The Winter Guest

by Pam Jenoff

  Behind the bar a man looked up at her and she realized she was supposed to ask for something to drink. “Kawa, prosz˛e,” she requested. It was the cheapest thing she could think of to order.

  He waved toward the tables with disinterest. “Seat yourself anywhere.” She slid onto a wood bench along one of the walls and scanned the room, then took a sip from the cup of black coffee a waiter placed in front of her. What now?

  A man she had not seen arrive slid onto the bench beside her. As he pressed swiftly against her side, she stifled a gasp. He kissed her on the cheek, his breath a mix of tobacco and liquor reminiscent of Tata’s. Before she could react, he did the same on the other side. “Oh!” she exclaimed in surprise.

  The waiter returned and set a menu in front of her. “Dzi˛eki, but I don’t want anything to eat.”

  “I think you do,” the voice beside her said, sure and firm. Without looking up, she knew she had found someone who could help her find the resistance.

  “Some bread, please,” she said, too nervous to read the menu.

  “I’ll have the fish,” the stranger added. “Put your arm around me,” he instructed when the waiter had gone. The wool of his coat was scratchy beneath her palm as she complied. There was something calming and sure about his voice that made her obey, without questioning the odd command.

  “I’m looking for the resistance.”

  “Shh!” She noticed for the first time a man sitting across the room watching them with interest, and understood then the fiction of being a couple. “You know you could be killed just for saying that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then don’t say it again.” She studied him. He was five, maybe six years older than her, with pale hair and a trim goatee. “I’m the one you’re looking for.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Someone told me you were asking for me at the cathedral.” So the man who had taken the coin had kept his word. “I didn’t think he’d told you where to find me, though.”

  “He didn’t.”

  “Then how... Never mind.” He pulled back, then stared at her expectantly. “What do you need?”

  She hesitated. Now that she had found him, she was suddenly at a loss for words. “My name is Helena Nowak. I’m from Biekowice and I need to pass on a message to the partisans through the resistance. Do you have a name?”

  “I do. Does it matter?” His words came out in short bursts, as if unable to spare more.

  “I suppose not. But how do I know you can help?”

  “You don’t. You’ll just have to trust.” Trust. Could there have been a stranger word in these times? “I’m Alek. Alek Landesberg.” Her jaw dropped slightly. So she had found him, after all. “Anyway, you wanted to make contact and I don’t have a lot of time. What do you want?”

  She inhaled, then took the leap. “There’s an American soldier and he needs help.”

  “There was an American soldier,” he interjected, cutting her off again. “He was captured, unfortunately.”

  Panic seized Helena. Had something happened to Sam? But the stranger could not possibly be talking about Sam, she realized. She had just left him. One of Sam’s crewmates must have been found, after all. “Not that soldier. Another one.” Alek blinked, trying without success to disguise his shock. “He’s trying to make contact with the partisans in Czechoslovakia.”

  Alek raised his hand slightly off the table, signaling silence as the waiter reappeared. He twirled a match between his fingers as the waiter set down a plate of bread and smoked fish in front of them. Despite the faintly sour smell the mottled fish gave off, Helena’s mouth salivated. She averted her eyes.

  He pushed the plate toward her with a nod. “You can eat.”

  She thought of the few coins she carried with her when she traveled; surely they would not be enough. “But I don’t have money.”

  “Don’t worry, I can pay.” She took a bite, the rich savory taste that filled her mouth a forgotten dream. “Where is he?”

  Now it was Helena’s turn to pause. Once she gave him Sam’s location, there was no turning back. She passed him the note Sam had scribbled.

  He took the note and scanned it. Then with one swift gesture, he struck the match under the table and raised the flame to the paper. “What is it that you want me to do?”

  “Get him out of there and over the border.” Helena forced the quiver from her voice.

  “That’s it?” He eyed her levelly. “Do you have any idea what kind of risk that would entail to our operations? I don’t have time to help you. We’ve got hundreds of men fighting for our cause in the woods, Polish men in need of food and care and medicine.”

  “But he cannot stay where he is. It is essential that he get out!” Remembering the man at the other table, Helena dropped her voice. “His work is critical to the war effort.”

  “No single man is that important.”

  She wondered how much to reveal. “He is the only possibility of connecting the partisans to the west. He could mean reinforcements and provisions, which could make a difference for the whole war effort.” She was stretching the truth now, saying more than she knew in her attempt to persuade him.

  He stroked his goatee. “Let’s say we were willing to help your soldier. How do I know that you can be trusted?”

  He had a point. Though it seemed implausible, Helena herself could be a spy. “Because I want to help you.” She had not planned to say this, but once she did, she realized it was the truth. “Beyond this, I mean.”

  He eyed her skeptically. “What is it that you think you can do?”

  “Deliver messages. I’m good at getting around.”

  “Couriers I have.” The man looked her up and down and a wrinkle of something, not disdain exactly but skepticism, crossed his face. Suddenly she saw herself as he must—young and inexperienced, a country girl. His doubts magnified thousandfold in her, exploding. Who was she, anyway, to think she could do this, or anything, to help?

