than was called for, surely. It must be some kind of institution.
Kristine’s words came back to her: “They are going to rid Germany of every genetically imperfect man, woman, and child.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rachel whispered. But the memory ofKristine’s urgency remained. Rachel returned to her packages across the street, still watching, anticipating that the line of children would emerge on that side of the van. But they didn’t. They’d disappeared. Shortly, the white-coated man rounded the vehicle and climbed in the front passenger seat. As soon as he did, the driver pulled away, toward Rachel’s end of the street. She stepped back onto the curb.
The children must have climbed into the back of the van. There was nowhere else for them to have gone.
The van pulled to the intersection, passing Rachel, pausing for traffic, and turned left.
Windows painted black—the children can’t see out, and I can’t see them.
Rachel’s heart began to pound. “They’ll put them in vans and drive them round, gassing them as they go.”
“There’s some other explanation,” she said aloud.
The woman in the black dress was already stepping through the doorway of the brick building. A trolley pulled to a stop near the curb. Rachel looked up into the face of the conductor. He waited for her to enter, to hand him her coins. But she stepped back, shaking her head.
Rachel harnessed her shoulder bag and, leaving her parcels on the bench, headed quickly for the brick building—before she could think it through, before she could change her mind.
The sign, small and white with gold letters, read, Schmidt-Veiling Institut . She thumped the brass door knocker beneath it. No one came, so she thumped it again, louder this time. She waited, but still no one came. Not accustomed to being ignored, frightened now by her imaginings, she banged it loudly, continually. At last the door flew open and the woman in the dark dress emerged, her face flush with . . . with . . . with what? Anger? Fear? Suspicion? Rachel couldn’t tell.
“The children,” Rachel stammered in English. She saw the woman’s fear change to contempt and switched to German. “ Die Kinder —where have they gone? What’s happened to them?”
The woman tried to shut the door, but Rachel pushed her foot through it and forced her way into the dark foyer. “Tell me.”
“And who are you? What is your business here?”
Rachel’s theatre training kicked in, as though she’d deliberately summoned it. “My cousin brought her daughter here. I demand to know what you’ve done with the children.”
The woman paled as Rachel spoke. “They are sleeping. It is afternoon nap time. That is all. Tell your cousin to call before she comes to visit.”
“The ones I saw getting into the van—the black van, just now.”
The woman’s eyes grew unnaturally bright. She looked over her shoulder, then back again. “They—they are being . . .” She hesitated barely a moment. “Taken for treatment.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“That is up to the doctor, what they need. What each one needs.” She stepped forward, urging Rachel backward, toward the door. “You will excuse us, Fräulein. We have work to do.”
Rachel nearly gave way, uncertain, knowing she couldn’t truly be sure, couldn’t prove anything. But a mournful wail filtered through the hallway, reaching her ears as she stepped away. “Who is crying? Who is that?”
“Children cry often, Fräulein. In a house as large as this it is only common. You must go now.”
“That was not a child!”
The woman’s frustration erupted. “It is Frau Heppfner. If you must know, her only son has been sent to the front. She is a good German, but she is frightened for him.” She pushed Rachel through the open doorway. “Now you must go.”
From behind the shrubbery covering the corner of the street, Jason watched Rachel step from the orphanage. He had a good idea aboutwhat had happened to the
Kristine’s words came back to her: “They are going to rid Germany of every genetically imperfect man, woman, and child.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Rachel whispered. But the memory ofKristine’s urgency remained. Rachel returned to her packages across the street, still watching, anticipating that the line of children would emerge on that side of the van. But they didn’t. They’d disappeared. Shortly, the white-coated man rounded the vehicle and climbed in the front passenger seat. As soon as he did, the driver pulled away, toward Rachel’s end of the street. She stepped back onto the curb.
The children must have climbed into the back of the van. There was nowhere else for them to have gone.
The van pulled to the intersection, passing Rachel, pausing for traffic, and turned left.
Windows painted black—the children can’t see out, and I can’t see them.
Rachel’s heart began to pound. “They’ll put them in vans and drive them round, gassing them as they go.”
“There’s some other explanation,” she said aloud.
The woman in the black dress was already stepping through the doorway of the brick building. A trolley pulled to a stop near the curb. Rachel looked up into the face of the conductor. He waited for her to enter, to hand him her coins. But she stepped back, shaking her head.
Rachel harnessed her shoulder bag and, leaving her parcels on the bench, headed quickly for the brick building—before she could think it through, before she could change her mind.
The sign, small and white with gold letters, read, Schmidt-Veiling Institut . She thumped the brass door knocker beneath it. No one came, so she thumped it again, louder this time. She waited, but still no one came. Not accustomed to being ignored, frightened now by her imaginings, she banged it loudly, continually. At last the door flew open and the woman in the dark dress emerged, her face flush with . . . with . . . with what? Anger? Fear? Suspicion? Rachel couldn’t tell.
“The children,” Rachel stammered in English. She saw the woman’s fear change to contempt and switched to German. “ Die Kinder —where have they gone? What’s happened to them?”
The woman tried to shut the door, but Rachel pushed her foot through it and forced her way into the dark foyer. “Tell me.”
“And who are you? What is your business here?”
Rachel’s theatre training kicked in, as though she’d deliberately summoned it. “My cousin brought her daughter here. I demand to know what you’ve done with the children.”
The woman paled as Rachel spoke. “They are sleeping. It is afternoon nap time. That is all. Tell your cousin to call before she comes to visit.”
“The ones I saw getting into the van—the black van, just now.”
The woman’s eyes grew unnaturally bright. She looked over her shoulder, then back again. “They—they are being . . .” She hesitated barely a moment. “Taken for treatment.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“That is up to the doctor, what they need. What each one needs.” She stepped forward, urging Rachel backward, toward the door. “You will excuse us, Fräulein. We have work to do.”
Rachel nearly gave way, uncertain, knowing she couldn’t truly be sure, couldn’t prove anything. But a mournful wail filtered through the hallway, reaching her ears as she stepped away. “Who is crying? Who is that?”
“Children cry often, Fräulein. In a house as large as this it is only common. You must go now.”
“That was not a child!”
The woman’s frustration erupted. “It is Frau Heppfner. If you must know, her only son has been sent to the front. She is a good German, but she is frightened for him.” She pushed Rachel through the open doorway. “Now you must go.”
From behind the shrubbery covering the corner of the street, Jason watched Rachel step from the orphanage. He had a good idea aboutwhat had happened to the
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