“But what about the prostitute?” Hannah asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“That woman chose to sin against our God,” Nedivah replied, her tone hardened.
“But . . .” Hannah’s voice wavered, her body trembling with fear.
Nedivah’s patience was wearing thin. Her hands gripped Hannah’s shoulders tightly.”We don’t have time for this, Hannah. It’s your life or hers. What’s your decision?”
Hannah knew she had no choice. They had been meticulously planning her escape for months. This might be the only chance she got to save herself, and potentially her parents as well. It was a matter of life and death. “I’ll do it,” she finally said, her voice filled with determination.
In a separate chamber within the same building, the prostitutes were busily adorning themselves for a night of forced pleasure with the Nazi guards. Nedivah, with a tray of champagne in her hands, stepped into the room, her eyes scanning the dozen ladies of the night. Locating the young woman that bore a striking resemblance to Hannah, Nedivah ensured she received the first glass of alcohol, which was laced with a potent drug designed to plunge her into unconsciousness. Once all the women had been given their glasses, Nedivah approached her target, who was already succumbing to the drug’s effects.
“Pardon me,” the prostitute slurred, reaching out to grasp Nedivah’s arm, “Is there a restroom here? I’m not feeling well.”
“Of course. Let me help you there.” Nedivah set down her tray and got the young woman onto her feet. “What’s your name?”
“Olga,” the prostitute managed to utter, leaning heavily on Nedivah. Together, they staggered towards the bathroom where Hannah was already waiting, ready for the swift swap into the prostitute’s attire.
“Help me get her into the stall out of sight,” Nedivah said. They stripped the unconscious Olga, replacing her clothes with Hannah’s prisoner garb. Hannah then slipped into the prostitute’s outfit, which surprisingly accentuated her youthful curves. The guards would be none the wiser that Hannah was not the original lady of the night.
“We need to get her back to the kitchen so we can monitor her. We’ll give her more of the drug if need be, to ensure she remains unconscious. If anyone asks, your name is Olga,” Nedivah instructed.
With Olga’s arms draped over their shoulders, they maneuvered her back to the kitchen where another female prisoner, Alma, came over to assist. They gently laid her down in a secluded corner and covered her with a white tablecloth.
“You can do this,” Nedivah said, gripping Hannah’s hands and looking her directly in the eye. “I believe in you.”
These were the last words Hannah would ever hear from her friend in the death camp. Nedivah would never again see the world beyond the barbed wire of the Treblinka extermination camp.
Once Hannah had departed to join the group of prostitutes, Alma kneeled beside Olga to etch a six-digit number into the unconscious prostitute’s left forearm. Hannah’s number.
Hannah was trembling as she entered the room where the remaining prostitutes were preparing for the evening. It would be less than an hour before they were ushered into the ballroom to entertain the guards. Three of the prostitutes turned their heads towards Hannah, recognizing the change but remaining silent. They understood the dire consequences that would follow should they report anything unusual to the Nazis. Instead, they kept their mouths shut, choosing to avoid becoming another statistic in the Nazi’s grim record books.
Fifteen minutes later, the door swung open with a chilling creak. A Nazi guard filled the frame, his grating voice filling the room. “Ladies, the men are growing restless. Ensure you’re ready to entertain in a quarter of an hour.”
A cold shiver of dread slithered down Hannah’s spine at this announcement. She mustered her courage, donning a mask of feigned excitement and giggling in unison with the other women. They all maintained a cautious distance from Hannah, wary of being entangled in her dangerous charade.
Olga. I must remember I am Olga now, Hannah repeated to herself, adopting the identity of the unconscious prostitute.
Once amidst the throng of guards, Hannah proved adept at keeping them entertained. Her quick wit was her shield, her flirty remarks her weapon. She danced from one guard to another, never lingering long enough to raise suspicion. Each interaction was a calculated risk, a delicate balance between blending in and not getting so familiar as to accidentally reveal her true identity. Discovery would mean certain death.
A guard, his eyes clouded with lust, grabbed at Hannah’s dress, pulling her close. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Olga,” she replied, her voice a playful giggle as she tugged at her dress, feigning coyness.
“Why don’t we slip away into one of these rooms and have a little fun?” he suggested, his pent-up desire evident in his leering gaze.
“That’s reserved for dessert time, gut aussehend,” she retorted, keeping up the charade.
The guard elbowed his companion, a smirk spreading across his face, “Did you hear that? She thinks I’m handsome.”
His companion rolled his eyes. “Of course she called you handsome. We’re paying them to flatter us, you idiot,” he said, delivering a hard punch to his fellow guard’s arm. Their ensuing brawl, a contest of strength and bravado, provided the perfect distraction for Hannah to slip away from the lecherous pair.
As the evening wore on, she fluttered around the room like a butterfly, skillfully avoiding any sordid encounters in the backrooms. As the clock’s hands crept towards the stroke of midnight, the girls were herded back into the confines of the dressing room, a sanctuary where they could finally stop their act after the night’s draining exploits. But not Hannah—there would be no reprieve for her. Fresh cold waves of fear washed over her at the thought of being discovered. Even so, she was a mere quarter of an hour away from the sweet taste of freedom.
“Alright ladies, your services have been appreciated, but it’s time for you to depart,” a guard announced.
One by one, the women rose, their bodies weary but their spirits unbroken. They followed the guard down the dimly lit corridor towards the German Wehrmacht military truck they had arrived in. The truck was a hulking beast, its green canvas top flapping in the night breeze. This was their chariot, destined to transport them back to the brothel nestled in the heart of Treblinka. Each woman took turns reaching out to grasp the hand of the escort assisting them up into the back of the transport. A shiver of dread coursed through Hannah as she took the soldier’s hand, his grip firm and unyielding.
