The Light in Hidden Places

by Sharon Cameron

  She nods as I straighten, running for the door like she’s popped from a spring.

  “She is shy?”

  I look up, and there’s Lubek with his cigarette.

  “Very,” I say, and leave it at that. But I don’t like the way he was watching us.

  The couples change the record and start dancing in front of the sofa. Januka hands me one of my own glasses, full to the top with vodka.

  “Isn’t this a wonderful surprise?” she says. “It must be so nice to live on your own. No parents!”

  So nice, I think. To have every responsibility land on your shoulders.

  She has no idea.

  But if I were Januka, with a job and some money, no sister, and a place of my own, I might think this was a nice surprise. I’d sip vodka and bake cookies, pass out the cigarettes and dance if a boy asked me to.

  I am not Januka.

  I have to think of a way to get everyone out of here.

  I find the vodka bottle and go to the sink to pour the contents of my glass back into it. I hate to waste anyone’s rations. I always sell mine.

  “So you don’t drink the vodka, either?” says Lubek.

  You need to go find Januka, I think. I start to wash the empty glass.

  “So how long have you lived here?” he asks.

  “A few weeks.”

  “It’s a good place. But you could have better neighbors.”

  I look up. Lubek is very tall. “What do you mean?”

  “The SS man I saw going in the front. I wouldn’t want him for a neighbor.”

  An SS man. In Mrs. Krajewska’s house. What is he doing there?

  “Is he there right now?”

  “Yes.”

  I have such a sharp pain behind my left eye, I wince.

  “I’ve been to the ghetto,” says Lubek. “With my uncle. He wanted to get married, and there was a goldsmith he knew. He thought maybe he could still make him a ring. You wouldn’t believe what the SS do in there.”

  I would believe it.

  There’s an SS man next door. An SS man is next door …

  “I’ve heard the ghetto is about to be gone.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “The police were saying it. At the fence.”

  “Completely gone?”

  “Not one left. Judenfrei. They say they’re moving the Jews somewhere else, but I don’t think that’s true.”

  “What do you think they’re going to do?”

  “Lock the gates and burn it down. Because that’s what kind of bastards they are.”

  I shake my head. “No. They won’t use fire. They’ll shoot them. Every single one.”

  Henek. Danuta. You’ve got to come out.

  “They’ll kill them, either way,” agrees Lubek. “And then they’ll start on us.” His brows are knitted together. Thoughtful. And then he says, “I think that glass is clean.”

  I look down. I’m still washing the glass.

  “Why don’t you show me the rest of the house?” he says.

  “There’s nothing more to see. Just bedrooms.”

  “Then you could show me that.”

  I almost smile. No, Lubek, you don’t need to see my bedroom or what’s hidden there. And the other one we use for a toilet.

  It’s a shame I can’t say anything I’m thinking.

  I settle for, “I don’t show boys my bedroom.”

  “Really?” Now he’s grinning. “What about them?”

  I turn around, and one of the couples is dancing themselves into the next room, carrying their phonograph with them.

  “Wait,” I say. “Wait. You need to stay out …”

  I run to the bedroom. The record is so loud it hurts my ears. One couple is dancing across the floor, the other sitting on the bed above the bunker, kissing. And there’s a noise coming from under the bed, a sort of spitting sound, muffled, and then a thud. The sound of wood dropping.

  What could be happening under there?

  My chest compresses into a tiny, pulsing ball.

  “Stefi!” says the kissing girl, breaking away from her boy. I have no idea who she is. The thudding wood sound comes again. “What is that? Do you have a cat under the bed? I love cats.”

  She wiggles out of her boyfriend’s arms and drops to her knees. “Here, kitty …”

  “Stop!” I yell. “Don’t look under there!”

  The dancing couple pauses, the girl on the floor and her boyfriend stare. I don’t know where Januka or the other girls are, but I can feel Lubek’s presence somewhere behind me. I drop to my knees beside the kneeling girl so I can tackle her if I have to. I can feel the room waiting.

  “It’s a mean cat,” I say. “He’ll scratch your face.”

