Broken Angels

by Gemma Liviero

  “They are doing more than stealing children,” says the speaker of the group: the man I believe to be Leon.

  “I know,” I say quickly. “I know a lot of what they are doing.”

  “You live in a nice house,” says the man. “We followed your husband and know where he lives. We know that he is the commander at the center for Aryan children. We also know what goes on there. Why would a commander who steals children want to hand them back? You have no idea what Germans are doing. Now get out of here! Go back to your nice house.”

  “I am not who you think. I have come from the ghetto in Lodz. The man you know as my husband rescued me after my mother was shot for visiting me at the ghetto prison, shortly before I was to be deported . . . gassed for being sick. My mother is a Jew. That is why I was in the ghetto.”

  The woman who has come in with the men looks at the speaker of the group, then back at me.

  I have caught their attention, but they still appear suspicious.

  “Please help us take the children,” I say. “My husband plans to bring them to our house. I understand that you help people escape Germany.”

  “You should be careful with what you say aloud. You could end up with a bullet like your mother.”

  I ignore the threat.

  “My husband has access to a truck. He wants someone to pretend they are SS officers and have been ordered to collect some children from the Center.”

  “Why should we bother? These children are fed and housed. They will be adopted out to wealthy Germans. It could be worse. How many children does your husband intend on taking?”

  “Three, perhaps four. Most have been stolen from Poland.”

  “There are more than that at the Center. Why are these ones so special?”

  “My husband says that these did not pass the Aryan testing, and officials from Berlin will send them to the camps, where it is unlikely they will survive.”

  There is a look between them as if this is something they haven’t heard before.

  “And where do we hide these children?” asks one of the men.

  “Willem wishes for you to bring them first to our house, where we will keep them until you can take them out of Germany.”

  “How do you know I won’t return them to the Center again, to receive a reward from the Gestapo for my find?” says Leon.

  I say nothing at first, and Leon shrugs as if there is no point to further conversation.

  “I can tell you that if you report me, they will discover the truth about me,” I say. “And once they do, they will return me to the ghetto. You have that over me if you wish, if that’s what is needed for you to decide if I am truthful.”

  “Leon! It’s all lies! It is all a bluff!” says the woman at the table.

  “Tell me,” says Leon. “What was it like at the ghetto? Describe it for me.”

  I give him every detail that I can remember. I tell him about my mother and my sister. I tell him about the cost of the bread and the rotting vegetables, and the meager rations barely enough to feed a cat. I tell him what it was like to stand almost frozen waiting for soup that was little more than dirty water. I tell him how my father vanished, how I joined a group there that also helped smuggle people. How I watched my friend being executed. I tell them that the orphans might die without their help, and that we are running out of time.

  The others are no longer still. They shift and move around the table. They are silently communicating with one another. Leon and the woman he came in with leave the room. Again, I wait at the table with the woman who answered the door, who appears to trust me the least.

  “You don’t look Jewish,” she says.

  I say nothing.

  The couple returns. “We will need money.”

  “My husband has money.”

  “I can tell you that we have connections. We will send word to others. If you are lying, we will kill you. We will be watching you.”

  You won’t have to kill me, I want to say. But his words are too serious, and I am not sure that I will be able to say it with confidence, without my voice breaking in the middle. Now that our meeting is nearly over, I realize the danger and breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Send your husband back tomorrow night, and tell him to make sure he isn’t followed. We will settle the details then. Everything costs money.”

  I return to the car and tell Willem what was said. He takes my hand in his and kisses it with his bruised and swollen lips. He does not need to say the words. For the first time I can read how he is feeling about me.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  MATILDA

  I hear the truck pull up outside the front of the house. The sound of these vehicles always forces my heart to stop. Mutti tells me that trucks are for so many things, not just to take people to camps. I have to hold her hand tightly whenever I see one, even delivery trucks headed to the stores in the town.

  But tonight the truck stops right in front of our house, and Vati gets out of it. He opens the doors at the back, and lots of children climb out. I run to Mutti’s room to tell her.

  “Vati’s home—hurry!”

  Mutti puts on her wrap, and we rush out the front door toward Vati.

  “You have taken all of them?” says Mutti with disbelief.

  But Vati doesn’t answer. He is busy ushering the children toward the front door and telling them to go quietly. There is sweat across his brow and at the hollow of his neck.

  “Where are the other men?” says Mutti. “I thought they were driving the truck.”

  “I met them on the road. I took over . . . I did not want Matilda to see strangers arriving in Nazi uniforms.”

  Mutti nods.

  “Take care of the children!” says Vati to Mutti and me. “Find some blankets for them.”

  Once we are inside the house, Vati turns to Mutti. “I have to return and hide the truck.”

