by Pam Jenoff
She forced herself to breathe more calmly now. “Then how are we to find them?” We. His mission had become her own. She waited for him to rebuke her that it was not her fight, that or it was too dangerous for her to become involved.
“I’m told that the resistance in the city operates through the churches. If I could make it to Kraków and try to contact the underground, they might have some idea as to the whereabouts of the partisans.”
Sam could not, Helena reflected, go to the city. Though his Polish had been good enough to pass muster with a country policeman, his dark complexion would make him suspect as a Jew immediately. More to the point, he did not have papers to pass as a Pole if he was stopped. Her fear rose up again. She could not lose him. She wanted to ask him not to do this. Wasn’t just surviving enough under the circumstances? But seeing the stubborn way his jaw set, the dogged expression in his eyes, she knew that it was futile. No matter how much they felt for each other, or how much she wanted to keep him safe, this was about something bigger than the two of them, and he would not give up.
“Helena?” Ruth’s voice came across the barnyard, getting closer.
“Stay down,” Helena hissed. She climbed from the cellar in time to see Ruth’s head appear in the barn.
“Did you get it?” Ruth was talking about the squirrel, she realized.
“The trap was empty. I must have been wrong.” Her guilt rose at having gotten Ruth’s hopes up for more food.
“What on earth are you doing down there? It’s filthy.”
Helena noticed then that her dress was black with soot. “I found some old tools of Tata’s,” she lied. “I’m seeing if there is anything useful.”
A second passed, then another. From below came a scuffling sound and Helena coughed loudly to muffle it. “Well, come inside when you’re done,” Ruth said before turning back toward the house.
“My sister,” she explained when Ruth had disappeared back in the house. She was grateful that Sam had not seen her.
“She sounds like you.”
Helena ignored the comment. “I could go for you,” she offered tentatively, returning to the original subject. “To the city, I mean.”
His eyes widened with horror. “No.” His tone was firmer than she had ever heard him use. “I mean, that is very kind of you to offer, but it is much too dangerous.”
“But I can get into the city easily. I know how and no one will question me.”
He put his hand on her shoulder. “Helena, no. It’s out of the question.”
She looked at him levelly. “So you’re saying no women are helping?”
He looked down, avoiding her gaze. “No,” he said, unable to lie to her. “There are women in these resistance movements, couriers and such. But they have experience.”
“No one trains for this sort of thing,” she countered. “I’m strong...”
“And you’re smart and resourceful,” he added.
She felt herself blush. “And I know how to get around the city without being detected. I can do this.”
“You would be really good at it,” he agreed, and she found herself sitting a bit straighter. “But I’ve already endangered you enough. This isn’t your problem.”
“Not my problem,” she repeated slowly, her voice thick with disbelief. She jumped to her feet, anger flaring. “How can you say that to me? After all that I have done, everything I have risked for you, you still don’t consider me an ally. You came here because you wanted to help. Don’t I have to do that, too?”
He did not answer and she could see him wrestling with the dilemma—the undeniable truth of what she had said versus his desire to keep her safe. “I can’t lose you. Please don’t do this.”
“I have to.” She could no longer hold back the emotion in her voice. “Don’t you see? If I don’t follow this through it will have all been for nothing.” It was not just about him anymore, she reflected. The fight had become hers, too. “You don’t have a choice,” she added. “I’m your only hope or else you stay here until the Germans find you or the weather gets too bad for me to reach you and you are cut off and starve.”
“Or the war ends,” he countered. But his face clouded; the idea of remaining here and leaving the fight to others was unbearable to him.
“I’m your only chance,” she insisted. He sat back, relenting silently. “So what is it you need me to do?”
“You’ve got to go to the city and make contact with the resistance. But I’m not certain where. You must watch out, too, for impostors. There are German spies who infiltrate the resistance and then turn them in to be killed. There are criminals who pretend to be partisans to take advantage of people.” She nodded, understanding then the magnitude of what she was about to undertake.
“What do you want me to do if I make contact?”
“Tell them that I am trying to reach the Slovak partisans.” He paused, looking around the cellar, then crawled over a bag of animal feed that stood in the corner. He ripped off a piece of the paper bag, then picked up a scrap of coal from the ground and used it to scribble something on the paper. He handed it to her. Reading the note, her eyes widened. “But that’s everything—your name, your exact location. If it fell into the wrong hands...”
He nodded. “Which is precisely why I am counting on you to make sure that it doesn’t.”
Despite Sam’s concerns, he was depending upon her. Helena’s chest tightened. “I can do it,” she said, forcing more bravado into her voice than she felt.
“I know you can,” he replied sincerely. “But goddammit, I wish you didn’t have to.” He took her hands in his. “I need you to understand something—intelligence work requires a cool head.” Intelligence work. Suddenly there was a name for what she was doing. Her shoulders squared with new purpose.
“I do have one lead,” he said slowly. “There’s a man, Alek Landesberg.” He spoke in a low voice now. “Landesberg is the head of the Jewish resistance. His group is small and tight-knit, and most importantly, he’s solid. He can be trusted.”
“So if I can find Alek, I give him the note, right?”
