Poor Gertrude. She was the German nurse assigned to help my mother after her fifth spinal surgery. The year was 1992, and I was just about to turn seven.
“The Germans are the bad guys,” my father told my little brother and me. “Your grandfather was in Europe trying to kill them during the war because the Germans were trying to kill the Jews. The Germans killed all of your grandma’s family and she only survived because a Christian family hid her in their attic in Belgium, except they weren’t very nice: they robbed grandma of everything she had. When the war was over, your grandpa met your penniless grandma in a Belgian synagogue—it was the first Rosh Hashanah service in years and years. They got married soon after, and grandpa brought grandma back to Canada.”
“But why did the Germans want to kill Jews?” I asked.
“Because everyone hates the Jews and Hitler was crazy.”
“Who’s Hitler?” my brother asked.
“Hitler was Germany’s boss.”
“Is he the weird-looking guy with the funny moustache?” I asked—I had seen photos of him in my father’s history books.
“You got it,” my father said. “I told you guys: he was crazy.”
“Crazy?”
“Crazy,” my father said. He suddenly raised his right arm, and shouted, “Heil Hitler!” then said, “that’s how Germans say hello to each other. Crazy, eh?”
“Like this?” I said, then stuck out my arm and shouted, “Heil Hitler!”
My father scowled and said, “If I ever catch you doing that again, you’ll be in big trouble.” With angry eyes, he looked me over, then my brother who raised his little right arm and said,
“Heil Hitler!”
“I told you never to do that!”
“Sorry,” he said. “I wanted to try.”
“Well never again, all right?”
“All right,” we said.
“The Germans are the bad guys, and don’t you forget it.”
“We won’t.”
“Good,” my father said. “The Germans were so bad, grandma won’t even let me buy a BMW.”
“What’s a BMW?”
“A fancy German car.”
“And you want one?” I asked.
“Sure,” my father said, “But I wouldn’t want to upset your Grandma.”
“Me neither,” I said.
“Daddy,” my brother said. “Is Hitler dead?”
“No one knows.”
* * *
Gertrude was in her early thirties, and with her blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and full figure squeezed into a skimpy pink uniform, even boy-aged me thought she was fantastically beautiful. In addition to changing my mother’s dressings and helping her move around, she was also charged with the task of giving my brother baths.
I was standing on a stool by the sink, brushing my teeth while five-year-old Andy sat in the tub. Gertrude kneeled over him, the front of her uniform splashed and splattered, and shampooed his fair hair. Andy just sat there with this stern look on his little face and stared at the wall.
In her halting English, Gertrude asked, “Andy, is something wrong?”
My brother took a deep breath and looked her right in the eye. “Germans are the bad guys.”
“Excuse me?” Gertrude said, taken aback. “Who told you that?”
“Daddy said so.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because you wanna kill Jews and I don’t wanna die.”
I rinsed my mouth, spat, then said, “Gertrude, why do you want to kill Jews?”
“I don’t want to kill Jews.”
“Are you telling the truth?”
“Of course I am.”
“Daddy said that all Germans want to kill Jews.”
“But that isn’t true.”
“Did anyone in your family kill Jews?” I asked.
Gertrude’s beautiful face choked and changed, and she took her hands from my brother’s head.
“It was a dark time.”
“You didn’t have lights?” Andy asked.
“That’s not what I mean.”
“So what do you mean?” I asked
Gertrude stood up, looked at us, tears coming to her eyes.
“I mean it was bad time, and many people were crazy and others not crazy enough to do anything about it.”
“But did your family kill Jews?” Andy asked.
Gertrude sniffled, tried to hold back a sob, then walked out of the room, leaving my brother’s head covered in suds. I could hear Gertrude crying in the hallway, so, using the small Batman bucket, I helped Andy finish washing his hair.
“Daniel, why is Gertrude sad?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe she feels bad about killing Jews.”
My brother came out of the tub and I wrapped a towel around him. We went into the hall and Gertrude was nowhere to be seen.
Then we heard my mother scream, “Boooooys! Come here this instant!”
We went to her bedroom where she lay in her body cast, surrounded by magazines, a TV remote, bottles of pills and a backscratcher. Gertrude sat in a chair beside the bed, her face covered with her hands.
“What did you boys say to Ms. Schmitt?”
“Who’s Ms. Shmitt?” I asked.
“Gertrude,” my mother said. “What did you say to her?”
“Andy said that Germans are the bad guys”
“Is this true?” my mother asked.
Andy looked at the floor and said, “Yes.”
“Why would you say such a thing to such a nice person?”
“But Germans are the bad guys,” I said in my brother’s defense. “Dad told us so.”
“Your father shouldn’t have said that.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So Dad lied?”
“Your father didn’t lie, but—”
“He told the truth?”
“Yes.”
“Germans are the bad guys! Germans are the bad guys!” Andy started to sing.
“Andy!” my mother shouted, then I joined in:
“Germans are the bad guys! Germans are the bad guys!”
My mother yelled for us to be quiet, but we kept singing, louder and louder while Gertrude stared, jaw slack and tears streaming down her face.
“I have a headache!” my mother finally screamed. “Go to your rooms!”
“Germans are the bad guys!” we sang as we left, smiling and proud.
When my father came home from work he had a good laugh when my mother tried to chastise him—he was very proud of us.
We never saw Gertrude again.
Copyright © 2011 by Daniel Shawn Otis