  “Oh!” The girl raises her hand to her cheek.

  “Let me look …”

  I peek under the bed and catch a glimpse of Mrs. Bessermann’s mussed hair and frightened eyes. And I think someone is coughing beneath the floorboards.

  “Yes, it’s just the cat. But he’s hissing. We’d better leave him alone …”

  “Miss Podgórska! What is going on in here?”

  I straighten up, and now Mrs. Krajewska is in the bedroom, Januka right behind her, mouthing “sorry.” She must have let her in.

  Why is everyone I know in this room?

  “Do you know how loud it is in here?” shouts Mrs. Krajewska over the music. “And it’s a Sunday afternoon!” She’s holding her rosary, draping from a clenched fist over one hip of her printed dress, and that seems to carry some weight with my partygoers. The needle is ripped from the spinning record, and I wish it hadn’t been. Silence falls, and someone is coughing softly beneath the floor.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Krajewska,” I say loudly, helping the girl next to me to her feet. “I won’t let it happen again. Time to go, everyone!”

  “Well, I …”

  I think Mrs. Krajewska was only going to ask my friends to be quieter, not leave. But I can’t let her get away with that.

  “No, really, Mrs. Krajewska. I know it was against the rules. I’m sorry.”

  Mrs. Krajewska looks satisfied and a little confused and relieved that people are gathering up their drinks and their music. I steer them out and shut the door to the bedroom, and in a few minutes, the plates and bottles and purses are collected and the group files one by one out the door.

  “Bye, Stefi!” says Januka sadly, giving me a little wave. Lubek grins at me once and shuts the door behind him. Mrs. Krajewska looks around.

  “You’ve been fixing up this place very nicely, Miss Podgórska. Now you know there aren’t any rules about having friends over, but …”

  “They invited themselves this time. And I was more than ready for them to go.”

  Mrs. Krajewska smiles. “You’re such a sensible girl. Do you have any tea?”

  And then Mrs. Krajewska pulls out a chair from my half table and sits in it. I put the pot of warm water back on the heat and find two clean cups. That pain is pulsing behind my eye again.

  “You know I’ve been worried about you,” says Mrs. Krajewska. “A young girl with a sister. All on her own. And not going to work that day …”

  “We only had our shifts confused,” I say. “It was all straightened out.”

  “I thought your supervisor was very rude. What was his name?”

  “He doesn’t have that position anymore,” I reply instead of answering. “Temper.”

  Mrs. Krajewska nods. “I’m not surprised, coming to your house like that. How is your mother?”

  “What?” I say.

  “The letter from your mother. How is she?”

  Mrs. Bessermann told Mrs. Krajewska she was a friend of my mother’s, delivering a letter from her, because she didn’t know my new address.

  “She says she’s well. She’s still in Salzburg, but she saw one of my sisters there.”

  I’m getting good at lying.

  Then again, maybe I was always good at it?

  I po
ur the steaming water into the teapot. There’s a loud bump from the bedroom, like one of the floorboards fell or was dropped back into place, and Mrs. Krajewska’s eyes dart to the door.

  “The cat is in there,” I say.

  She turns her attention to the tea, lifting the lid of the teapot to check its color. My eye hurts so badly, I have to rub it. And then I say, “Do you have a houseguest right now, Mrs. Krajewska?”

  “Yes, I forgot to say! My nephew is here, my first husband’s sister’s boy. He’s military, as I’m sure you saw.”

  “German military.”

  “Yes, but he’s a good boy!” says Mrs. Krajewska, with the exact same tone she used to defend me to Dr. Schillinger. “Not like those other SS, I’m sure.”

  “Of course not,” I say. I pour her tea.

  We have the SS living next door. We have the SS living next door …

  “How long will he be staying with you?”

  “He hasn’t said.” She pauses. “He’s very handsome.”

  “I’m sure he is.”

  “In fact, if you would like me to arrange a little introduction, I could do that. A husband would be a great help to you.”

  “Thank you. But I think wartime is a little too unsure for husbands. Or boyfriends. I’m going to wait until everything is settled.”

