sling and transferred him to the cradle. “I’m sure your husband is proud.”
“I’m not married,” the girl snapped. Her eyes were as beautiful and cold as sapphires. “It’s my duty to bear as many children as I can while I’m young and healthy. Why does it matter who the father is, as long as he has the right bloodlines?”
“Of course,” Allina murmured. “You’re absolutely right.”
An image of Karin’s merry blue eyes flashed in Allina’s mind, and her heart skittered. Her best friend had been radiant when she’d announced her pregnancy this past summer …
No. Don’t think about this now. Allina backed away and glanced at Rilla, who rolled her eyes at Berta and, bless her, began folding diapers.
Berta buttoned her blouse and flounced out of the room without a backward glance.
“That one is an ice queen,” Rilla murmured, grabbing a clean diaper from the laundry basket. She folded it in three quick movements, added it to the pile, and took another.
Allina coughed to mask a chuckle, although Rilla’s assessment was accurate enough, and made her uneasy. Berta had a sly intelligence that put everyone on high alert. She watched everything too closely.
Checking the clock, Allina hurried back to the counter and noted the beginning and ending feeding times to amend Neils Schneider’s file: Nursed 16 minutes.
“Most of the girls here don’t want to be mothers, not real ones, anyway.” Rilla caressed her belly through her maternity jumper. “They give up their babies. Everyone says it’s the right thing to do, but I want to keep mine.” She plucked a towel from the basket and snapped it in the air before folding it into a tight square.
“How will you take care of your baby all by yourself?” Allina shook out two cradle sheets and tossed them over her shoulder.
“Steffen and I plan to marry,” Rilla answered, taking more towels from the basket. “We fell in love before I came here, and he arranged my stay himself.”
Rilla plopped down into a chair. “I love him, and he’s going to love our baby.”
“And if you don’t marry?” Allina asked. “Will you go home?” According to Schwester Ziegler, few marriages happened between the girls and officers.
“I won’t have to.” Rilla dipped her head as her voice grew shrill. “Steffen loves me. We’ll marry when he returns from duty.”
Allina laid a hand on Rilla’s shoulder. The young woman shook it off. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you, but we both know what this place is.” She bit her lip, hesitant to say more.
“Don’t pretend to disapprove of me,” Rilla said, lifting her chin. “I’m not like the others, and you know it.” Shifting in her chair, Rilla crossed her ankles and let out a disgusted snort. “Berta’s already searching for her next victim. There were a dozen officers at last night’s mixer, and she flirted shamelessly with every single one.”
The visions in Allina’s mind, involving Berta and any number of officers, made her sick to her stomach. She went back to the pile of laundry and folded in silence for a minute until the lure of the empty chair beside Rilla was too much. “I’m glad I missed the mixer, then,” she said, taking a seat.
“They won’t let you get out of the mixers forever,” Rilla said in a soft voice.
“Schwester Ziegler’s ordered me to go to one next week,” Allina murmured. But the thought of the men … all in uniform … it filled her with panic.
Rilla took her hand, frowning when Allina snatched it back. “You don’t have to flirt. Some of the men just want to dance,” she said, pointing to her pregnant belly, “or in my case, talk. Most are young, and nice enough, and we’re all a little lonely. Far from home.” She folded her arms over her breasts. “Or don’t the rules apply to you?”
Allina fixed her gaze to the floor.
“Remember, good National Socialist women are hardworking, pleasant, and always obedient,” Rilla added, mocking the lesson they’d discussed in excruciating detail at one of last week’s character training classes.
“You should be more careful about voicing your opinions,” Allina said, as her pulse thrummed in her throat. “If it’s obvious to me you don’t agree with what’s going on here, then it’s obvious to everyone else.”
“I don’t speak honestly with anyone else,” Rilla said. She reached for Allina’s hand again and held on tight when she tried to pull away. “You’re the one who needs to be careful. Your face always betrays what you’re thinking.”
