Broken Angels

by Gemma Liviero

  I turn into a dirt road toward a house surrounded by trees, acres of fields separating it from other farmhouses. Outside is a truck like many I have seen entering the ghetto and Auschwitz. Through the rear doors I spy several people sitting within the dark space. A guard stands at the back with a gun.

  As I pull up to the gate, a girl is being led to the back of the truck. She does not wear any shoes, her hair is matted, and streaks of clean skin show where her tears have parted the grime down her cheeks to her chin.

  I step out of the vehicle and stride toward the guard at the truck. The girl watches me carefully. She looks familiar.

  “Soldier, where is this girl going?”

  “The camps, Herr Captain.”

  “Why? I thought that the children here were marked for the adoption program, unless I decide otherwise. I am the new commander here.”

  “You can speak to Frau Haus. She has ordered it.”

  He lifts the girl onto the back of the truck. There are several other adults and children within the truck who view her with despondence.

  “Leave her!” I say.

  “I can’t, Herr Captain,” he says.

  “You can, because I say you can. You have my permission.”

  I lift her featherweight frame from the truck, then hold out my hand toward her. She doesn’t take it. She has fixed my eyes with her own: shining creek stones embedded in a muddied, soulless face.

  I bend down to her, and she moves back a step.

  “What is your name?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “If you tell me your name, I can tell the guard they have made a mistake and that you are not to get on this truck.”

  Her eyes veer fearfully toward the inside of the truck.

  “Matilda.”

  Of course. I remember her now: a small voice from the dilapidated, dark-filled dormitory.

  I turn to the guard. “I can vouch that she is not to go on the truck. Commencing today, no decisions are to be made without my approval.”

  He looks unsure.

  “If you would like to phone my father, Major General Gerhardt, to check this, I will be happy to wait; however, I understand that you have a deadline and possibly many more people to collect.”

  “Yes, Herr Captain. Please excuse me.”

  The soldier walks over to speak with Miriam Haus, standing yards away in her smart-suited attire, alongside two stony-faced girls with skin like cream, safely distanced from the race-infected truck.

  The soldier speaks in a tone too low to hear, and I see Haus view me, expressionless. She nods her head, and he returns to close the door, salutes, and disappears into the truck’s cabin.

  “Welcome, Herr Commander,” she says, glancing briefly at Matilda. “I must tell you, Herr Gerhardt, that we had approval for the girl to go. She is a handful. I’m sure that after your own examinations you will agree.”

  “That is now for me to decide, and I can relieve you from making such distressful decisions,” I say, perhaps too patronizing in tone. “I am most keen to go to the surgery, if you could lead the way. And bring this girl, also.”

  I follow Haus into the gloomy hallways, the smells of the kitchen again wafting toward me. The two older girls flank Matilda behind me.

  Once in the surgery I tell everyone but Matilda to leave. I do not fail to notice the look on Haus’s face that suggests she has bitten into something sour.

  “It is a pleasure to have you here, Herr Commander,” says Haus, unable to disguise a measure of resentment as she retreats from the room.

  The surgery has been recently dusted, poorly, the streaks on cleaner furniture highlighting the lack of attention to the task. I wipe a finger across the top of the desk in disgust. Laziness will not be tolerated here. It is a dowdy room, painted a dull blue, and the desk is very small, the chairs old and uncomfortable.

  Matilda stands in the center of the waiting area, her head down, arms behind her back, as if she is about to be punished. She is small, waiflike. I don’t remember her being this thin; her cheeks hollow, the whites of her eyes too yellow.

  “How old are you?”

  “Ten.”

  She looks too small for her age. I push her gently in the center of the shoulder blades to lead her to the examination room behind the office. On the shelves inside an open cupboard I see that supplies of painkillers are low, and I write a note telling the nurse to order some more, and quickly. Bandages and other wound treatments are well stocked.

  “Matilda, I am not only your commander but also a doctor, so today I will be examining you.”

  I see her eyes dart to the corners of the room suspiciously, as if there are things I haven’t told her.

  “I will need to take off your dress. I will need to listen to your heart and chest.”

  “Mama said no one should look under my clothes.”

  “I am not no one. I am a doctor who is keen to help you. Do you understand?”

  Her little mouth pinches slightly, a frown above her nose. She is wary.

  But I don’t wait for her response. I unbutton her dress and pull it down to her knees. I raise the stethoscope, and she flinches slightly. Her heart sounds clear and strong, as do her lungs. But her ribs protrude, and there are sores across her arms and legs.

  I am not prepared for what I see once I turn her around. There are pink welts on her buttocks and the tops of her legs where she has been lashed. I wonder what crime could deserve such punishment. There is none that comes to mind. This method of discipline is criminal and nothing short of barbaric. The state of her body tells me that little care has been given at all to this girl. Though several of the wounds have closed up, the affliction is recent, with some areas healing poorly and remaining inflamed. I can’t imagine the pain she would have felt after such an injustice: both physically and mentally. It is inconceivable to think what else has been done to this child.