“It isn’t that simple. Landesberg is a shadow. It took us months just to learn his name.”
“But you said his group operates in Kraków.”
“It’s a big city. What are you going to do, just ask for him on the street?”
He had a point. “I’ll think of something. In the meantime, we have to get you back to the chapel.” She desperately wanted to keep him here, close to her. But he couldn’t stay in the cellar, when Michal and Ruth might find him. And it would be impossible here to build him a fire—there was no way she could keep him warm. They crept from the cellar and across the field and started up the hill silently. “Promise me that you won’t do anything stupid again.” He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, seeming to think better of it.
They moved swiftly across the field that separated the barn from the forest, clinging close to the cover of the trees. Her skin prickled as they neared the spot where they had encountered the policeman an hour earlier. “I can make it the rest of the way myself,” he said. His words stung. He did not need her as much as he once had to get around—but he needed her help more than ever. “You should go home.” They stood awkwardly in place, not wanting to part, but unable to go farther together. She wanted to kiss him, or at least touch him once more, but she did not dare.
“Promise me,” she said, “that if I do this for you, you will stay in the chapel. It’s too dangerous for you to go out again.” She watched the conflict roll over his face, torn between his inability to sit still and do nothing and the fact that he knew she was right. “Trust me,” she said.
“Fine. When?” he asked, the conflict apparent in his voice. He was urgent to make contact but did not want to press for more than she could give.
&
nbsp; “Soon,” she promised. “You should go.”
He looked puzzled at her changed demeanor. “Are you still angry?”
She shook her head. She did not want him to linger and risk his safety, or to ask more questions about her plans—questions to which she herself was not quite sure how to answer.
9
Ruth’s step was lighter than it had been in some time. Her basket was a bit fuller after recent trips to market with an unexpected boon of carrots, apples and nuts that would help make for a festive holiday dinner. Snow had begun to fall, pale white against the trees. She stuck out her tongue to catch flakes as she had done when she was a child. It tasted bitter now, like cold ash.
As Ruth reached the base of the hill where it rose behind their house, her twin’s face appeared in her mind. That morning when Helena left to go see Mama, her cheeks were flushed, eyes glowing in a way that made her plainness almost pretty. Envy tugged at the edges of Ruth’s stomach. Pretty had always been her thing. Helena had promised to return early to help with baths. But it was nearly midday now and Ruth wondered what “early” meant. Helena’s trips seemed to get longer each time. She had always enjoyed getting away, but she was different now, nearly giddy when she left. Was life at home really that bad?
Her mood more somber now, Ruth neared the house. A loud banging noise came from inside. Alarmed, she froze, her hand hovering above the doorknob. Then, hearing Michal’s shout, she flung the door open and stepped inside. “What’s wrong?” The table was piled high with dirty bowls and spoons that had not been there an hour ago, and it was covered with a fine coat of powder, as if it had begun to snow indoors, as well. The children had tried to make breakfast, she realized. A metal bowl had crashed to the floor, sending flour everywhere.
Annoyance quickly replaced her relief. “Let me,” she said, setting down her basket and taking the pitcher of milk Michal was holding. The pale blue porcelain had been one of Mama’s favorites and she had saved it for special occasions, not everyday cooking.
“Can I help?” Dorie had attempted to do her own hair and now her thick braids stuck out diagonally in either direction, like two hands pointing. The delicate slope of her nose was dusted with flour.
“Nie,” Ruth replied crossly. But Dorie reached for the pitcher, anyway, pulling it from Ruth’s hands. It fell to the floor, shattering and sending an arc of milk mixed with blue shards sailing across the floor. Ruth leaped back, yelping with dismay.
Suddenly the weight of it all crashed down upon her. “Get out!” The children looked up at her, eyes wide, mouths agape. It was Helena who lost patience and snapped on occasion, never Ruth. “Go!”
Michal started for the door. Dorie stumbled as she followed, her shorter leg buckling. She flailed forward, banging her chin on the table as she fell. “Oh!” Ruth cried, instantly remorseful. She rushed forward as a crumpled Dorie began to wail. “I’m sorry.” How could she have been so cruel?
“I broke Mama’s pitcher,” Dorie lamented, more despondent about her blunder than the fall.
“I’ll fix it,” Ruth lied, knowing that was impossible. She pictured Mama, tried to summon from her image a fraction of her patience and strength. “It’s just a pitcher. But are you hurt?” She examined Dorie’s face, which showed no sign of injury. Ruth wrapped her arms around the child, desperate to take away her pain and shame.
“Come on, Dor,” Michal said casually, extending his hand. Dorie dried her eyes. “Let’s go out back and play tag in the field. It’s your turn to be it.” He sensed that, with her pride wounded, she needed distraction, not sympathy.
Ignoring him, Dorie stood and reached for the broom. Ruth started to protest, then thought better of it. The child needed to feel as though she was helping in order to redeem herself from what she had done. “Well done,” Ruth said a few minutes later, though Dorie’s clumsy strokes had only spread the mess further. “I’ll finish up here. You go play.”