“Allina! Over here!” Rilla’s voice carried over the din, and she waved from a table in the corner of the meeting hall. Schwester Ziegler had put her foot down; Allina was to attend tonight’s mixer or else. So she was here. But her legs were quaking.
“I’m glad you decided to come,” Rilla said as Allina took a seat. “There aren’t so many men here tonight, and quite a few girls have already paired off.” Rilla’s color was high, and her blond ponytail swung to the Polynesian melody of Elena Lauri’s “Dreams of the South Seas” as she danced in her chair. “The officers brought piles of new records. Isn’t the music wonderful?”
Allina sat very still and risked a peek at the hall. A dozen SS officers in uniform and perhaps twice that number of women were assembled, with half of the group huddled around the glossy wood cocktail tables along the room’s perimeter, and the other half busy on the dance floor in the center. The air was thick with cigarette smoke.
Raucous laughter erupted from the edge of the dance floor. Two soldiers were acting out a funny parody, kicking up their heels as they marched with mugs of lager in their fists. The dancers all wore smiles and kept to the center of the room, wrapped up in the music and each other. Most had glasses in hand. There was obvious flirting among the entire group, but the men kept a respectful distance. Everyone seemed to be having fun.
A flash of that horrible night, of the ugly taunts and groping hands, and Auntie’s face lying in a pool of blood, spiraled through her brain and had her chest tight with panic. She shook her head, trying to clear the images. Don’t think about it now. Stay calm. Breathe.
“Relax.” Rilla nudged her. “It’s not so bad, is it?”
She closed her eyes, unable to speak.
High, drunken laughter made them swivel in their chairs. A young, blond soldier was at the next table. The soldier’s hair was mussed, and it was obvious he was too far into his beer. Berta Schneider was in the man’s lap as he slouched in his perfectly tailored uniform. She tossed her pale hair in his face and begged for a story.
Allina couldn’t bear to look at them anymore.
Rilla rolled her eyes. “That’s Berta for you.”
“Dreams of the South Seas” ended, and one of the men ran over to the phonograph to select the next record. “Oh, I love this one!” Rilla said as the new song began, “Rudi Schuricke! His voice sends me straight to heaven.” She clapped her hands.
Allina let out a ragged laugh. Thank God for Rilla. Her naïve enthusiasm would see Allina through tonight. Leaning back in her chair, she closed her eyes. As the tune filled the room and washed over her, she tried to empty her mind and enjoy the simple melody.
“Well now!” The baritone voice booming behind her made Allina jump. “Here’s the sweetest pregnant lady in all of Germany, and pretty, too, in your pink dress.”
“Loritz!” Rilla squealed and stood to give the tall, blond soldier behind them an exuberant hug. “I’m so happy to see you.” Still leaning against him, she turned to Allina. “This is Loritz Kortig, my Steffen’s oldest, dearest friend.” She hugged him again. “Loritz is a unit leader now, aren’t you?” she asked, smiling up into his face.
“I am,” Kortig said, tucking his hat under his arm, “but don’t worry, I won’t make you salute me.” Turning to Allina, Kortig’s smile broadened. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Fräulein.”
The young officer was broad shouldered and handsome by anyone’s standards, but the frank appreciation in his glance made Allina’s stomach twist.
“Loritz, this is my friend Allina Gottlieb.” Rilla sat down and took Allina’s hand. “She’s here under the protection of Gruppenführer Gud.”
His expression cooled. “I see.” He gave Allina a courteous bow. “I know the Gruppenführer by reputation.” He looked toward the makeshift bar at the back of the room. “You have nothing to drink,” he said to Allina, laying his hat on the table. “May I get you a glass of wine?”
“Yes, thank you,” Allina murmured, grateful to see him retreat, although wine was the last thing she wanted.
“Loritz is nice,” Rilla said, squeezing her hand. “Trust me. He’s fun, and a wonderful dancer.” The tune changed again, this time to “I Dance into Heaven with You.” Rilla swayed in her chair as the waltz began.
