The Forest of Vanishing Stars

by Kristin Harmel

  She found herself thinking of the last time she’d slept under a real roof. She had been just two years old when Jerusza took her, and perhaps it was the sudden, drastic change that had ensured some of her memories of her life before the woods were frozen in her mind forever. She could see moments like distant photographs, always just beyond her reach. Her mother’s dark curls. The sharp angles of her bedroom walls. The smooth lines of her father’s face. She traced those lines now, a familiar rhythm, and she fell asleep still thinking of the parents she had once known, a world and a lifetime away.

  Long before dawn, she rose and made her way in silence down the ladder to the church’s vestibule, then down to the basement, where the girl was hidden. Sister Maria Andrzeja was there with her, fast asleep in a chair beside the child’s small cot. The little girl was asleep, too, her chest rising and falling steadily, and Yona could see that some of the color had returned to her cheeks. If they could stave off infection, she might well pull through. But then what? Where would the poor child go?

  Yona laid a hand on Anka’s forehead and was heartened to find it warm but not hot. She was a fighter, even if she didn’t know it yet. But she would need more to survive, the kind of care that Jerusza had taught Yona, and the nun had mentioned that the sisterhood’s supplies of medicinal herbs were running low.

  Yona slipped out before Sister Maria Andrzeja awoke, making her way out of the church and into the still, predawn morning. The nun would likely have told her it wasn’t safe to venture into the forest, but she didn’t know that Yona could move with the wind and disappear into the trees. She didn’t know that without the forest, Yona couldn’t breathe.

  The setting moon was still bright and full, lighting her way, though the horizon hadn’t yet begun to pale. Not a single light burned in the village; not a candle flickered. In the stillness, it felt deserted, otherworldly. In the forest, even if you couldn’t see them, you could always hear the animals moving, burrowing, settling, awakening. Here, though, it was as if the whole town were holding its breath, waiting.

  As she made her way toward the town’s edge, which blurred with the forest, she saw two German soldiers at a distance, smoking on a street corner, the tips of their cigarettes tiny sparks in the darkness. She hugged the shadows, moving in silence, and just before she reached the comfort of the trees, she spotted a dozen more young soldiers in a cluster, all of them wearing swastikas on red bands around their arms. She drew closer, but they didn’t notice her. She, however, could hear them talking in low, somber tones. She strained to hear what they were saying, but they were moving away, and she dared not follow. A chill ran through her as she finally moved into the trees and saw hundreds of bullet casings on the ground, and a huge swath of freshly turned dirt several yards away. It took her a few seconds to realize it could only be a mass grave, and she choked on the bile that rose suddenly in her throat. She could almost hear the spirits reaching out to her, begging her for help. Her heart thudding, she turned, her eyes blurred with tears, and ran for the woods.

  In the next hour, as dawn arrived reluctantly, she gathered yarrow, linden flowers, burdock, and Saint-John’s-wort, greeted the awakening birds like old friends, picked ripe berries and fat porcinis to eat, and, with her knife and a bit of quiet stillness, killed a fat hare to make a rich soup for the nun and the child. She had seen it in their faces; both were starving. The little girl, in particular, would not survive without sustenance. She tucked the supplies into the deep pockets of her dress.

  By the time she slipped back into town, the streets were beginning to awaken, but she was accustomed to being invisible. She hugged the shadows, keeping her head down. She was nobody, nothing, a nondescript woman from the village out on her morning errands.

  “Sie!” A harsh German bark cut through the quiet morning, and she was careful not to react too quickly. Perhaps he wasn’t addressing her. “Halt!” he added.

  Slowly, she raised her gaze, keeping her expression neutral, her eyes level and calm. “Dobraj ranicy,” she said calmly. The German staring at her from a few feet away was older, at least in his forties or early fifties, and his uniform was different from the ones she had seen on the younger men—an officer, she guessed. Carefully, she added with deference, “Guten morgen.” She spoke the German words slowly, uncertainly, as if she had just learned them.

