by Pam Jenoff
“Shall we walk?” she asked, speaking a bit more quickly than usual. Their courtship had been unremarkable, consisting mostly of strolls by the stream when the weather permitted it. “Or would you prefer to come in and warm up by the fire?” He did not answer but peered uneasily over her shoulder. It was the others, she decided. Piotr was an only child and more comfortable around a calf or foal than human little ones.
Ruth put on her cape and followed him outside in the direction of the stream. The water was low, pulled back to reveal dry muddy banks littered with pebbles and branches. A mossy smell rose from the muck. The stream would swell again when the snows came and melted, then rise perilously with the spring rain showers. She pointed to a bend in the stream, just beyond the edge of their property. “Helena says that is a fine place for catching trout. Perhaps in the spring...”
Piotr stopped and turned to her abruptly. “I can’t. That is, my father doesn’t want me to come anymore.” He faltered, face reddening like a beet.
“I don’t understand.” Her stomach burned ominously.
“Things are going so poorly with the farm. And now there are the quotas.” He was referring to the percentage that the Germans now exacted from each farmer’s yield. The sisters’ own garden was too small to offer much, but from a farm like Piotr’s, the demand would be severe. “There isn’t enough to support a family.”
It was a lie, of course—she and Helena managed to feed the children with so much less. But he was offering it as a reason—an excuse, really—as to why they could not go forward. Ruth watched him, contemplating what to do, which smile or touch might cajole him to change his mind. She’d learned from observing Mama how to charm a man into doing what she wanted. A few minutes ago he was just an ordinary boy; now he was all she had, and she was suddenly desperate to keep him.
“The war has just made things so difficult,” Piotr began again. He broke off and thrust the scarf in her direction so quickly that it fell to the ground, then he stomped off in the opposite direction with a gait too clumsy to be a run.
She took a step forward, stumbling over a tree root. “Piotr!” Her voice echoed against the stillness of the trees. It was not until he had disappeared across the field that she realized he would not be coming again.
Staring at the emptiness before her, so new and yet so permanent, Ruth recalled how just a week earlier he had kissed her behind the barn. She had pushed his fumbling hands away, partly because it was the right thing to do, and also because once she gave him that, he would no longer want her. But he had left her, anyway. Had Piotr broken off things because she had let him go too far, or because she had stopped him?
Neither, she decided now, gazing out the window at the very spot where their courtship had ended. It had not been about sex, but money. Piotr’s family just didn’t want to be saddled with supporting so many children who were not their own. Piotr’s mother had undoubtedly told him to get rid of dead wood while he still had the chance, that Ruth and her family would never be anything but a burden. But if Piotr had been a stronger man, he would have stayed in spite of his mother’s opinion—and for that weakness Ruth hated him most of all.
Piotr had begun courting the liveryman’s daughter, beautiful and unencumbered by anyone, just three weeks later, confirming Ruth’s suspicions. Her cheeks burned now as she relived the rejection. It wasn’t so much Piotr she missed, Ruth reflected. She hadn’t really wanted to go live in his big cold house on the other side of town, and there was a roughness to his touch that had made her dread what lay ahead. No, it was the idea of him, the now-gone promise of having a place secured, which filled her with a sense of loss.
Worst of all that day, she’d had to return to the house to face Helena. Though she had not said a word, her sister’s expression indicated that she’d known it would end poorly all along. She did not want to accept Helena’s sympathy—or acknowledge the fact that they were the same again, alone without anyone.
There was a knock at the door. Ruth started, setting down her coffee cup so quickly that a bit splashed high over the edge onto the table. No one came calling unannounced, or at all these days. For a fleeting second she thought that it might be Piotr, conjured from her thoughts. Perhaps he had come to beg her forgiveness and tell her that he had made a mistake. She would take him back, if his apology was sincere, although not right away. She had given things too easily before, a mistake she did not intend to repeat. But of course, Piotr was off fighting somewhere. Helena, she decided. She must have come back for something and forgotten her key—again.
Ruth opened the door, then stepped back at the sight of an unfamiliar woman whose dark hair was streaked with silver. Though she did not wear the yellow star, something about her shawl suggested that she was a Jew, from a neighboring village, perhaps. “Tak?”
The woman did not speak, but looked over Ruth’s shoulder, assessing the house, which despite its modest size and furnishings must have seemed luxurious. Ruth cringed, wondering if for a moment the woman would ask for food or money, or worse yet, shelter. They had nothing extra to spare and letting the woman in would surely invite trouble. She noticed that the woman wore no gloves or hat, but seemed oblivious to the cold. “Can I help you?” Ruth asked more softly. Karolina toddled up behind her, tugging at the hem of her dress. Ruth lifted her protectively.
“My child,” the woman croaked, her voice younger than her careworn face might have suggested. Was the woman deluded and thinking that Karolina was hers? Ruth hugged the child tighter to her breast. “I have a little girl.” The woman held her hand up to just below her waist. “Wearing a red plaid scarf with an eagle on it. Have you seen her?”