  “So sensible. But don’t wait too long! You don’t want to get too old and miss all your chances.”

  I’ll keep that in mind, Mrs. Krajewska. Don’t you need to say your rosary?

  I have to bite my tongue to keep those words from coming out of my mouth.

  She sips her tea. I gulp mine. I think I can hear coughing beneath the floor, but Mrs. Krajewska is too busy talking.

  “There is something, though, Miss Podgórska, that I wanted to talk to you about. Something I’ve noticed about you. Something that’s been bothering me for a while now.”

  The pain behind my left eye spreads across my forehead.

  Maybe today is the day after all. If it’s not Januka, the SS, or Mrs. Krajewska, it will be because my brain is going to explode.

  “I’ve been very worried about what I’ve been seeing, because it means you haven’t been going to Mass.”

  I finish my tea. Mrs. Krajewska drinks hers slowly, listening while I explain that I do go to the cathedral on Na Bramie to pray twice a week. If she knew exactly how often I prayed—how often I’ve prayed in the last five minutes—she’d be surprised.

  Then she says she worries about my cat, because of the chickens. And Helena, because she’s spending a lot of time alone and doesn’t seem to want to play with her boys. Who could blame Helena for that, since Mrs. Krajewska’s boys are five- and seven-year-old terrors, and Helena is not alone near as much as Mrs. Krajewska thinks. The last half of her cup is spent telling me what I should and should not do with my house, my money, my religion, my future husband, and other things that I eventually stop listening to.

  When she’s talking, I can’t hear the noise from beneath the floor at all, so I let her talk.

  Mrs. Krajewska finally runs out of advice and walks out the door. I lock it and hurry to the window to make sure she’s safely home before I whisper, “She’s gone.”

  Siunek and Mrs. Bessermann slide out from under the beds. Mrs. Bessermann is upset. She flings away the boards as Max pushes them up.

  “Cesia! Janek!”

  But it’s Old Hirsch who comes out of the hole first. He’s dirty and wringing wet—soaked like he’s fallen into a lake—and his face is ashen. He spits out a handkerchief onto the floor—stuffed there, I assume, to keep him quiet—and then he coughs and coughs like he might never breathe again, still on his belly. I bring him water, and now Max is putting back the floorboards, Mrs. Bessermann stroking the pieces of dirt from Cesia’s hair. Dziusia and Janek are near to hitting each other, while Dr. Schillinger and Siunek are on their knees, trying to help Hirsch.

  “Bring him into the other room,” I whisper. “Quick!” Mrs. Krajewska and her SS nephew will not think that cough is mine. “And who’s watching the window?”

  They start moving, but slowly. I need Max. But he isn’t in here. “Listen to me!” I point and barely say the words. “There is an SS man on the other side of that wall!”

  That gets their attention. Old Hirsch is whisked to the other room. Cesia goes to the window. Mrs. Bessermann breaks up the fuss between Janek and Dziusia. And when I go into the kitchen, there are chickens everywhere. Someone has opened the door to the hallway, and since the hallway is empty, they must have gone up the ladder.

  I climb, and Max is standing in the dusty light from the window, staring at the attic with his arms crossed. We have to be very quiet up here. Mrs. Krajewska has second-floor rooms, and the walls are thinner than downstairs. I stand beside him.

  “This isn’t working,” he whispers.

  I know.

  “There are too many for the bunker already, and I don’t think I can make it any bigger, not without undermining the house or falling into the cellar.”

  Which is Mrs. Krajewska’s.

  “And what will we do when Henek and Danuta come?”

  “More beds?” I suggest.

  He smiles. Then his eyebrow quirks, and he says, “Oh, Fusia. The cat.”

  “It’ll scratch your face.”

  We both laugh now, as quietly as we can. Even though it really isn’t funny. I think we’re both just relieved to be alive.

  We were so nearly not alive.

  “You heard about the SS man?” I ask.

  “Mostly. Around the coughing. You don’t want to go on a date with him, too, do you?”

