Chapter Fifteen

"I thought in this simple contrast between the civilized and the barbaric, but I was wrong. It is the civilized who are the truly barbaric, and the [Nazi] Germans are merely the supreme expression of it." ― Iain Pears, The Dream of Scipio

The cool quiet of the orphanage soothed her frazzled nerves; when the door closed behind them, Heinkel felt her body relax in spite of itself. Really, she couldn't have asked for a better hiding place; no one would look for her here. After all, few people knew of Heinkel's past; and even fewer knew that she and her foster mother remained in contact.

As a member of Iscariot, she'd been ordered to foreswear all attachments outside the organization; therefore, Heinkel was careful to keep her calls to Ana short and sporadic. The only person who knew about them was Yumie, and she…Heinkel cut that thought short before it reached its conclusion.

Over her shoulder, Ana added, "Tomorrow I'll introduce you to Luisa. She's a lovely girl, and wonderful with the children…"

Though she knew it was foolish, Heinkel couldn't help feeling a stab of jealousy. She was the one who'd left Ana behind; and yet, the thought of someone else taking her place made her chest ache.

Pathetic.

"Heinkel?" She flinched at the sound of her name, careful to keep her face blank despite the emotions swirling inside her.

"Sorry. Guess I'm more tired than I thought." That, at least, wasn't a lie. She hadn't had a proper night's sleep since Yumie died.

Ana patted her shoulder. "Get some rest, then. We'll talk tomorrow."

Heinkel felt another pang. Doubt I'll have time for that.

Searching for a distraction from her guilty conscience, she turned her attention to the photographs lining the walls; each was lovingly polished: a testament to the children Ana had devoted her life to. She was scanning the pictures when one caught her attention; Heinkel's eyes widened as she recognized the child standing next to a much-younger Ana. Her eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles, the girl's scowl was as prominent as the crucifix she wore.

Following her gaze, the older woman laughed, "You always were stubborn. I can't believe I convinced you to wear a dress that day!"

As she beheld the image of her former self, Heinkel searched the girl's face for some clue that she would one day become a holy murderess, an agent of divine wrath. But there was no indication that the child in the photograph was anything more than a tomboy in borrowed clothing.

Of course, it wasn't the dress that had bothered her, but the knowledge that all the fancy clothing in the world couldn't bring Heinkel what she wanted most: a family. That was the whole point of the picture, after all: to display her to potential parents—a pointless endeavor.

For even then, Heinkel knew that she would never be adopted; according to the nuns who ran the orphanage, she was too headstrong and inquisitive to make a good daughter. Prospective parents didn't want a troublemaker like her but children who did as they were told without asking questions. In short, they preferred girls who spent their days playing with dolls and teasing boys: the sort of girls Heinkel avoided at all costs.

It wasn't that she disliked them; she simply didn't belong with such delicate creatures. Even as a toddler, Heinkel preferred tree climbing to tea parties; and boys, with their rough and tumble ways, made far better companions than the girls who cried over every little scrape. The sisters lamented her dirty face and scabbed knees, but Heinkel didn't care; playing with boys might be rough, but it was always interesting.

Besides, what was the point of pretending to be something she wasn't? Anyone who adopted her expecting a quiet, docile child would soon discover they had been mistaken; and Heinkel would be swiftly returned to the orphanage.

As the years passed and the other children departed for new homes and brighter futures, her circle of playmates slowly dwindled—until only Ada, the one girl whose company she could tolerate, remained. Since she walked with a limp, the sisters predicted Ada would never be adopted, 'the poor dear'. (No one ever said that about Heinkel.)

However, when a doctor and his wife were charmed by Ada's blue eyes and sweet manner, Heinkel was forced to watch her only friend hobble down the driveway, hand in hand with her new parents. She'd been left behind…again. Before the doctor helped her into the car, Ada turned to wave at those gathered to see her off; and Heinkel saw that she was crying—but she was smiling even through her tears. Not wanting the other girl to sense her resentment, Heinkel smiled back, but the motion felt stiff, the corners of her mouth quivering with the effort. She wanted to cry, too, but her eyes remained dry.

At night, Heinkel lay awake, listening to the soft snores of the other girls, wondering how much time would pass before they, too, were gone. A few tried to befriend her but gave up when she ignored them. What was the point in making friends when they would only abandon her? Heinkel didn't need anyone; she could be strong on her own.