  While he is gone, Mutti boils some milk, but she has to add some water so there is enough to warm all the children, who wear only their cotton nightclothes. And then she adds some chocolate. We don’t have enough blankets, so Mutti finds Vati’s dressing gown and some of his coats for the children, and some cardigans and coats of hers, too. She turns on the heaters and lights a wood fire in the sitting room where they will sleep.

  Mutti talks to the children and asks them their names. Some cry and suck their thumbs, and others look tired or scared. I do not know any of these children. They are all new.

  She tells them that they will all be safe here and tells me that I must sit with them, also. They are more likely to believe another child who lives here. So I tell them this, too. Mutti sings a song in Polish to calm them.

  Vati comes back with eyes that are wild with fear and worry. I have never seen him like this. He wants to talk to Mutti alone and asks me to stay in the room with the children.

  Mutti and Vati talk in the kitchen, and I stay close by to listen.

  “The officials will be even more suspicious now,” says Mutti. “How can you explain the transfer of all them?”

  There is silence from Vati, and Mutti sighs loudly as if she has been holding her breath.

  “Willem, what exactly have you done?”

  “If I am temporarily suspended during the investigation, as is likely, I cannot be there to guarantee the fates of the children who remain. I could not risk leaving any of them in Haus’s care again, or in the hands of Nazi officials. They would interrogate and torture children if they thought they might gain more information.”

  “How can you be certain that they won’t discover our address and come looking for them here?” Mutti asks. “What then will happen to Matilda? How can you guarantee that Haus won’t have her accusations verified by this one act?”

  “I have spoken to Hetty,” says Vati. “I have some things in place. I will not leave any trace of us. I will not give Haus any opportunity to win.”

  I leave my position by the kitchen door not because there is a child crying in the next room but b
ecause the mention of Haus has caused my chest to pound with the thought that I am not yet free of her.

  In the next room, the children are crying and fearful, and I console them with my stories—the happy ones that I have been writing recently—until they fall asleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ELSI

  I watch for the light to appear on the horizon. We have been awake all night. It seems today things will change.

  Willem has asked Hetty to help him. He has asked that when she arrives at the Center this morning—for she is always the first—she open his cabinet and take all the files of the children and to then bury or burn them. The resistance drivers who pretended to be Nazi officers reported that Claudia was at first reluctant and suspicious of such action taken at night, also knowing that such approval was out of character for Willem. She was only partially reassured by the sight of Willem’s signature on the paperwork, but then seemed keen to get rid of the Nazi impostors once they became annoyed and impatient at her hesitation. I imagine the men must have been imposing with their guns, leaving Claudia no other option but to do what they said.

  Willem says he has sent his father a letter, but he doesn’t say what is in it, only that he has told him the truth. He says that Matilda must be cared for, that no one must know about her background. His mind switches between topics. He is nervous, displaying unusual behavior.

  He says that two people will collect the children tomorrow night, and that if he is not back from the Center by then to not worry, to remain calm, and to help the couple and the children. But if they don’t come tomorrow night, not to fear—they are just playing safe, perhaps testing us. They will come the next night or perhaps the one after. They will not forget about the children, he says. They, too, are willing to help them escape.

  Today, though, Willem has to face questioning. Today, he says he must cover all his tracks so that nothing leads back to Matilda and me. I am fearful for us both, but I am fearful for him, also. I want this day to be over. I want him back in my arms. I want him to resign from the Center and for the three of us to go north, to disappear until the investigation is over.

  I am sitting on the edge of the bed, and he kneels down in front of me to rest his head upon my lap. He says that he has done some things that he is not proud of, but they were actions he felt compelled to do. He does not think many will understand, but he hopes one day that I will, should I learn of them.

  I stroke his fine hair and tell him that I love him and that I will support him no matter what. I say that he is not to talk like that. “We have the future,” I say, but my voice becomes small and strained and insincere.

  He says that he wishes he could be a better person, that he was not shaped the way he is. He says he would prefer to sometimes lose control, to be free of constraint. I have seen him with the children at the Center. I have seen him with Matilda. I believe he is capable of showing much more love. I see in him a man I want to share my life with. He is everything I want, and I tell him so, and he kisses me more tenderly than he has ever done.

  “You are the most patient, brave girl I have ever known. You saved your mother by bringing her to my surgery that night. You have also risked your own safety to speak to resistance workers to help these children. And you gave me purpose, and for that I am grateful.”

  I am about to tell him that it is I who should be grateful, but his mood suddenly alters and he attends distractedly to his clothing, his thoughts elsewhere once more.

  He says that I am not to wait up for him if he is late. That if he has to go away for a while to not worry: to stay hidden until everything blows over.

  “What blows over?”

  He doesn’t answer me.

  He passes me an envelope. He tells me that inside is the address of a house he has recently bought. He says to open the envelope only in an emergency, then hands me a gun.

  “What is this for? Where did you get it?”

  He has just told me he will be back; now he is telling me something else that might happen. What exactly is he telling me?

