Not pregnant. Not pregnant, not pregnant, notpregnantnotpregnantnot pregnant—
Allina kept a polite smile on her face as Schwester Ziegler went on about the new, enviable position in the nurseries. She could bear any assignment in this place, anything at all, now that she knew she wasn’t pregnant with Gud’s child.
During her first few days here, Allina had existed in a gray fog, imprisoned by the pain in her body and a persistent headache that jumbled her thoughts. As the injuries faded, violent flashes of the events that brought Allina to Hochland Home began to surface. The memories came at odd moments, often during her morning shower or at meals when she was unoccupied, and they left her gasping for breath and her heart pounding. Images of Aunt Claudia and Uncle Dieter produced bouts of wild panic.
Allina had disciplined herself, forced those terrifying thoughts and memories out of her mind, and concentrated instead on gaining her bearings. When not typing an endless stream of reports for the head nurse over the past month, she’d been privy to dozens of conversations among the staff and expectant mothers. Allina had kept silent, hiding her understanding and growing revulsion.
She’d need to use all the knowledge gleaned, and more, to survive here. Until she could devise some means of escape, Allina was trapped at Hochland Home—a Mischling office worker in service to Aryan mothers and babies for the glory of the Reich.
Allina shuddered. She’d never felt so alone.
“Follow me.” Schwester Ziegler grabbed a set of keys from her desk drawer and beckoned to her. Allina ran to keep up as the woman hurried out of her office. “We’ve got less than an hour, and there’s much to learn and absorb before you report for duty tomorrow.”
The head nurse explained that Hochland Home’s ground floor was split into three sections. They began their tour in the administrative area, which was done in serviceable gray linoleum and white paint and smelled strongly of rubbing alcohol. As they walked through the examination rooms, the head nurse went over the extensive intake procedures for new mothers. She stressed the importance of recording each resident’s bloodlines and ancestry, their height, weight, and body measurements—as well as an analysis of their facial features and hair, skin, and eye color, as compared to the Aryan ideal. Then they toured the private offices for senior staff. Like Schwester Ziegler’s office, these spaces were fancier, filled with padded chairs, mahogany desks, and identical portraits of the Führer.
At the end of the corridor was a room Allina had never entered. The head nurse unlocked it with a flourish and gestured inside.
“This is Central Filing. We keep records for the entire program here—files on each mother and child, along with adoption records from every Lebensborn home in Germany. The reports you’ve worked on these last weeks are all filed in this room.” Allina stepped inside the cavernous space, which housed dozens of gray metal cabinets laid out in rows. “Only senior Schwestern work here, by order of Director Ebner,” she added in a clipped tone that made Allina back out in haste.
Next, they toured the North Wing, which housed the kitchen and dining halls and operated as the social center for resident mothers. The kitchen had the latest equipment, and every room boasted antique furniture, artwork, and rugs done in rich fabrics and colors.
“Much of this beauty is courtesy of your patron, Reinhardt Gud,” Schwester Ziegler said with a pointed smile. “We’re very grateful for his continued support.”
Allina’s cheeks flushed with heat, but she gritted her teeth to approximate a smile as Schwester Ziegler pushed on. They toured the instruction rooms for character training classes, a great hall for larger gatherings, and a half dozen well-appointed parlors the head nurse claimed were used by residents to meet privately with suitors.
“We also maintain a large recreation lounge for officers on leave,” she added as they traveled to the end of the hall. “We want them to feel at home and ever welcome.”
When the head nurse opened the door to the rec room, Allina came face-to-face with a small group of men in uniform. All five looked her up and down and offered broad smiles.
No. She backed away as her vision swam, colliding with Schwester Ziegler. Allina’s heart stuttered.
“Schwester Allina is the newest member of our staff,” the head nurse said crisply, and clapped a clawlike grip on her shoulder. “You’ll see her from time to time. Come now, Allina.”
They ended the tour of the North Wing with a stroll through its back courtyard, which was open to mothers, visitors, and even Schwestern during break time. The courtyard was close to freezing but Allina was grateful the head nurse gave her a minute to lift her face to the sun. After a few deep breaths, her racing heart slowed.
Finally, they journeyed to their ultimate destination. The nurseries.
“Each room in this wing has a sign posted on the door with the age of the babies inside, as you can see.” Schwester Ziegler’s eyes brightened as they entered the room for six-month-olds. The walls were a pale yellow, and the cream linoleum floors and white countertops were spotless. On one end of the room was a row of sinks and a high work counter, and two dozen cribs were arranged in the center of the room in precise, straight rows. An equal number of wingback chairs in an array of colors bordered the room’s perimeter.