  “What are you doing?” he asked in uncertain Belorussian, his emphasis landing on incorrect syllables, his pronunciation all wrong. She guessed, from the way he retrieved the phrase so handily, that he’d been here for a while, but that he didn’t have the intelligence or depth to have truly grasped the new language.

  “Coming from my mother’s house.” She was glad she had hidden the things she’d brought from the forest in the folds of her dress, for how would she explain them?

  “So early?”

  “I sleep there sometimes when she is afraid. And lately, you see, she is afraid all the time.”

  The German studied her. She stared back, refusing to blink. Finally, he lowered his gaze, and when he looked at her again, his eyes were cold, steely. “And your mother? Where exactly does she live?”

  “Gesia Street,” she answered calmly. She had taken note of a street name just on the edge of town in case she needed it. “In the small house with the blue shutters. She painted them herself when I was small, after my father died. She tends the roses in the garden each day, but they haven’t bloomed yet this year. Every night, she falls to her knees and asks God when he will send the flowers.”

  She continued to stare at him as he attempted to translate her long string of Belorussian words. Jerusza had taught her that she should never deceive people if she could help it, but that if ever she was cornered, staying calm and spinning a story with useless details was the best way to sell a tale. Someone trying to avoid the truth would naturally speak less, not more. Season the story with meaningless facts and it immediately became more palatable. The fact that the officer was struggling with the language simply made the trick that much more effective.

  “Well. You should not be out so early,” he said, taking a step back, effectively releasing her. And then, as he studied her, something in his face changed. He took a step closer again, and her pulse began to race. Had she slipped up somehow? Still, she stared him down silently, refusing to drop her gaze, for to look away would be to signal fear. She had the feeling that this would be the kind of man who would only be encouraged by a whiff of it.

  “Your eyes,” he murmured at last. “One blue, and one green…”

  She blinked. It wasn’t what she had expected him to say, and the observation threw her for a few seconds. Her eyes were her greatest weakness, the one thing that kept her from blending in if someone got too close. She’d nearly forgotten; it had been a long time since anyone had made a point of mentioning them. “Yes, that’s correct,” she said after a moment.

  When he still didn’t say anything, she finally looked reluctantly back up. He searched her eyes again. “It’s just that…” He stopped and shook his head. “Nothing. I’m being foolish. You are Polish, of course, yes? Or Belorussian or whatever you people are right now? Your borders change so often, I can’t keep track.”

  Yona nodded.

  “Of course you are,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. “Of course. Well, be on your way.” And then, abruptly, he turned and walked away from her. She didn’t linger, for she didn’t want him to change his mind. As she hurried away, his strange reaction spun in her mind.

  She walked briskly to the church, head down, and let herself in through the same door in the back she’d slipped out of a few hours before. She went straight to the basement, where she found Sister Maria Andrzeja tending to Anka, whose eyes were still closed.

  She turned as Yona entered, but her expression was guarded. “I thought you’d left us.”

  “No.” Yona withdrew the hare, the mushrooms, and the fruit, along with the yarrow and herbs. “The girl needed medicine to fight her fever. And I t
hought you might be hungry.”

  The nun stared at the hare for a long time before looking back up at Yona, her eyes wide. “You went to the forest?”

  Yona nodded.

  “That was foolish. They execute people who look as though they are sneaking around, you know. You might well have been caught.”

  Yona didn’t mention that she almost had been. “You need food. I can see it on your face. You and the girl.”

  The nun took a deep breath. “It is not just me. There are others, too. We are eight nuns altogether, and there’s a priest on the grounds as well.”

  “Then I will return to the forest tonight and bring back more.”

  “No. Absolutely not. It’s far too dangerous.” The nun hesitated, eyeing the hare again. “But tonight, we will eat together. Thank you, Yona. But please, do not risk this again.”

  Yona bowed her head. How could she tell the nun that running to the forest hadn’t felt like a risk at all? It was the return to the church that had felt like a danger.

  * * *

  That evening, one of the nuns, a woman named Sister Maria Imelda, stayed with a sleeping Anka, while the others gathered around a narrow, splintered table in the small wooden house behind the church. A slender woman with sloping shoulders and graying hair who went by Sister Maria Teresa had prepared a rich hare and potato soup, and another nun, the youngest among them, a blond woman with big blue eyes and a tiny, delicate nose, had baked bread that, though it smelled like wood shavings, made Yona’s mouth water.

