What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  “We have to ration what we have,” my mother said. There was a smile on her face—something I hadn’t seen in a long time. She busied herself in the little corner that served as our kitchen, content to fuss over the cooking like she used to.

  “They told me to come back next week.” I said. “They told me they’d have more.”

  Everyone turned to gape at me.

  “Is this true?” my father asked in a low voice.

  “Yes, Papa,” I said.

  “Are they rich?” my aunt exclaimed. “How can they have so much?”

  “I don’t think they’re rich,” I said. “It’s just Fryderyk and his grandmother. Maybe they have more than they need?”

  “Still,” my father said, staring into the distance, “I can’t imagine why they don’t keep what they have for themselves. War is hard on everyone. Surely they must think ahead to their own future?”

  I shrugged. I couldn’t answer their questions, but I was happy Fryderyk and Babcia had invited me back.

  The week passed slowly as we made do with the food we were given. The remaining half-dozen eggs were rationed to cover each morning. We ate potatoes for lunch. For dinner, we allowed ourselves thin slices of bread spread with jam. My mother fed most of the milk to the twins. It made my heart soar that, by the end of the week, I could see color returning to their cheeks. They had more energy than before, enough that they chased each other like they once had. This time, my mother didn’t protest when they got underfoot.

  I tossed in bed the night before I was to return to Fryderyk’s farm. Part of me was nervous about setting out again, but a greater part of me was eager to help my family, and eager to see his face.

  This time, a frozen rain fell while I walked so that my boots sank into deep mud and my breath rose on the air. I arrived on his doorstep shivering. The lantern was lit just like before, its flame sputtering in the wind. I had barely knocked when the door opened and Fryderyk stood there smiling out at me.

  “You’re wet,” he said, instantly concerned. “Come in!”

  “Thank you,” I said as I stepped over the threshold. His grandmother was standing by the table, already setting aside provisions for my bag. I saw a hunk of cheese this time as well as more eggs. I could barely look away.

  “Go sit by the fire for a few minutes and warm yourself, dear,” she said in her low voice. I noticed a fire burning in a grate on the far side of the room. Fryderyk indicated two chairs that stood near the fireplace, and we sat opposite each other, silent for a few moments. His grandmother hummed as she moved about the kitchen. I turned toward the fire, closing my eyes, feeling the warmth from the blaze heat my cheeks. Without realizing it, I reached out my hands to the flames.

  “You’re freezing,” he said.

  I opened my eyes and drew back my hands. I glanced at him, embarrassed. “I’m fine,” I murmured. Then I saw in horror that I had tracked mud into the small parlor, noting with dismay the footprints that followed me to my chair. As though reading my mind, he said, “Don’t worry about that.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  “It’s just mud,” he said. His mouth twitched into a grin.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I asked hesitantly.

  “Of course.”

  “My family and I were wondering—why are you doing this? Isn’t this dangerous for you and your grandmother? You don’t even know us.”

  Fryderyk regarded me in silence for a moment, then he nodded at the mantel above the fire. “Do you see those pictures there?” he asked. Confused, I glimpsed two black-and-white photographs of a man and woman. The man looked very much like Fryderyk, his eyes almost clear in the photo as they stared out at me. There was no denying the woman was beautiful as well. Her hair was in a bun with soft tendrils brushing the tips of her ears and forehead. “Those are my parents,” Fryderyk explained. “Those pictures were taken a few years before they died.”

  I didn’t say anything. Fryderyk stood up and walked to the mantel. He touched the glass frame that held the two photographs. “They used to travel to Berlin a lot to visit my aunt. She lived there, in a home for others like her.”

  “Like her?” I asked.

  Fryderyk stood with his back to me. At first he didn’t answer, but then he said, “Yes, like her. She was different. She was born different. I would visit her too, on occasion. She always smiled and had candy for me. She was sweet and childlike, and I would play games with her in her room, or teach her the songs I had learned in school. We used to take her for walks in the park, and I saw how people stared at her. I remember a group of boys no older than me threw rocks at us once. When my aunt cried, I cried.

  “My mother and father tried to protect me from how mean people could be. But one time after visiting my aunt, my father came home concerned. He told us stories about the new government in Germany. The Nazis had taken over the country. My grandmother begged my father to bring my aunt home. She said it wasn’t safe for her there anymore, that we would take care of her. So my parents left to bring her to us. They never made it back.”

  Fryderyk stopped. Other than the crackling of the fire and the solemn cry of an owl, there was silence. He gazed down at the burning logs, twisting his hands behind his back as he continued. “There was an explosion in the home where my aunt lived. My parents were there when it happened.”

  I didn’t know what to say as I listened to Fryderyk. I watched the flames dance against the dark stone of the grate, occasionally glancing up at Fryderyk, but his blond bangs hid his eyes from view.

  “Not long after that, the Germans occupied Poland. I didn’t truly believe my father’s stories about the Nazis until I witnessed for myself how ruthless they could be, here, in my own country. They say the explosion was an accident, but I don’t believe it. I’ve seen how they treat those who don’t fit into their image of perfection. They are like those boys who threw rocks. My grandmother lost both her son and daughter to cruelty, so she swore to put an end to it if she could—even if in a small way.”