Once inside, she found a spot next to a young woman who promptly shifted away, creating a chasm of distance between them. After the last of the prostitutes had been loaded onto the truck, the soldier hopped up onto the back and pulled down a tarp, securing it to the tailgate with a swift, practiced motion. He rapped on the back of the six-wheeled behemoth, signaling to the driver that they were ready to depart.
The truck rumbled to life, pulling away from the barracks and making its way towards the front gate. Just as the gate began to creak open, a shrill whistle pierced the night air. A soldier was frantically blasting his whistle from the kitchen window in a desperate bid to halt the departing truck. Hannah’s heart plummeted into her stomach. She lowered her head, tears welling up in her eyes as she braced herself for the inevitable.
Her escape had been thwarted, and she was ready to face her fate—execution on the spot.
***
In the aftermath of a night filled with the intoxicating allure of German beer and the company of seductive women, the captain of the guard found himself meandering towards the kitchen seeking a late-night snack. As he pushed open the heavy kitchen door and flicked on the harsh overhead lights, his eyes were drawn to the colossal refrigerator and its promise of sustenance.
The remnants of the evening’s feast were predictably scant, his soldiers having ravaged the generous provisions supplied by the Nazi government as part of their monthly reward; however, a solitary turkey leg, untouched and inviting, caught his eye. Claiming it as his own, the captain settled onto a stool at the cold, metallic island in the center of the kitchen, ready to savor his meal in solitude.
A subtle movement caught his attention. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the white tablecloth piled in the corner shift, accompanied by a low, grumbling noise. As he turned his gaze, a stranger emerged from beneath the cloth, her face appearing as she groggily pulled the sheet down around her.
Reacting swiftly to the unexpected intruder, the captain dashed to the window, blowing his whistle in sharp, urgent bursts towards the front gate, signaling them to halt the departing truck. Swiveling back to face the young woman, he demanded, “Who are you?”
The woman, her eyes wide with fear, raised her arms in surrender and stammered, “Don’t shoot! I’m not a prisoner.”
The captain’s eyes were drawn to the damning evidence inked into her left forearm—a prisoner number. His annoyance flared at this unwelcome interruption to his tranquil midnight feast. Without a second thought, he drew his revolver and fired a single, fatal shot into her forehead. Her body slumped forward, a crimson river of blood staining the pristine white tablecloth.
With a grim satisfaction, the captain returned to the window to blow his whistle twice, signaling “all clear” to the front gate so the truck could resume its journey. He returned to his meal, sinking his teeth into the succulent smoked turkey leg, its smoky flavor mingling well with the gunpowder odor from his discharged revolver.
***
The shrill sound of the whistle echoed twice, a chilling signal that sliced through the frigid night air like a knife. The gate guard, an imposing figure silhouetted against the harsh glare of floodlights, gave the Wehrmacht truck driver a stern nod, granting him permission to depart from the grim confines of the death camp. With a sudden lurch, the truck roared to life, its heavy wheels crunching gravel as it trudged through the camp’s imposing double gates into the night. The truck was destined to return in a month’s time, its cargo of pleasure providing a fleeting distraction for the guards once again. But when it did return, one woman would be conspicuously absent.
Hannah, her body curled into a protective hunch, kept her head buried in her knees, her tears falling silently onto the rough canvas floor of the truck. Hers were tears of relief, of joy, of the overwhelming realization she was finally escaping the specter of extermination. Freedom, a concept long so distant and elusive she had almost forgotten what it was, was now within her grasp.
The young woman beside her shifted closer, her hand gently stroking Hannah’s hair in a comforting gesture. Despite their circumstances, this call-girl found a well of compassion swelling up within her for the young escapee. Now that the women were all safely beyond the camp’s barbed-and-razor-wired fences, headed back to the relative safety of the brothel, a sense of relief had washed over them. Tonight, no one else would die—except for the unfortunate young woman whose fate had already been sealed thanks to her bearing a striking resemblance to Hannah.
Chapter 54
9 August 1941
Castel Gandolfo, Italy
Nestled just south of Rome, an enchanting hamlet lay perched on the edge of the serene Lake Albano. Cradled within the lush grassy embrace of the Alban Hills, the majestic Apostolic Palace of Castel Gandolfo had served as a tranquil sanctuary for the pope for centuries. This sprawling estate, spanning a breathtaking one hundred thirty-five acres, boasted a grand seventeenth-century villa as its crown jewel—the papal palace. A symbol of divine opulence, it had come into the papacy’s possession in 1596, a result of the previous owners’ unfortunate inability to settle their debts with the Vatican. As pope, Eugenio Pacelli often sought solace in Castel Gandolfo’s splendid seclusion, basking in the splendor of the magnificent summer retreat.
In the palace’s bustling kitchen, a trio of dedicated staff were meticulously crafting the pope’s meal, their hands deftly moving with practiced ease. The newest addition to the team, a young woman with a spark of determination in her eyes, had proven her culinary competency, and today had been granted the honor of delivering the pope’s lunch.
Meanwhile, in the solitude of his private quarters, Pacelli sat in tranquil meditation, patiently awaiting his midday meal. His lunch was to be a study in simplicity and elegance: a vibrant Caprese salad, featuring heirloom tomatoes, fresh basil, and creamy mozzarella, accompanied by crusty ciabatta bread, a drizzle of locally sourced olive oil, and a glass of rich, full-bodied Chianti. This was his preferred meal, a humble yet satisfying feast that reflected his modest tastes.