  “Willem, I need to know the truth. What are you planning? There is more to this investigation—”

  “Elsi, please trust me.”

  “I want to do more to help you.”

  His normal calm is returning, though his face has gone a pale yellow, and beads of sweat dot his brow.

  He shows me the gun, explains how it works. Like with all his teaching, he is detailed and clear.

  He puts on his suit.

  “Can you wake Matilda for me?” he says.

  She is asleep in the sitting room. A younger child is asleep across her lap. They lie among a mass of sleeping bodies, peaceful. I touch Matilda to wake her, and careful not to disturb the sleeping boy whom I gently peel away from her.

  In the kitchen Willem sits waiting. His smile is warm, not forced. He suddenly looks so radiant and confident I want to cry and tell him not to go. Everything is changing again. We were so happy. Life was better.

  “Come here,” he says to Matilda, who is yawning and stretching, unaware yet of the changes. “I have to go and I wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Why are you going so early?”

  “I have to greet some visitors who are coming to inspect the Center.”

  “Will you be home late?”

  “Yes,” he says. “I want you to know that I love you, Matilda, and I must ask you to look after the children today. They will probably be scared and have lots of questions. You must tell them lots of stories. You have always succeeded at keeping other children under control.”

  She gives a brief smile, but it disappears because she has sensed that the situation is serious, that Willem has other more important things to do.

  He walks into the bedroom to put on his long coat while I wait for him at the door. Rain disturbs the bitumen outside, and a faint smell of petroleum wafts through the open doorway. The day is bleak, and clouds hang low above the hills.

  “Willem,” I say, “please don’t try anything dangerous, or say something that will find you in trouble.”

  “Elsi, you have to know something. I love you with everything that I am, which wasn’t always enough. I believe that God has sent you and Matilda both to me, and he has then turned me toward him. I am now in his hands.”

  He kisses me longer than usual. It is rare for him to kiss me good-bye. When he pulls away, there are tears on his cheeks. I reach out to touch them, but he turns away.

  “Willem . . .”

  He does not respond. He is walking to work today, without an umbrella. There is no sign of his car.

  I watch him walk stiffly, his arms and back straight, his head high, until he turns a corner. I stare at the empty space that held him before retreating into the house, where the children are beginning to stir.

  Matilda has begun to prepare food for the children’s breakfast. We crack the eggs in a bowl, and I whisk them until they are ready to pour into the pan for omelets. I am still thinking about the car. There is something about it being gone that bothers me. Without the car, there is no trace of Willem here. The words he said do not sit right with me. Willem has never once mentioned God to me before today.

  “Matilda, I forgot to tell Willem something,” I say. “I will be back soon.”

  I retrieve the gun Willem has given me and put it in the pocket of my skirt. I then step through the small gate and pass through the tight clusters of houses until they become sparse and the landscape opens up into farmland.

  After a quarter of an hour, I can see in the distance the large house where Matilda suffered, where others have, too. It is a beautiful white building with dozens of windows and several gables. It is a house that Willem made safe. It is a house, Willem told me, that was once owned by Jews.

  As I get closer, I can see Willem outside the house. He steps toward a car parked just outside the gate that is no longer guarded. I stop to watch. Several people wait beside the car: two German officers and Frau Haus.

  I
look up toward the windows to search for faces, even though I know there will be none. Hetty is likely to be in the kitchen. Claudia, Willem told me, has been let go for releasing the children while German officials investigate the reason. There is no one else, just the four of them outside. The makeup of this group bothers me, along with the fact that they are talking outside the gate, and the men—clearly important figures—have not been ushered by Willem into the house and out of the rain.

  Willem stands in front of them, his hands behind his back. He is slightly turned away from me in profile, his mouth moving as he speaks, but I cannot hear his voice, only the pattering of the rain. His hair is out of place, strands falling across his eyebrows. It is curious that he does not brush the hair from his face.

  Unexpectedly, one of the officers turns Willem roughly around. The man appears to be speaking tersely. The other officer commences to restrain him in handcuffs behind his back. Willem is now turned in my direction, though he is looking back toward the house, at those rooms that are now empty of children. The consequences of his many good deeds are unfolding in front of me.

  Miriam is standing with her hands together, as if in prayer. She has won, perhaps she is thinking. But Willem is capable of anything. He will get out of this. He will call his father.

  I step forward. I am exposed if they look this far.

  I have not brought my coat, and my skirt clings uncomfortably to my legs in the rain.

  And then he is turning his head toward me. He does not appear to recognize me. His expression is passive and unreadable, with a dullness that disturbs me. It is as if he has switched the lights off inside him. As if the Willem that I kissed before is no longer there.

  Then they turn him back around so that I can no longer see his face.

  I continue walking toward him because I am afraid to lose sight of him. I am close enough now to see the guns at their hips and the detail on their jackets.