  I stared at Fryderyk’s back, shocked by his confession. The world he revealed to me was just as sad as the one I lived in daily. I realized that pain could happen anywhere, to anyone. He had lost so much as well. My heart beat for him, for his sorrow, and I had to swallow over a surge of emotion.

  “I’m so sorry, Fryderyk,” I whispered.

  He turned to me with a rueful expression and sat once again in his chair. “That is why we want to help. What they’re doing is wrong, Sarah. Like I told you, not everyone thinks the same way they do.”

  We continued to sit in silence, soaking up the warmth. I kept glancing at him through my lashes. I wanted to truly study him, but each time he shifted in his chair, I looked away, embarrassed. Another question nagged at the back of my mind. Tentatively, I whispered, “Why did you choose me?”

  Fryderyk looked at me, his face serious, and I forced myself to keep his gaze. “I noticed you that day, on the street,” he said. “Something about you made me watch you, follow you. And you were the only one bold enough to look up. You stared right at me. You were so angry—I couldn’t help but be intrigued by you.”

  My face was hot, but I didn’t think it was from the fire.

  “Then when I saw you again on the road near the fields, I thought, it was meant to be. I was meant to help you.”

  We both looked down at our laps. His hands were resting on his knees. I looked at his long, slender fingers and wanted nothing more than to reach out to him.

  A loud snore suddenly broke the spell that had fallen over us. We turned to see Fryderyk’s grandmother asleep in a chair by the table, her head falling onto her shoulder.

  “Babcia?” Fryderyk said, standing up and walking to her. I followed. “I should go,” I said. He nodded, handing me the bag. His fingers lingered on mine. “Your grandmother really doesn’t mind?” I asked as I tuck
ed it beneath my cloak.

  “We have enough to spare with my parents gone,” he said. “I only wish we could give you more.”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “you’ve already given us more than enough.”

  Nineteen

  Olkusz Ghetto, outskirts of Sikorka, winter 1941

  A factory where German uniforms were made opened nearby, and my mother and aunt were ordered to report there, where they worked at the sewing machines until night had fallen. Despite their hard work, we received hardly a penny. I paced each day after my mother and brothers left, worried in their absence. I spent the day performing the tasks my mother left behind, planning the meals, cleaning, and trying to turn our small room into a home. I watched over the twins, who sat listlessly on the floor, and my father, who spent most of his waking hours in bed.

  My father’s cough persisted. He barely touched the additional food I brought him, and occasionally when he’d cough, his kerchief would come away spotted with blood.

  “Papa?” I’d ask fearfully, but he’d just shake his head and fall back against the mattress. “I’m fine, Sarah,” he’d reassure, patting my hand, closing his eyes.

  I would have sunk into a deep depression if it hadn’t been for Fryderyk. When I wasn’t worrying about my family, my thoughts escaped to Fryderyk’s small cottage. It was an oasis in my mind, a place filled with warmth and safety. I looked forward to each visit and found I lingered longer every time I went. Once, while I was helping Babcia fill the basket, dawn touched the bottom of the curtains. I looked up, startled. “I’m late!” I cried. “It’ll be light by the time I get home!”

  Babcia looked up as Fryderyk went to the curtains and glanced outside. I saw his face outlined by the first rays of sunlight. “Don’t go,” he said, turning to face me. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “I have to!” I insisted. “My mother and father won’t know what happened to me if I don’t go home. They’ll be so worried!”

  “Go quickly then,” Babcia said, thrusting the basket into my arms and pushing me toward the door. “Stay close to the trees until you reach the road. Fryderyk, go with her.”

  “No,” I started to protest, but he grabbed my arm and pulled me out of the house.

  We ran through the small forest, staying off the path now that daylight had broken. Small animals, disturbed by our footfall, dashed across the forest floor and burrowed in the underbrush. My heart raced in my ears. Fryderyk never stopped; he knew the way through the trees like the back of his hand. My lungs hurt from the cold and the panic I felt. When we reached the edge of the woods that bordered the ghetto, he pushed me against a tree with his finger to his lips. I panted as he crept forward, peering into the street on the other side of the tree line. He turned back to me and whispered, “It’s safe. There’s no one there.”

  I nodded, closing my eyes and taking a deep breath, bracing myself for the walk back through the ghetto alone.

  “Sarah,” he said, and I opened my eyes to find him staring down at me.

  I swallowed, my chest rising and falling painfully in anticipation. “Sarah,” he breathed again, reaching up and cupping my chin in his hand. I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move. He bent down and touched his lips to mine. I leaned into him, pressing harder against his mouth, forgetting for the briefest moment where I was. The panic fell away. I was intoxicated by his scent, woodsy like the forest, and by the feel of his body against mine. “Sarah, don’t go,” he said, his breath entering my mouth. A beam of sunlight broke through the branches above our heads, warming my face, and the dangerous reality of my situation hit me once more. I pushed away, swallowing hard, backing away from him. “My family,” I whispered, pleading with him to understand. “I have to.” He nodded, eyes downcast. I peered out at the empty street and knew this was my only chance. “Good-bye.”