Allina wrapped her arms around her middle as the pain hit. Albert had loved this song. It was one of their favorites. He knew the lyrics by heart and crooned to her whenever they danced to its slow, romantic melody. Stop it. Stop! Think of anything but him …
Kortig returned, glasses of wine and beer in hand, and pulled up a chair between them. “Are you all right, Fräulein?” he asked, his fine brows knotted in concern. “You’re pale.”
“Of course,” Allina murmured. She leaned toward Rilla, hoping for mindless conversation to drown the song out of her head.
“Are you responsible for our new bounty of music?” Rilla asked. “We had nothing but boring instrumental pieces until this week.”
“Partly responsible,” Kortig said with a wink. “These are mostly Munich acquisitions. Why shouldn’t Hochland Home benefit from some of the relocations?” He took a gold case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette.
Rilla’s eyes fell to her lap.
“You’re too sentimental.” Kortig tapped the cigarette against the case before he lit it. “We’ve moved them to more appropriate lodgings, ones better suited to their situation.” He took a deep drag and shrugged, blowing circles of smoke into the air. “The Jews have no need of these items. We’re simply putting them to good use.”
Allina gulped her wine, but it did nothing to soothe her, burning a trail to her stomach instead.
“Let’s talk about something else, please.” Rilla grabbed his arm. “Tell me, how is Steffen?”
“I wish I could’ve sent him here in my place, as that would make you happy,” Kortig answered. “Gruppenführer von Strassberg needed my help with an urgent matter in Munich.” He took a long draught of beer and wiped the foam from his lip. “But you must know how Steffen is doing. He writes you every day, little one.”
A flush filled Rilla’s round cheeks, but she crossed her arms over her belly and frowned. “His letters are sweet, but short. He shares nothing of his day-to-day activities.”
“The details would bore you. Most are tedious.” Kortig shrugged and took another drink. “Others are … unsuitable to share with women, particularly those in your delicate disposition.”
Allina shuddered. She turned back to the dancers, hoping for distraction, but all she could make out was a sea of uniforms. They were everywhere. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to think about Albert, or the song, or the dozens of men in the room drinking to excess while they danced and flirted with women they hardly knew, women proud to bear children they’d never love.
Come and let us dream with quiet music, our romantic fairy tale of happiness,
And dance with me into heaven …
“Would you give me the honor, Fräulein?”
When Allina opened her eyes, Kortig was smiling courteously and extending his hand with grace, as any gentleman would.
Her throat closed. It was all but impossible to breathe in here.
“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I don’t feel well.”
“Allina, what’s wrong?” Rilla said. “Wait—”
She ran for the door.
“Wake up, Allina, wake up!”
She lurched awake to hands shaking her shoulders. Rilla’s eyes were fierce and her grip was surprisingly strong as she forced Allina to sit up in bed.
“I’m awake,” Allina croaked. Her mouth tasted like dirt and her nightgown was soaked through. She grabbed Rilla’s hand. It was cool and dry. Nightmare. It’s just a nightmare. She fell back against the pillows with her heart pounding in her ears.
“You were screaming and calling out for Albert again,” Rilla murmured. She wiped the perspiration from Allina’s face with the sleeve of her nightgown. “Do you remember your dream?”
Gunshots. Fire. Auntie. Screaming. All the bodies …
Allina shivered and turned her face into the damp pillow. “I don’t remember anything.” She swallowed hard to keep from heaving. It was the mixer, and Kortig, and all those uniforms. They’d made her remember again, it was all coming back, and, God help her, she wanted to forget. She couldn’t live with the images in her brain.
“Who’s Albert?” Rilla asked softly. “Is he the man who hurt you?”
Allina turned around in time to see her friend’s eyes fill with tears.
“I saw you the night you came in,” Rilla murmured. “Someone hurt you very badly, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Allina whispered, “but not Albert.”
“Who is he, then?”
Allina shook her head. Her eyes and throat ached, but no tears came. When Rilla pulled her close, she buried her face against her friend’s pregnant belly and shook.
“It’s all right,” Rilla said, stroking her hair with a mother’s tender touch. “Things will get better. You’ll see.”