For a moment, Ruth thought she must have misunderstood, for who misplaced a child? But the woman’s eyes, ringed with circles from her not having slept or rested in her search, were sincere. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.” She eyed the woman. She had only seen Jews from afar, dark, mysterious creatures that seemed to confirm Father Dominik’s admonitions in his sermons that they were shrewd and cunning and drank the blood of Christian infants. But the woman before her just looked like any mother, tired and bedraggled and desperate.
“They said a camp...” the woman began feebly, and before Ruth could ask, the woman turned and started off across the hill.
“I’m sorry,” Ruth said again into the empty space before her, with more feeling than she had expected. Though the woman might look different, a child was a child, and Ruth could not help but pity her. Still, Ruth had her own family to think about and could not afford to become involved.
She closed the door and sat down with Karolina on her lap, shaken by the lingering image of the woman’s face. They knew families that had lost children in the traditional sense, born too small or taken by influenza or some other illness—not the odd way this woman had just described. She had seen the grieving mothers at market with their hollow eyes, disbelieving, despite the odds, that it had happened to them. The merchants seemed to speak softly and cut more generously for those women, but other villagers stepped back, as if the loss might somehow be contagious. Ruth’s throat tightened. She would take the squabbling and competition and hardships of a large family if it meant that they were safe—and together.
Suddenly anxious, Ruth rapped on the window, gesturing for Michal and Dorie to come inside. “Take your boots off,” she instructed, closing the door quickly behind them. “I’ll warm some milk.” As she set Karolina in her high chair, she hoped they would not ask about the woman.
The children darted beneath the table and around the chairs, as though the colder weather had made them unusually restless. “Where’s Helena?” Dorie asked, seeming to notice her sister’s absence for the first time.
“She’s gone to the city,” Ruth replied absently.
“Nooo!” the child wailed, her face seeming to crumple. She swung her braids from side to side, tears streaming down her cheeks.
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Ruth stopped in surprise, milk pitcher suspended midair. The children seldom noticed, much less minded, Helena’s absences. She set the pitcher down and knelt. “There, there,” she soothed, stroking Dorie’s hair. The child’s breath was improbably sweet like cinnamon. “She’ll be back by tonight. You’ll see. She’s only gone to visit Mama.” She usually refrained from mentioning their mother, not wanting to remind the children and cause them distress or answer their many questions. But now she added the information, hoping it would bring further plausibility to her explanation of Helena’s absence.
“You know Christmas is coming,” Ruth offered, trying to change the subject.
“Are we having a tree?” Michal asked.
“I don’t think so, darling,” Ruth said, a knife going through her as she watched his face fall. It seemed frivolous, cutting down a pine tree when there was so much else to worry about. “But we’ll have a lovely meal and all of the songs and stories.”
“And Mama?” Dorie looked up hopefully, eyes brightening. “Will she be back for Christmas, too? Did Helena go to get her?” Ruth understood then that for some reason today, Dorie had equated Helena’s going to the city with Mama’s disappearance, a trip was taken in one direction only. She imagined that Helena, too, wasn’t coming back.
“Mama,” Karolina repeated absently, asking for the mother she surely could not remember.
Inwardly, Ruth crumbled. This was the conversation she had been avoiding. “No,” she said gently, knowing that there was no way to avoid breaking Dorie’s heart again. She pushed a cup of milk toward her sister. “Mama needs to stay in the hospital where there are doctors and medicine that can make her feel better.”
“Just like we were playing outside, Dor,” Michal offered. Ruth braced herself for further questions about their mother’s recovery, tried to anticipate and come up with answers that were not quite lies but spared the child from the truth. But Dorie turned away and began playing with her rag doll on the floor.
“What were you playing outside?” Ruth asked, grateful to Michal for redirecting the conversation. When she and Helena were little, theirs were simple pretend games, like house and school. Ruth was always the mother or the teacher, taking charge in a way that now seemed prophetic.
“Hospital,” Michal replied. “Dorie’s the nurse. I was the patient and Dorie cured me.” She wondered what the unseen hospital life must look like in his mind.
“Doctor,” his little sister corrected quickly. “I’m going to become a doctor for real.”
Ruth started to tell Dorie that to be a doctor you need to go to school and then college, which would take money they did not have. That even under better circumstances, it would be nearly impossible for a woman. But Dorie’s eyes shone at the idea, a childlike dream not yet deterred by the war or realities of their situation, and Ruth would not take that from her. “That sounds wonderful.”
Dorie’s expression dampened. “Ruti, what are Nazis?” she asked, shifting topics without warning.
“Why do you ask?”
“I heard you talking to Helena about them.” Inwardly, Ruth sighed. She already knew better than to speak in front of Michal about matters from which she wanted to shield the children. But Dorie was getting older now, and speaking guardedly or spelling out words did not work anymore.
“They’re Germans, darling—German soldiers.” The last word—too good for them, really—stuck in her throat.
“Why have they come?” Dorie had a need to know why things were a certain way, how they worked, to scratch beneath the surface. It was a fierce intellect that in another time and place might have been nurtured to greatness. But Ruth did not know how to channel it, and after taking care of their basic survival needs, she seldom had the energy.