  “A feast,” murmured Mother Bernardyna, the gray-haired, plump nun with the kind eyes who seemed to be in charge. “We are grateful, Yona. You have come from the Nalibocka Forest?”

  Yona nodded, and the nuns around the table—six of them, including Sister Maria Andrzeja, who sat just beside her—all regarded her curiously. But there was no judgment in any of their gazes, and for the first time, Yona felt as if she was surrounded by people who saw her for what she was and accepted it. She had not expected that on the grounds of a Catholic church.

  “And Sister Maria Andrzeja says that you are Jewish?” the older nun continued, her expression not changing.

  Yona gave Sister Maria Andrzeja a look. “I am,” Yona said cautiously, and around the table, there were only nods of understanding, and a few smiles. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to bring danger to your doorstep by being here. I understand how things are. If you would prefer I leave…”

  Sister Maria Teresa began to bring bowls of steaming soup to the table, setting one down in front of Yona first before serving the other nuns. “Dear, the danger is already at our door. And you are always welcome here.”

  “We have helped many like you,” said the blond nun, though one of the older women hushed her.

  “And yet the lives the Germans have taken far outweigh those we’ve saved,” Mother Bernardyna said softly, and the other nuns sobered. “We pray each day for an end to the terror, but the murders continue.” She looked around at each of the nuns, her gaze finally settling again on Yona as Sister Maria Teresa delivered the final bowls of soup and sat down herself.

  Together, the nuns said grace in Latin, while Yona bowed her head and wondered if God could hear them. “Benedíc nos Dómine et haec Túa dóna quae de Túa largitáte súmus sumptúri. Per Chrístum Dóminum nóstrum. Ámen.”

  When the prayer had ended, Yona looked up to see tears in Mother Bernardyna’s eyes. “I’m afraid I have news,” the older nun said.

  “Yes?” Sister Maria Andrzeja’s voice was hollow, and it seemed to echo in the sudden quiet.

  “The Germans have arrested a hundred villagers,” Mother Bernardyna said, her voice calm, even. “They are to be executed.”

  Yona’s gasp seemed to pierce the room, and suddenly, all of the nuns’ eyes were on her. When no one said anything, she finally whispered, “But why?”

  Mother Bernardyna glanced at Sister Maria Andrzeja before looking back at Yona. “There was a German soldier ambushed on the outskirts of town last week and beaten senseless. The Germans have made it very clear in the past that there will be consequences for such things.”

  The words settled over Yona, and she swallowed hard, her throat dry. “So they plan to kill a hundred people?”

  “As a warning.” Sister Maria Andrzeja’s voice was flat. “Men and women, old and young. Chosen at random.”

  “But… we can’t let that happen.”

  The older nun smiled gently at her. “Dear girl, your heart is in the right place, but it is not your battle to fight.”

  “But we can’t just let them murder innocent people,” Yona protested. “There must be something we can do.” She watched as Mother Bernardyna and Sister Maria Andrzeja exchanged looks again, speaking volumes in the silence. “What is it?” she asked when no one said anything.

  “In the morning, I will go speak with the German commander,” Mother Bernardyna said after a long, heavy silence.

  “But if he doesn’t listen…” Yona’s voice trailed off in desperation. She couldn’t imagine that the kind of man who would order the execution of a hundred innocent people would be swayed by the pleas of a nun.

  “That is why we must pray that he will.” The older nun’s tone was firm. She held Yona’s gaze for a long time and then smiled sadly. “I hope you will pray for us, too, Yona. Now eat, everyone, before the soup grows cold.”

  But no one moved to touch the food, and on the table before them, the steam stopped rising, the soup cooled, and an uneasy silence descended once again.

