Aurore was the first to speak what we all felt during one of those quiet, suffocating evenings after Von Steiner had taken his leave. She sat on the edge of her bed, her hands resting gently over her swollen stomach, her voice barely above a whisper. She looked at Séverine and me and said that we could not allow ourselves to become broken inside. She reminded us of our mother baking bread in the morning light, of our father fixing the intricate brass gears of his grandfather clocks in Saint-Rémy. She told us that as long as we remembered who we were before this darkness arrived, Von Steiner could control our physical bodies, but he could never possess our spirit. That evening, a quiet oath was forged between the three of us. We would survive this trial not merely to stay alive, but to ensure that the children we carried would know the truth of where they came from and the strength of the women who bore them.
As the months passed into the spring of 1943, the broader war began to shift beyond the boundaries of the compound. Whispers from the local workers reached us through the cracks in the cottage walls. The distant rumble of artillery could occasionally be felt through the floorboards at night, signaling that the front lines were drawing closer. The calm, composed demeanor that Von Steiner had maintained for so long began to crack around the edges. He visited less frequently, his eyes grew tired, and his orders to the guards became increasingly urgent. Yet, his obsession with our small cottage only deepened. He made plans to evacuate us to a remote property in the mountains of eastern Germany, determined to keep his secret lineage intact despite the collapse of the military front.
Séverine was the first to give birth, on a rainy night in May. The child was a healthy boy with dark hair that mirrored our father’s side of the family. Two weeks later, Aurore gave birth to a daughter, and shortly after, my own child, a little girl, came into the world. The arrival of these three infants transformed the cottage. Amidst the shadow of captivity and the constant threat of discovery, the sound of tiny cries brought an unexpected light into our lives. We cared for one another, taking turns nursing the infants, shielding them from the harsh reality outside our door. When Von Steiner entered the cottage to inspect the infants, his pride was obvious, but so was his desperation. He realized that the war was slipping through his fingers, and with it, his grand illusion of control.
By the summer of 1944, the inevitable collapse arrived. The distant thunder of allied artillery had grown into a continuous roar that shook the glass in the cottage windows. The guards at the compound began to desert their posts in the dead of night, leaving behind uniforms and weapons in their rush to escape the advancing forces. One night, as smoke rose from the main administrative buildings of the camp, Von Steiner appeared at our door alone. He was no longer dressed in his immaculate press uniform; his tunic was unbuttoned, his hair unkempt, and his eyes held a hollow, desperate gaze. He carried a small leather satchel and announced that a vehicle was waiting to take us deep into the eastern territory.
It was in that moment that the quiet strength we had cultivated over two long years finally found its voice. Séverine stepped between Von Steiner and the cribs where the three babies lay sleeping. Aurore stood beside her, her posture tall and unyielding, while I moved to block the doorway leading out to the courtyard. For the first time, Von Steiner did not look like a commander commanding an army; he looked like a defeated man clinging to a illusion that no longer existed. Séverine looked him dead in the eye and told him that his authority had ended. She told him that we would not run with him into the dark, nor would we allow our children to be raised in the shadows of his crimes…