  An image flashed through her mind then of the German soldier atop the tank who had nearly caught her in the forest that day. He had just been ordinary, too, before he had chosen his wretched path. “I’m small,” she blurted out. “And not at all what you expect. Isn’t that sort of how your group operates? It’s an advantage. After all, I found you, didn’t I?” She did not wait, knowing he would not answer the question.

  He stood abruptly and left some coins on the table. “I have to go.”

  “That’s it?” Her heart fell.

  “I wait tables at Wierzynek and the lunch preparations start in half an hour.” She cocked her head. Unlike the modest café in which they now sat, Wierzynek was one of the finest restaurants in the city, forbidden now even to Poles who could afford it. It seemed like an odd place of employment for someone from the resistance. “You can learn a lot from such a place.” Of course. Working in a restaurant was not only an effective way to transmit information without being noticed, but to gather a great deal from overhearing the patrons—especially in a café frequented by senior German officials.

  “But...” Helena started to stand, unwilling to let him get away. She grabbed his sleeve, suddenly desperate and heedless who might hear. Alek looked down at her and there was something enigmatic about him that made her want to follow into his strange unknown world. “Please.”

  He pressed his hand on hers, willing her to remain seated. There was a gentle forcefulness to his touch she had never before encountered. “One week. Come again in one week and that will give me enough time to investigate your story and figure out what to do.”

  “And if I need you sooner?”

  “You won’t. Coming here was either very brave or very stupid. You must love this soldier a lot. Go now,” he added before she could respond. “And you’d do well to avoid the checkpoint at Starowi´slna.”
He bounded up the steps and out the door.

  12

  Helena watched Alek leave, fighting the urge to run after him and ask more questions. She looked uncertainly at the plate of fish that remained before her. If only she had a way to take it back to Sam or the children. She took another few bites and then stood, eyeing the table across the room where the man watching them had sat. He was gone, and she wondered if he had followed Alek, or perhaps he had not been interested in them at all.

  She took care not to move too quickly and attract attention as she made her way down the street. A wave of energy surged through her. She had done it—made contact with the resistance and found out...what, exactly? She had no idea, though, if Alek would or could help. And she could not even see Sam again to tell him. But there was no time to worry. She needed to get to Mama and then back home.

  She took Alek’s advice, rounding the block to avoid the cluster of military jeeps at the corner where Starowi´slna Street intersected with the aleje. Something was different, Helena noticed as she made her way through the backstreets on the way to the Jewish quarter. From the hill above the city a few hours earlier, Kazimierz had looked unchanged. But, closer now, she could see that the neighborhood was even emptier than usual. Great piles of broken furniture and other discarded household items sat at the curb in front of several of the buildings, as though it were garbage day. A curious burning smell filled her throat. Uneasiness seeped through her as she mentally scanned the calendar for a forgotten holiday, a reason for the change, and found nothing.

  Two blocks farther, she could see the back of the hospital. Looking ahead down the eerily deserted street, Helena desperately wanted to turn and run in the other direction. Steeling herself, she pressed forward, clinging closely to the buildings.

  As she crossed Miodowa Street, there was a deafening explosion. The force of the blast flung her through the air and slammed her against the pavement. For a moment, she lay motionless, too stunned to move. Then she crawled into a doorway for cover, the still-shaking ground rough beneath her palms. Nothing, not even the sound she had heard the night Sam’s plane crashed, had been anywhere near as loud. She wished desperately for the safety of the cellar back home, Ruth and the others warm beside her.

  A clattering noise, rapid and repeated, reverberated off the buildings. Machine gunfire, she knew instinctively, though she had, of course, never heard it before. Helena ducked. The shots had come from the direction of the hospital. She broke into a run, heedless now of the need to blend in, not caring who might see her.

  She stared to turn onto Estery Street to reach the front of the hospital. Then she froze. Here in the heart of the Jewish quarter, all pretense of normalcy had been abandoned. The street thronged with men in uniform. Trucks and jeeps stopped haphazardly in the middle of the street and parked across the sidewalks. From the far end of Szeroka Street a cloud of smoke rose ominously toward the sky.

  Aktion. The word formed slowly on her lips, though she did not know where she had learned it.

  Helena crouched low behind a car, studying the front entrance to the hospital. Should she wait until it was safe, or flee and come back another day? But the less dangerous days were gone. She had to get to Mama now, or there might not be another chance. Not daring to step out onto the street, she retraced her steps, looking for another, less conspicuous way into the hospital.

  She peered around the corner of the narrow alleyway that ran behind the hospital, then up at the windows of the tall apartment houses that rose on either side. The door to one of the buildings flew open. Helena leaped back. A family—mother and father, boy and girl—walked down the steps. Their unbuttoned coats were thrown on hastily and their feet were stockingless beneath their shoes. The girl clutched her brother’s arm. The father splayed his right hand across the back of his son’s head, as if to form a protective shield. The girl dropped something, a doll or toy perhaps, but her mother held her closely in place, forbidding her to reach for it.