  The whisper of his voice followed me onto the road, gentle, beckoning.

  “Come back to me soon.”

  By the time I reached the street that led to our door, the ghetto was beginning to stir. Young men were leaving for their day of labor. A few women were shaking laundry outside their doors. I saw children, skinny and listless, sitting in the dirty slush on the steps of their homes. I slowed my pace and stared straight ahead, hoping not to raise any suspicion. Thankfully, I didn’t pass a single soldier on my way. When I opened the door, my mother was there, her eyes wild. She grabbed my arm and pulled me inside.

  “Where in the world were you?” she gasped, shaking me forcefully. “You should have been home over an hour ago!”

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I whispered when I could finally catch my breath. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “Didn’t mean to worry me?” she demanded, exasperated. “Do you have any idea how dangerous this is, Sarah? Of course we were worried, you silly girl!”

  Jacob, Sam, and Isaac were standing near the door, dressed to leave. I looked at them over my mother’s shoulder. They stared at me with mixed expressions of relief and irritation.

  “I’m sorry!” I cried again, tears coming to my eyes.

  “That was too close, Sarah,” my mother said, her voice lowering. “We can’t risk that again. I don’t want to think what would happen if you get caught. It will be the end for all of us.”

  “No, Mama. I have to go. The twins are getting better. Papa needs the food. Jacob, Sam, and Isaac need strength for their work. Please, Mama, don’t make me stop!”

  She regarded me in silence for a few moments, her brow knitting above her eyes. Then she turned to my brothers and shooed them from the house. “Go, go,” she said, and they quickly grabbed their caps and moved toward the door. When they had left, my mother took my hand and led me to the mattress. She glanced first at my father, still asleep in the small room adjacent, then sat me on the mattress and searched my face for a long moment.

  “Sarah,” she said softly, “why is it so important for you to go?”

  “What do you mean, Mama?” I asked.

  “Is it that boy? Fryderyk?”

  I looked down.

  “Is it?” she persisted.

  “He’s kind, Mama,” I whispered, unable to meet her eyes.

  “Don’t get any ideas about him, Sarah.”

  My gaze shot up to meet her own. In that moment, I was sure she knew. I was sure what I had done was written all over my face. I was sure my lips were red from where they had touched his. I had disgraced my parents. I had done something terribly wrong.

  She regarded me for another moment before sighing. In a tired voice, she said, “Never mind. Just know that when I tell you it has to end, you have to listen to me. Is that understood?”

  I nodded, drowning in guilt and desire.

  The following week, when I arrived eagerly at Fryderyk’s door, he answered gravely and ushered me inside. His face, which usually broke into a smile when he saw me, was distracted and somber. I didn’t see his grandmother at the table where she usually waited for us, tea in hand.

  “What is it?” I asked immediately. “Is Babcia all right?”

  “She’s fine,” he said. “She’s in the other room resting.”

  “Did something happen?” I asked nervously.

  Fryderyk looked away for a moment then nodded pensively. “I have something to tell you.”

  I knew instantly I didn’t want to hear what he had to say.

  “We had a visit yesterday from a general in the Nazi party.”

  My heart sank. “Do they know?” I whispered fearfully.

  “No,” he said quickly, “I don’t think so. But they are demanding we give them a portion of our crops. They say it’s our duty. They say nothing belongs to the individual but to the Third Reich. If we don’t want to raise suspicion, we have to agree, Sarah.”

  “Oh,” I said quietly, looking down at my hands. The tip of his finger gently lifted my chin so we were staring e
ach other in the eyes.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah,” he said, running the back of his hand along my cheek. “They can’t stop me from helping you.”

  I had grown used to the quiet on my walks home. I had even begun to enjoy the solitude, growing less cautious as I watched the stars fade in the ever-lightening sky. But now Fryderyk’s words echoed in my ears. The Nazis had come to his home and would come again to collect their share of food. The danger of our situation felt all too real.

  I was lost in thought as I turned a corner onto the main street that ran through the ghetto. At first, I wasn’t aware of the line of vehicles driving onto the road opposite me. When I heard the loud thrum of their engines, I threw myself behind a wall, praying I hadn’t been seen.

  SS poured out of the trucks, pounding loudly on the doors of the neighboring dwellings. I held my breath and plastered myself to the wall, pressing my back against the cold brick. I heard shouting and sounds of struggle. Taking a deep breath, I peeked around the corner and saw men, women, and children forced from their homes onto the truck beds. My heart pounded in my chest. I stood where I was, frozen, my heart cartwheeling into my throat when the trucks sped past me on the street, engines revving, headed out of the ghetto. The silence that followed was so sudden, it pressed against my ears painfully.

  I remained glued to the wall for a few moments, waiting to see if they would return. When the silence lasted, I risked looking back down the street. There was no one around. I stepped cautiously into the road and walked toward the cluster of buildings. Doors stood open on vacant rooms. That part of the ghetto was now empty.

  I lifted the hem of my skirt and ran home.

  When I burst through the door, my mother was leaning over my father with a cool washcloth pressed to his forehead.