  “What happened?”

  She does not speak.

  “Was this another child, an older girl perhaps?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Your secret is safe,” I say, although I am not sure for how long. Someone must be held accountable, eventually.

  She whispers something that I cannot hear. I turn her around to face me.

  “Can you repeat that?” I say.

  “Frau,” she whispers again, and I see the streak of urine trickling down the inside of her leg, as if she fears she has done the unthinkable: that she will be held accountable for this release of information, also.

  I close my eyes briefly to maintain my composure. Had I been here when the request for my employment first came through, I could have prevented this somehow. I indulged myself in activities of guilt and self-pity. I saved one but was not fast enough to save Matilda.

  There is still time.

  I pass her a washcloth with which to wipe her leg. “Matilda, I won’t let this happen again.”

  She is still unsure of me, slow to take the cloth, her whole body rigid. I can sense her skepticism. She has perhaps been promised many things that weren’t delivered.

  “What brought her to do this?”

  “I had not taught the other children to read Mein Kampf.”

  For the sake of the child, I suppress the anger that has lodged firmly in my chest until such time it is safe to release it, perhaps in the form of retribution.

  “Well,” I say, “the wounds have been repairing themselves, but after you have had a bath, I will put some more ointment on them so they will heal better.”

  “We don’t have a bath at the hut.”

  “Where do you wash?”

  “In the basins behind the laundry.”

  “In winter, also?”

  “Yes.”

  Animals released for washing.

  “Open your mouth. Let me check your gums.”

  They are red and angry.

  I crouch down to face her so that we are the same height.

  “Matilda, look at me.”


  She raises her chin.

  “Why do they say you are a handful?”

  She looks uncomfortable with the question.

  “I have done bad things.”

  “Tell me. I will not punish you.”

  She stammers out the words. She tells me that she took a key so that the children could return to their parents, but one of them decided to go on her own and froze to death. It is clear that she blames herself for the death of the other.

  These poor children whose parents have either died or given them up willingly, yet here they are fighting to return home again. The power of parental bonds is to me a fascinating case in conditioning. It takes years, as I have discovered, to break these bonds, though many of us try. Father has said that many of these children have been saved from far worse situations, where parents have pushed them out the door.

  “Matilda, you can button your dress and follow me.”

  Nurse is waiting outside, perhaps concerned by what Matilda might say. She should be.

  I head for the kitchen, Matilda in my shadow, Nurse Claudia behind her. Matilda has sensed that it is better to stand closer to me than to Claudia.

  There are brief introductions to Hetty the cook, who shows me the quantities of food portions that are supplied to the orphans. I then ask her to double them in the short term. I also tell her that the children must have an orange every day, an egg and milk, and meat for the evening meal.

  “Do you know if there is a bath or shower in this house?” I ask Matilda.

  She nods, and I instruct her to go there now and meet me afterward in the surgery, where Claudia will bring fresh clothes.

  Claudia is looking at Hetty. She is too afraid to meet my eyes.

  “Claudia, who does the cleaning here?”

  “The older girls do the dusting and polishing. The young ones the washing.”

  “Send the older girls to clean my office tomorrow.”

  “They have already cleaned it, Herr Commander.”

  “Then they will do it again. After that, I want you to hire a housekeeper.”

  I enter the dormitory and find several children ranging from three years to ten. Their faces are blank, their fear evident. It is the uniform, I believe, that frightens them. I tell them that they will all get warm baths today in the house. As I exit, I leave the door ajar and take the key, of which I will now assume control. There are enough guards and fencing and little to no chance of escape.

  Claudia takes me on a tour of the house that was a guesthouse for the wealthy before it became a school. In the west wing I find three pregnant girls. Their room is comfortable, with its own bathroom. They have views of the woods.

  The rooms where the other girls sleep, two each to a room, are on the second floor, above the dining and reception rooms. They are comfortable, well-furnished rooms. Only a handful of girls sit here reading and talking; several others are at the training fields nearby.

  “How many are here altogether?”

  “We have seven girls, ranging from fourteen to seventeen,” says Claudia. “Most of them are currently doing athletics.”

  “When are they returning?”

  “Some will be back soon. Others sometimes go into the town.”

  “And what time is their curfew?”

  Claudia looks befuddled by the question. “They do not have one, Herr Commander.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “They have certain privileges.”

  “Doesn’t Miriam manage them?”

  “Yes,” says Claudia. She lowers her eyes, a sign to me that she is loyal to Haus.

  “Then they must have a curfew. I’m sure their parents would hate to learn that they come and go as they want.”

  “Yes, Herr Commander. Though it is their parents who have paid to have their children trained at the Center,” she ventures further. “The parents might be upset with any changes to the current circumstances.”

  “That is for me to deal with now. And what of the girls who are pregnant—do the fathers of the unborn visit?”

  “No, Herr Commander. They already have wives.”