  I shake my head. I can tell from his eyebrow that he’s teasing. But I don’t like his use of the word “too.” I think he’s still upset about Officer Berdecki.

  “You need to be careful. With Lubek.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “You’d be amazed at what I can pick up from under a floor. He asked you a lot of questions.”

  But I can’t tell if Max thinks Lubek is curious about me or my illegal activities. He’s pacing the attic now. In his sock feet. Then he comes back close. So we can talk.

  “I’ve been thinking about a wall. Right here.” He walks forward a few steps, arms waving, showing me a line that would cut the long, narrow attic short.

  “If we could get wood,” Max whispers. “Old wood, nothing new, I could build a false wall right here and make a space for us behind it. It would be tight, especially with two more, but better than being cramped underground. You can’t imagine how much it hurts to stay in the right position, how cold it is. It’s scary for the children and hard for Old Hirsch and even Dr. Schillinger to get under the bed quickly. They all might do better with a ladder.”

  I tilt my chin, trying to imagine what he’s showing me. “You can do it,” I say.

  He turns his head. “You think so?”

  “The one you made on Kopernika was really good.”

  Now he frowns. “What were you doing down there?”

  “It’s where I met Henek and Mrs. Bessermann.”

  “I wish you hadn’t gone in there,” he says.

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  We both look at the wall. Or the wall that Max wants to build.

  “It won’t happen here,” I say to him. He knows I’m talking about the basement of Kopernika. “We won’t let it happen here.”

  He nods. “I’ll find a way to make this work.”

  I knock some of the dirt from his shaggy hair.

  I think he will.

  I search the markets for more than three weeks without seeing any kind of wood that looks as if it could belong in our attic. Then, in the early sun, on my way to work, I spot a man pushing a cart toward the market square, a load of old planks piled almost as high as his chin. He’s demolished a house, he says, ruined when the Russians were fighting the Germans, but this wood is still okay, and what would I want with a lot of old wood, anyway? Firewood, I lie, and r
un back home to Tatarska for my money, and to warn everyone in the house that a man will be delivering wood to the back.

  I leave Helena in charge of this, explain to Mrs. Krajewska that someone has given me a load of old wood for the fire, so she won’t think I bought it, and by the time I fly back down the hill and cross the iron bridge to Minerwa, I’m late. But Herr Braun hasn’t noticed yet, because Lubek has started my machines.

  Januka and Lubek and I almost always spend our breaks together now, and I can’t tell exactly what the arrangement between the two of them is. But there have been no more parties. They seem to have gotten the idea that I didn’t appreciate uninvited guests, and neither did the custodian of my apartment.

  Mrs. Krajewska’s nephew’s name is Ernst. He’s SS, on some kind of leave from his post, and I think he’s foul. He mostly stays inside the house, drinking, I assume, because when I do see him, he’s drunk. But he makes my eight hidden Jews have to whisper and tiptoe, even with the chickens, and that makes them testy. Especially the children. Helena escapes when she can. I don’t even know where she goes. And the window watch is changed every three hours. Night and day.

  When I come home that night, Max has several planks of the wood in the living room, because he’s talked Helena into dragging them through the door for him. He’s been pulling the rusty nails to use again, picking up the planks, and putting them down like pieces of glass, quietly planning his wall. He smiles when I come in, running his hand over the rough, weathered wood.

  “It’s just right,” he whispers. “Exactly what we need!”

  And because he can’t say much else, he grabs my face and kisses both my cheeks. Like his father would have. Or maybe not. Mrs. Bessermann huffs, but Max doesn’t notice. He’s just happy.

  Three days after that, on my day off, I go to Mrs. Krajewska and ask if she has a hammer. I tell her I’m washing all my blankets and linens and I want to nail up some rope to hang them in the attic so they won’t get dirty again or wet in the rain. She not only gives me a hammer and nails, she brings out some extra rope, too, in case I don’t have enough. Then I have to haul the water and actually wash all the linen. Helena takes the chickens out to the yard, one of the Krajewska boys comes to chase them, and Max creates a chain of hands to pass the wood up the ladder.