“Look, you are doing them a favor,” Fritz said. “Think of them as sick dogs needing to be put down. Do this well, and they won’t suffer.”
The woman must have seen the needle, for she began to fight the guards and flailed her freed arm. That would be all I needed—Fritz telling Koegel I couldn’t handle a syringe.
I backed away, a milky drop at the tip of the needle. “I’ll try it tomorrow.”
“Here,” Fritz said, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “We’ll do it together.”
He covered my hand that was holding the syringe with his and placed the fingers of my other hand on the woman’s skin, above the rib cage. The guards used her arms like a straitjacket, and Fritz slid my fingers down the torso, to the fifth rib space.
“Close your eyes,” Fritz said. “Feel it? Just below the left breast.”
I pressed my fingers deep into the warm, crepey skin.
“Yes,” I said.
“Good. Almost done.”
Fritz placed his thumb over mine on the plunger, guided my hand to the spot, then helped me plunge the needle in. I felt the pop as it punctured the rib space.
“Stay with me now,” Fritz said, his lips soft against my ear. “Breathe.”
Fritz pressed our thumbs against the smooth knob with steady force, sending the Evipan straight to the heart. The woman reared back, but the guards held her in place.
“Steady, now,” Fritz said, his mouth close to my ear. “Just fourteen seconds. Count backward.”
“Fourteen, thirteen, twelve…”
I opened my eyes and saw the towel fall from the woman’s face, her lower lip pulled down in a hideous grimace.
“Eleven, ten, nine…”
The woman struggled, and I took deep breaths to fight a wave of nausea.
“Eight, seven, six…”
She reared up as if in cardiac distress, then fell limp and unresponsive.
Fritz released me.
“She was a quick one,” he said. “You’re drenched.”
One of the Aufseherinnen dragged the old woman off to the side of the room. Gerda left to fetch the next subject.
“Gerda is Rosenthal’s girlfriend,” Fritz said, as he made notes on a clipboard. “He did a termination on her. Keeps it in a jar in Gebhardt’s refrigerator. She picks pet H?ftlings to treat with a warm bath, complete with flowers. Combs their hair and tells them sweet stories before she brings them here.”
I walked toward the door for air. “How do you do this, Fritz? It’s so—”
“It’s no glamour job, but if you leave, there will be a replacement here tomorrow. We handle a certain quota every month. Orders from Berlin. It can’t be helped.”
“Of course it can be helped. We can refuse to do it.”
Fritz refilled the syringe. “Good luck with Koegel on that one.”
“Well, I can’t do this.” How could I have ended up in such a place?
Hellinger entered the room with his leather roll of tools. I tried not to listen as he removed the woman’s dental metals. He stamped the cheek with a star to mark her as completed.
“You’ll be fine, Herta,” Fritz said. “Once you get used to it.”
“I’m not staying. I didn’t go to medical school to do this—”
“That’s what I said too,” said Hellinger, with a laugh. He tucked the cotton sack of gold into his coat pocket.
“Me too,” Fritz said. “And then, before I knew it, three months passed. After that, you’re here to stay, so make up your mind soon.”
There was no question. I would be gone by sunrise.
1939–1940
In the darkness of the bedroom I felt for my clothes. I found my slip and slid into it, then felt Paul’s velvet jacket and threw it on, the satin lining cool on my bare arms. Who was pounding on the apartment door?
“Stay here, Paul. I’ll see who it is.”
He lay back against my pink satin pillow, his Cheshire Cat smile white in the semidarkness, fingers locked behind his head. This was funny? What if it was Mother? What would I tell her? The world’s handsomest man is in my bed, half naked? But Mother had her own key. Maybe she’d left it behind?
I inched down the hall. Who would create such a racket? I passed the dark living room. In the fireplace, orange embers still glowed.
“Caroline,” came a voice through the door. “I need to see you.”
David Stockwell.
I stepped closer and put one hand to the painted door. David pounded, and it vibrated under my fingers.
“What are you doing here, David?” I said through the door.
“Open up,” he said. “It’s important.” Even through five inches of oak, I could tell he’d been drinking.
“I’m not dressed—”
“I need to talk to you, Caroline. It’ll only take a minute.”
“Come back tomorrow, David.”
“It’s about your mother. I need to speak with you, most urgently.”
I’d been through David’s “most urgent” situations before, but I couldn’t take the chance.
I flipped on the hall light and opened the door to find David, in rumpled white tie, leaning against the doorjamb. He pushed by me, into the vestibule, his gait unsteady. I pulled Paul’s jacket tighter about me to hide my underdressed state.
“It’s about time,” David said. “My God, Caroline, what are you wearing?”
“How did you get past the doorman?”
David took me by the shoulders. “Please don’t be mad at me, Caroline. You smell so good.”
I tried to push him away. “David, stop. What’s wrong with my mother?”
He pulled me close and kissed my neck. “I miss you, C. I’ve made a terrible—”
“You reek, David.”
I tried to pull away but not before Paul appeared behind me, dressed in his undershorts and a shirt he’d hastily thrown on. Even in the harsh overhead light, Paul was lovely: the open shirt, my lipstick smeared down the placket.
“You need help, Caroline?” Paul asked.
David, drunk as he was, lifted his head at the sound of Paul’s voice.
“Who’s this?” David said, as if confronting an apparition.
“Paul Rodierre. You met him today in the park.”
“Oh.” David straightened. “How would your mother feel about—”
I took him by the arm. “You need to leave, David.”
He groped for my hand. “Come with me, C. Even Mother misses you.”
This was doubtful. Even after knowing me for years, Mrs. Stockwell still referred to me as “the actress.”
“Don’t call me C, David. And you’re married. Remember? ‘The wedding of the decade’ the papers called it?”
He looked at Paul as if he’d forgotten he was there. “God, man, put some clothes on.” David leaned into me, his blue eyes pink-rimmed. “Caroline, you can’t possibly think he’s good for you—”
“You have no say in my life, David. You gave that up on one knee in front of everyone at the Badminton Club. Did you have to propose at Father’s club? He got your father in there.”
Paul walked back to the bedroom. With any luck he was going back to the bed.
“It’s a meaningful place to us. Sally and I won mixed doubles there.”
News of Sally and David’s triumphant badminton win had been all over The Sun and trumpeted by the likes of Jinx Whitney, my Chapin nemesis. I’d never liked the Badminton Club, even when Father was alive. Any club with a shuttlecock in its crest cannot be taken seriously.
Paul came back to us in the vestibule, this time buttoned up and wearing pants.
“Maybe you two can finish this another time?” He slipped his overcoat on.
“You’re leaving?” I said, trying not to sound desperate.
“David needs to be shown out, and I have early rehearsal tomorrow.” He leaned to me and kissed one cheek. I breathed him in as he kissed the other and murmured in my ear, “Aubergine is your color.”
Paul pulled our impromptu guest out the door and downstairs as David protested, using his full repertoire of curse words. It was certainly painful to watch Paul go. He’d left my virtue intact, but was it the last chance for me? At least it hadn’t been Mother at the door.