  I detect from the tone in Claudia’s voice a slight disapproval in this particular practice of the Center, though she is a woman who would die before she admits this. Yet she failed to see that the portions for the young children were too small. She is as cowardly as Miriam Haus is cruel.

  “I will examine these young women tomorrow.”

  “Yes, Herr Commander,” she says, with more respect than Haus.

  I force myself to visit Haus in her office, and it is there that I see the flaws that line the walls of this house. This woman, I believe, is incapable of management. She wears an expensive tailored suit and silk blouse, and she sits in her office doing very little to run the place, behind a desk that is twice the size of mine. She likes the control. It is clear from the look she gives me. She is not happy that I revoked her order to send Matilda to the camp.

  I sit in front of her. I see on her face satisfaction that I am on the other side of her desk, as if I am the one who must report to her.

  “So, Frau Haus . . .”

  “Miriam.”

  “Of course. Tell me about the system of management here.” My own tone is condescending. She is as detestable as Manz and Kohler.

  “It appears, Herr Commander,” she says, “that you are developing your own. But, Commander, you must know that some of those children barely passed the Aryan testing, which is why they are still here and not adopted by German parents. And we are expecting more. We are expecting quite a number now that our brave officers are bringing more children into Germany.”

  “Miriam.” I speak calmly and pleasantly, though that is not how I am feeling. “As you are aware, I am in charge of the Aryan testing now. If you give me all the files, I will test the children one by one myself and check the results against yours. If, of course, I find that some are unsuitable, then I will send those children away.”

  I wait, and it is several moments before she moves to retrieve the files. I have passed empty rooms on my tour and ask why the younger children cannot live in the house. I also learn that the orphans are allowed out of the hut for only a few hours a day.

  “The younger ones are at risk of fleeing,” she says. “They must be locked away.”

  “Perhaps if they had more to eat and a warm bath, you would not have as much trouble keeping them here.”

  Haus looks at me as if she wants to swallow me whole. Her chin raises slightly, an act of defiance that could build to something more in time. I have caught all this before her manner changes to falsely demure, with a smile that is not really one at all.

  “We all have our ways, Herr Commander. I believe mine are just as efficient as yours; however, I will respectfully and dutifully follow your orders.”

  I would like to tell her at this point that the rooms are filthy and the older girls have more freedom than they need. That the younger ones must never again be beaten, and, if they are, I will cane Miriam Haus myself as punishment. But I refrain. That will come. All good things will come. It is enough for the first day.

  I wish her a good day, though it is far from my true wishes. Matilda sits in the waiting area in clean skin and fresh garments.

  I apply some ointment to the welts on the back of her legs and the sores on her limbs. Once this is completed, I advise her to keep her head down, apply herself to her studies, and help guide the younger ones in their tasks once more. Of course, it is a lot to ask of these children, who are barely old enough to take care of themselves.

  “You may leave now,” I say, then proceed to write a note to add to her file. The pile of files sits on the edge of my desk—an undesirable, if not unnecessary, task to determine if they are Aryan. I have already made my decision.

  Matilda looks at me through mountains of untamed curls. She has made no move to rise. I frown and smile at her at the same time and put down my pen curiously.

  “You can leave.”

&nb
sp; “Nurse has to take me.”

  “No, you may go back to the hut with the others.”

  “But it will be locked by this time.”

  “Not anymore,” I say, lifting my voice at the end in an attempt to calm any fear.

  She hesitates before she leaves, opening the door with care, expecting an explosion on the other side.

  “And Matilda . . . ,” I say.

  She turns to look at me squarely.

  “Do not attempt to run away. It is not safe out there. Take it from someone who has seen much.”

  Her gaze lingers on me longer than before as she absorbs this. She is not only processing this information; she is studying me as well.

  Claudia is standing in the hallway, waiting to lead Matilda back to her room. I call her in to advise that Matilda can find her own way back, that the place is not a maze.

  Next Claudia sits in front of my desk, and I grill her on her role. It seems she is merely a supervisor who applies first aid occasionally. She says that the older orphans toilet-train the younger, and they have done a good job with that so far.

  Her jaw drops when I advise her that nappies and toilet training are now her sole responsibility, along with the washing and sterilizing of cups and eating utensils for the children. I tell her that she must make up a chart to note the amount of sun they are receiving each day for their growing bones and to record their portions of food and how well they are eating. All medical treatment will be supervised and recorded by me. Any medicines are not to be removed from the surgery without my permission.

  She is not one to argue. She, at least, knows that a person does not argue with a senior member of the party, and that it is perhaps unwise to follow orders from anyone but me.

  “And, finally, Miriam’s role will be to ensure that the housekeeping is done and the tutoring of students and orphans is completed. You will now report directly to me, and I require a file note on all incidents and accidents that occur in this place. Anything unusual must be reported directly to me to investigate and monitor.”

  I am not asking her; I am telling her. I do not require acknowledgment that she understands. She knows this, too, and thanks me for the new role. This one is easy to master. She has been led by Haus. She is led by whoever has the greatest power. Which in this case is me.