  * * *

  In the church basement early the next morning, Anka awoke, and Yona gave her some linden tea to reduce pain and inflammation. Then, as Sister Maria Andrzeja tended to the child’s wounds, humming a haunting tune to herself, Yona ground the rest of the herbs and tied them up in cloth bags to give to the farmer’s wife on the edge of town who had agreed to take the girl in. “She is a good woman,” Sister Maria Andrzeja said to Yona after Anka had fallen back asleep. “She knows people who can move the child. She will keep her safe.” But Yona knew as well as the nun did that there was no guarantee of safety anywhere in Poland, perhaps in all of Europe.

  “And what about you?” Yona asked softly. “Who will keep you safe? What if Mother Bernardyna’s plan to talk with the German officer today puts all of you in danger?”

  Sister Maria Andrzeja didn’t say anything.

  “Who will protect you?” Yona asked into the silence.

  “We believe in God’s plan,” the nun said after a long time. “And if that plan eventually means the end of our time on earth, we believe in heaven. And we believe that by his death and resurrection, Jesus has opened that heaven to us. We believe that in heaven, we will find paradise beyond what we can imagine. In heaven, we will all meet again.”

  Yona felt a surge of despair. “But you don’t believe Jews get to go there, too, do you?” She was thinking of little Chana, of the murdered families of the group in the woods, and even of Jerusza. What was on the other side for them if heaven was reserved only for those who worshipped Jesus?

  “Of course I do.” Sister Maria Andrzeja’s answer was firm, unequivocal, and Yona was surprised to feel tears in her own eyes as the nun went on. “I believe that Jews who live good and holy lives will achieve salvation, because they, too, are following the light of God.”

  “I thought Catholics believed that people must accept Jesus to find salvation.”

  The nun smiled slightly. “I can see you are well-read in your theology, Yona. And I wish I had a better answer for you about how exactly God works. But deep within us lies the reality of God. Find that reality, hold fast to it, and I believe that those of us who live good lives in his image will be reunited in the afterlife.” She paused and put her hands over Yona’s. Her palms were warm, reassuring. “Now go, my child. Go before it’s too late. The woman who will protect her is Maja Yarashuk, one of our parishioners. You will know her by the scar on her cheek, in the shape of a cross. Her husband was killed by
the Germans, and she fiercely opposes them. She lives on the eastern edge of the town, not far from here, in a farmhouse painted white, with the window frames painted red, the colors of the Polish flag. There is a weather vane with an eagle, and the eagle is missing a portion of its left wing. That is how you will know you are in the right place. When she asks who sent you, tell her ‘the Siberian iris,’ and she will know it was me.”

  “The Siberian iris?”

  Sister Maria Andrzeja smiled. “My very favorite flower, in the most glorious shade of blue.” For a second, her gaze was far off, but then she seemed to snap back to the present. “Wait!” she exclaimed before hurrying away, returning a moment later with a handful of documents. “My identity papers,” she said, thrusting them at Yona. “They might be of use to you.”

  Yona took a step back. “I can’t take them from you. What if you need them?”

  “I will not,” the nun said firmly, reaching for Yona’s hands and placing the papers there before Yona could pull away again. “I won’t be going anywhere but this church, and the others will vouch for me. But they might help you if you’re stopped on the way to deliver the child.” Yona glanced down and saw on top an identity card with the nun’s picture. In it, she was younger, and without her nun’s habit she looked like a different person altogether. Her hair was as dark as Yona’s, and though their faces were contoured differently, they were papers that might work on first pass.

  Yona hesitated only a second more before nodding, taking the papers, and slipping them into her pocket with a murmur of gratitude. “I’ll bring them back,” she promised.

  “Don’t.” The nun smiled. “After you’ve dropped Anka off, you must go, Yona. Things are happening here, bad things.”

  “But—” Yona began to protest, but she was interrupted by Anka, who moaned in her sleep.

  “It’s time,” Sister Maria Andrzeja said.

  She didn’t wait for Yona’s reply; instead, she shook the child gently out of her slumber. As Anka blinked up at them, Sister Maria Andrzeja explained, her tone impossibly light, that Yona would take her to a place where she would heal and be safe until the end of the war. Anka looked uncertain, but when Sister Maria Andrzeja bent to kiss her forehead, she lifted her head and kissed the nun on both cheeks. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for saving me.”