One of Hochland Home’s Schwestern, dressed in a standard brown uniform and white nurse’s apron and cap, stood at the back, making notes in a file.
“Good morning, Marta,” the head nurse called out softly. The nurse bobbed her head, pushed an errant strand of wiry gray hair behind her ear, and went back to scribbling in her files. “Marta’s been with me since the beginning of our program here. She’s an exceptional nurse, and always keeps her files in order.”
Every crib was filled, and the nursery was a lovely, sunny space. Obviously no expense had been spared. But the room was quiet as a tomb.
Allina’s hackles rose. “Schwester, how is it so many babies are quiet in the middle of the morning?”
“An excellent question. We follow a precise regimen to give the children discipline.” Ziegler walked down a row of cribs, beckoning Allina to follow. “My staff relies on our schedules, as well as our files. We couldn’t run the house without them.”
Schedules were fine—but they couldn’t account for a room full of silent babies.
“I can tell from your expression you’re confounded by our success,” the head nurse said with a chuckle. “We follow the latest advances in childcare—schedules Director Ebner and Reichsführer Himmler created themselves.”
The head nurse stopped in front of a crib. “Marta began her shift at six o’clock in the morning by bathing and changing the children. Then the mothers feed them,” she said, gesturing to the wingback chairs bordering the room. “Once they’re fed, Marta puts the children down for a nap.” She pointed to the clock on the wall. “At ten o’clock, Marta will change their diapers. The children will feed again before she takes them to the courtyard. She’ll bundle the little ones tightly before putting them into their prams because it’s cold, but they need fresh air.”
Allina peered into the crib. The child within was still. Its eyes were open but unfocused.
“Don’t the children get hungry at different times? Surely they don’t all soil their diapers on the same schedule.” She leaned closer, nearly choking on the stench. “I believe this child needs its diaper changed.”
The head nurse sighed. “The children begin with different needs,” she explained slowly, as if Allina were a child, “but we make sure each little one’s behavior aligns with our schedule over time.” She glanced down the rows of clean white cradles and chuckled. “Can you imagine what chaos would ensue if hundreds of children maintained their own schedules?”
Allina nodded, although her mind was rioting. Children couldn’t thrive in such a cold, sterile environment, yet the head nurse was singing its praises. It was beyond her understanding.
“Our babies get the best nourishment, clean air, and peaceful surroundings. Everything they need to grow into dutiful citizens,” she continued. “By eighteen months, they’re weaned off mother’s milk. Most leave Hochland Home shortly after. There’s a high demand for these children.” Ziegler walked to the front of the room, forcing Allina to follow.
“I still don’t understand how you can teach an infant to be quiet.”
Schwester Ziegler took hold of Allina’s arm and walked her to a cradle at the front of the room. “What would you do if this little one cried out?”
Allina peered into the bassinet. Her heart fluttered as the child’s gaze, which was as dull as the other child’s, seemed to drift along the ceiling. “I’d pick him up to see if he’s hungry or if his diaper is soiled, and feed him or change his diaper if necessary,” she answered. “Then I’d walk him around until he dropped off to sleep.”
The head nurse shook her head. “Yet that’s the very thing you should not do.” She pointed into the cradle. “This child is perfectly well. If he were sick you could tell by his complexion and take him to the infirmary. But a good nurse must walk away from a healthy crying baby.”
When Allina opened her mouth to interrupt, she held up her hand. “By teaching self-control, we help them grow into respectful children. Respectful children become law-abiding adults.” The head nurse gave her a quelling look. “The newborns are a noisy bunch, but most are ready for this room by six months. They learn their needs will be tended to eventually and stop fussing.”
“Do the Schwestern ever play with the children?” Allina asked.
“Play and touch at this point would overstimulate,” Schwester Ziegler said crisply, as she steered Allina out of the nursery and down the hall. “They’ll have plenty of time for that once they’re with their adopted families.” She slanted Allina another harsh look as they made their way toward her office. “The Führer requires all of us, nurses and children alike, to follow rules. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Schwester.” Allina pressed pad and pencil to her stomach and followed the head nurse down the hall.
“Very few mothers go home with their babies,” Ziegler added as they entered her office and took their seats again. “Most will tell you it’s their choice to let us tend the children. Developing an attachment serves neither mother nor child. Trust me, it won’t serve you either.”
Allina swallowed hard. “I understand.”
“You were taking notes while we were in the nursery, and there’s a gleam in your eye. Do you think you can serve Hochland Home well as a nurse?”
“Yes, Schwester. I know I can.”