  Helena took a step toward them. Perhaps they knew what was happening here. But then she noticed that the father’s other hand was raised above his head in a way that made his stomach stick out oddly. A German officer appeared from the doorway behind them, gun fixed at the man’s back.

  Helena tried to shrink back against the building as the officer marched the family down the sidewalk toward her. As they neared, the boy’s eyes met hers, silently pleading for help. He was Michal’s age but much thinner, eyes wide against his bony skull. And his skin was a shade of gray, like Sam’s had been the day she found him, as if he had not seen the sun for a long time. She braced herself, terrified that he would say or do something to give away her presence. But he looked away, staring straight ahead, and a moment later they passed down the street and were gone.

  Do something, a voice seemed to say. But what? She could shout, but there was no one to help anymore. Breathe, she willed herself. Get to Mama. I’m sorry, she mouthed silently, though the boy was no longer there. She raced around the corner. A wide exposed gulf of pavement stood between her and the back door to the hospital. She studied the windows of the buildings above, but the gaping holes were shrouded in darkness, giving no indication if anyone might be watching. She started quickly across the street, certain that at any moment she would be caught.

  Seconds later, she reached the back entrance to the hospital. Struggling to catch her breath, Helena pried open the knobless door. Inside, she stood in shock: the hospital had been ransacked. Mattresses and chairs were piled high on either side of the hallway. Gone were the rhythmic, whirring sounds of the machines and the incessant moans of patients.

  She peered into the nearest ward. The once-occupied beds were now empty, their sheets torn off and thrown to the center of the room, revealing bloodstained mattresses. Helena raced to her mother’s ward, broken glass crunching under her boots. The beds nearest the door were also empty and stripped. Helena’s body went slack with relief seeing Mama still lying in her bed on the far side of the room as she had during each of Helena’s previous visits. Helena raced to her. A few patients still lay motionless in the other beds, wide swaths of blood marring their hospital gowns. Helena stifled a scream. A rasp of breath escaped from one of the beds. Someone was still alive.

  But there was no time to help. “Mama!” she whispered loudly as she neared. Her mother showed no sign of harm. Her eyes were open, though, gazing toward the ceiling. Helena reached out, knowing before she touched her cheek that it would be cold. What had happened here? As she lowered her face, Helena smelled something chemical and foreign. A drop of clear liquid lingered at the corner of her mother’s lips, slightly parted in an almost-sigh. Mama had swallowed something before the Nazis could get to her. She was gone.

  Helena buried her head in her mother’s lap. Mama’s arm hung limply from the edge of the bed. Helena replaced it at her side, then rubbed her mother’s shoulder, as if to bring her comfort. In reality it was for herself, and she sought to memorize every detail of the skin under her fingertips, holding on to the touch that she knew would be the last.

  Helena looked up again. She had contemplated the end. Indeed there were times that she had thought it might be better for Mama for all of the suffering to end. But nothing had prepared her for the finality of it—all of the love and memories just gone, like an enormous gust of wind that had taken her very breath with it.

  A hand clamped down on Helena’s shoulder from behind. She opened her mouth to scream. “Shh,” a female voice whispered. Helena turned to face the nurse Wanda. Her face was pale and the apron of her uniform smeared with blood. “You have to go.”

  Helena stood. “What happened?”

  “The Germans came to liquidate Kazimierz and move the rest of the Jews to the ghetto.” Helena remembered the nurse’s erroneous prediction weeks earlier that some Jews would remain. “Then they came here.” Wanda’s eyes were bloodshot, her face aged years in an instan
t. “They started shooting the patients— No more than a bullet for each, I heard one of them say. We...the nurses, had always planned to give them something, to spare them the suffering if this happened. But we had no notice—there wasn’t enough time to get to everyone.”

  “Why? Why now?”

  “Reprisals.” Wanda was sobbing openly now, cracking under the stress of what she has seen. Helena shifted uncomfortably. She had never been good with the tears of loved ones, much less a near-stranger. Regaining her composure, Wanda continued. “There are rumors that the Germans captured a foreign soldier, American maybe, or British. Whoever they caught killed a German in the struggle. So now we all pay. I took care of your mother first,” Wanda added. Took care. It was a funny way to describe killing someone, even out of mercy. So that was what the coin she’d given Wanda had bought. “If they had gotten to her, her suffering would have been much worse.”

  Helena slumped to the edge of the bed. “But she wasn’t even Jewish.”

  Wanda shook her head. “They don’t care. Half-Jewish or whole, it’s all the same to them.”

  “Half-Jewish... I don’t understand.” Helena noticed a strange expression on the nurse’s face. “What is it?”

  “Your mother... Surely you knew.”

  The ground seemed to wobble as it had from the explosion outside. “Knew what?”

  “Your mother’s mother was Jewish. I saw it once in the file.”

  Helena stared at her in disbelief. “That isn’t possible. My grandparents...” She paused, remembering the photograph of Mama’s mother and father taken years earlier. She searched for a reason that one of them could not have been Jewish, but found nothing. “Surely I would have known.”

  Wanda shrugged slightly. “I didn’t ask her about it. It never occurred to me that you didn’t know. But it’s in her records.”