Ruth stopped, stymied by the impossibility of explaining war to children. Why indeed? “They want to be in charge. It’s all about politics and government. But they haven’t come to Biekowice so they won’t bother us.”
“But what about the Garzels?” Dorie had been outside playing when she and Helena had spoken of their neighbors’ disappearance. Had Helena told her about it? “Did the Germans make them leave the village?” Dorie persisted.
“Never you mind about the Garzels. Tend your own garden, as Mama used to say.” Karolina giggled from her high chair, as though Ruth had said something funny. Ruth wiped the milk that had dribbled onto her chin, then picked her up and set her on the floor by the fire.
Dorie’s forehead lifted in that way Ruth’s used to, before Mama had cautioned it would leave wrinkles. “But it’s winter,” she said. “The garden has gone all withery.”
Ruth smiled at the child’s literal interpretation. “Not an actual garden, silly. It means that we should take care of our own family and our own business instead of worrying about what others are doing.”
“Okay.” Dorie downed her milk with a gulp, then hopped down and joined Karolina playing blocks.
“And what about Mama?” Michal asked, swiping aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Are the Germans in Kraków, too?”
On this point she could not lie. “Yes, they are. But the hospital is safe.”
“Good.” Michal’s voice was trusting, devoid of suspicion. He drank his milk, seemingly satisfied.
Ruth noticed then that the button at his collar had fallen off. She reached out to examine it. “If you change into your other shirt and bring me this one I can fix it for you.” As Michal disappeared into the bedroom, she went to the kitchen to fetch her sewing kit.
There was another knock at the door. Ruth turned. The Jewish woman must have come back, like one of the persistent Roma beggars that passed through the village each spring, so used to being told “no” that they had almost become immune. Had she not believed that Ruth did not know where her child had gone, or was she seeking something else now, money perhaps or food?
Ruth walked to the door and started to open it to tell the woman that she could not help her. Then she stopped, halted by an unseen hand. She peered through the crack in the door. It was not the Jewish woman, but a strange man in uniform. She inhaled sharply. Had the Nazis finally come to Biekowice? No, not a German, she realized, taking in the insignia on his chest. He was a policeman from My´slenice. But she was hardly relieved. Biekowice had no police force of its own, and the uniformed officers from the regional headquarters seldom ventured into the village. For a minute, she considered not answering. But he could see through the window that the fire blazed merrily, belying the fact that someone was home.
She swiveled back. The girls were on the floor, quiet and obscured from sight at the window. “To the loft,” Ruth whispered low and urgent over her shoulder to Michal, who, hearing the knock, had stuck his head out from the bedroom. She waved her hand frantically behind her. She could not imagine what the policeman wanted, but she sensed it best they not be seen. She picked up Karolina and threw her at Michal, whose eyes widened. “Take Dorie, too, and don’t make a sound.” Too surprised to question her order, he obeyed.
She kicked Karolina’s blocks under a chair with her foot, then turned back to the door and opened it, heart pounding. “D-dzie´n dobry,” she managed. The man was fortyish and scarcely taller than her, with a barrel chest and paunched midsection.
“I’m Sergeant Wojski, from the Voivoda police department,” he puffed. He did not bother with formalities, but spoke to her in familiar language, asserting his power. Sergeant. Under other circumstances, the man would be a desk clerk. But the war had given power to those who were most willing to cooperate, not those who were most fit.
He did not produce credentials, but took a step forward. Ruth held up her hand, stopping him. “There’s illness in the house,” she lied, not yielding. He retreated to the doorstep. “Can I help you?”
“Let me speak to your husband,” he instructed in a voi
ce too firm to be called a request.
She hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s just me and my sister.” The children had been out of sight, but she prayed he had not heard them before knocking. There were records of the whole family, including the children, if one looked in the provincial office. It seemed wise, though, not to draw attention to the youngsters, living here without parents—especially Michal, who was as tall as a sixteen-year-old. In a flash, she imagined him conscripted to help with the war effort, given one of the awful jobs that Helena had said were relegated to the youngest, like scampering to the front lines to collect the unexploded shells.
“Your parents?” Clearly the notion of a woman living alone here was unfathomable.
“Died,” she blurted out. She felt instantly guilty. Mama was alive, but it seemed like the safest thing to say, and correcting it now would just raise more questions.
“Papers?” the man asked, questions staccato and unrelenting. As he extended his hand, a glint of something silver flashed about his wrist. A watch. Even from a distance she could tell it was expensive, too grand for someone of his station, and she wondered where he had gotten it.
She turned toward the fireplace, feeling the man’s eyes on her as she moved, and pulled from her bag her kennkarte, the identification card she had been issued with the rest of the family shortly after the start of the war. She handed it to the man, fingers trembling. He shook his head. “I want your parents’ papers.” The Germans, and the police on their behalf, seemed more concerned with those who could not be accounted for, worried that they might have disappeared into hiding.
Ruth went to the box in the kitchen where Mama had kept the important papers. She pulled out the coroner’s certificate denoting Tata’s death, willing her hands not to shake as she turned it over. “My mother’s papers have not come yet from the hospital.” She prayed he would not ask which one.