As the door closed behind them, Ruth picked up the broom. Porcelain crunched beneath her feet as she began to sweep the soppy mixture that had formed on the floor. There would be no milk for at least another day, Ruth fretted, glancing toward the cradle where Karolina slept undisturbed. The baby let out a contented half sigh, lost for a moment in a world that didn’t know hunger or worry.
Ruth paused, looking at the dishes strewn across the table. The children had been trying to help but they had wasted flour they could ill-afford to spare. Food seemed to disappear more quickly these days, loaves of bread and pieces of cheese diminishing as if being eaten by mice. Perhaps it was only her own hunger that made it seem as though their food supply was shrinking on its own.
Finished sweeping, Ruth grabbed a rag and knelt wearily to clean up the rest of the mess. She straightened, a sense of powerlessness overcoming her as she replayed Dorie’s fall in her mind. There was simply no way for her to protect them from all of the hurt and danger in life, even at home. But behind the house, the children played as though nothing had happened, their faces bathed in light. She smiled, relaxing slightly.
A scream jarred her from her thoughts. In the cradle by the fireplace where she slept during the day, Karolina had awoken from an early nap. Pulled from the breast too young due to Mama’s illness and forced to drink powdered milk that was hardly a substitute, she had been a colicky baby. But this was different. She thrashed about, face red. Was she sick again? Ruth lifted her, shuffling from side to side, but the child would not be comforted, so Ruth carried her into the bedroom and pulled back her diaper. Beneath the cloth, Karolina’s skin was red and chapped. Once Ruth would have made a cornstarch paste to soothe her bottom, but they could not spare the tiny bit they had left now.
Ruth’s eyes traveled to the dresser where Mama’s jar of lotion sat. It had run low; only a few drops remained and when it was gone there would be no more. But it would ease Karolina’s distress. Sadly, Ruth opened the jar and applied the last bit of cream to Karolina’s skin, then reclosed the diaper and picked the child up. Karolina rested her head on her shoulder and sighed, now content.
Inhaling the child’s powdery scent, a strange mix of affection and resentment washed over Ruth. Without you, I could have everything. Without you, I would have nothing. Had her own mother felt that way? Mama had seemed content to live this life. But now for the first time Ruth saw her as a woman, complete with her own private dreams and desires.
Ruth lay Karolina across the bed once more. She wiped off a bit of the breakfast porridge that Helena had missed on the child’s chin, then sighed. Ruth did not mean to be critical of her sister. But Helena brought chaos where calm was needed, playing with the children on the floor in loud ways that dirtied their clothes and made them restless. No one could do as well by the children as Mama had, though, and even Ruth’s own efforts were a poor second choice. Watching Karolina sleep, Ruth’s resolve to do better strengthened. They were being tested, she believed. God helped those who helped themselves, Mama always said. So they would persevere. Because surely if they did, God would not—could not—let anything bad happen to them.
There was a knock at the door. Ruth moved to answer it before the sound disturbed Karolina, peering through the crack in the way that had become her habit in recent weeks. Her breathing stopped. The policeman, Wojski, stood on the doorstep once more. She had pushed the memory of his strange visit from her mind. When the children had asked, she’d said only that the policeman was looking for someone, hoping they would not speak of it again. She had not mentioned it to Helena, not wanting to hear her views on how she would have handled it differently. It was in the past, she’d told herself.
Yet here he was. Reluctantly she opened the door, willing herself to breathe normally. “Dzie´n dobry, pani,” he said. “Everyone is well now, I presume?” Not waiting for her to respond, the policeman stepped forward. She moved aside, knowing that she did not dare refuse him access. He removed his hat, re
vealing a wide swath of bald scalp through the gray strands he’d attempted to comb over it. The stale odor of cheap cologne hung unpleasantly around him.
“Herbata?” She offered tea, hoping to conceal her nervousness. He peered around the cottage, as though searching for something, not bothering to conceal his interest.
Over the man’s shoulder, Ruth could see Michal and Dorie through the window, oblivious to what was going on inside. Had the policeman come from another direction he might have seen them playing out back, but thankfully it seemed he had not. She looked desperately toward the woods, willing Helena to magically appear. But her sister would be gone for some time yet.
She moved into the kitchen, trying to steer the policeman’s gaze from the back window so he would not notice the children. “I haven’t seen anyone like the men you described,” she offered, eager to give him what he wanted so he would leave quickly. On the stove behind the policeman, the kettle was nearly boiling. She fought the urge to reach over and turn it off, not wanting to draw his attention toward the window.
But he shook his head. “It’s another matter, I’m afraid.” Her breath caught. What could he possibly want now? “We’ve also had reports of hoarding.” Ruth’s eyes traveled to her basket containing the items she had purchased at market. She had heard stories of what happened to those who squirreled away food beyond what the ration cards permitted. But they had taken nothing extra. “I’ve been sent to investigate suspects.”
His words reverberated in her mind. Investigate suspects. What did he mean to do? “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
The kettle was still on, the water boiling to a fever pitch. Steam shot forth, forming a cloud over the policeman’s shoulder. In a moment it would begin to whistle. With a deft movement, Ruth reached behind him. Her arm touched his waist and his eyebrows rose, misreading her intentions. She flicked the stove off and turned back to face him.