When the Heart Sings

by Liz Tolsma

  Especially for him.

  The long days stretched in front of Elfriede. Here she sat with nothing to do. She had followed the doctor’s recommendations. Natia had taken over the household duties. She did the marketing, the cleaning and scrubbing, the cooking, even the laundry. Elfriede did nothing.

  For a few hours, she enjoyed the pampering. But that changed by the first afternoon. She could only embroider for so long before her fingers cramped. A breath of fresh air might do her good. Dr. Bosco said to rest and relax, not become a hermit.

  Erich and Vater both treated her as a china doll, especially after she had become pregnant. They had agreed she would make a fine wife for an SS officer. Even Vater’s usual frown at her bumbling ways had turned upside down. So the wedding had taken place. Followed a few months later by her miscarriage.

  She left Natia up to her elbows in flour, kneading rye dough for bread, and headed toward the center of the village.

  After a while she found herself in front of the butcher shop. By this time of day, the line of women waiting to purchase their ration of meat had dissipated. She entered the shop to the jangle of a bell.

  Frau Rzeźnikowa entered from a back room, her white apron stained with blood. “Frau Fromm, how good to see you. Your girl was in here earlier and purchased a fine cut of beef for your goulash. Is there something else I can help you with?”

  Elfriede glanced around the small room dominated by the counter. She shifted her weight. “I, um, I . . .” Her hands sweated. Erich would be furious if he found out her mission. But she could trust Frau Rzeźnikowa to be discreet, couldn’t she?

  “Yes, dear?”

  “Do you have some time?”

  The plump, middle-aged woman, her graying hair pulled into a severe bun, smiled. “For you, always. You remind me so much of my own daughter, now in Kraków. Shall I put the kettle on? I only have ersatz coffee, but I’ll pour us each a cup.” She motioned for Elfriede to follow her behind the counter and into the small back room.

  A plain white ceramic stove took up one corner of the space, reaching from the floor to the ceiling. Frau Rzeźnikowa pulled out a chair next to the table covered with a cheery yellow cloth. She poured coffee into a pair of stained white china cups and set one in front of Elfriede before she dropped into the seat across from her.

  “What can I do for you, my dear? You were hesitant to ask, but you shouldn’t be. I’m happy to help with whatever I can.”

  Elfriede fingered the tablecloth’s hem. “Danke. Not all the townspeople would be as accommodating. They don’t appreciate us Germans.”

  Frau Rzeźnikowa took a slow sip of coffee. “I’ve been here a long time, and I don’t judge people by their nationality. I make my judgments on a case-by-case basis. I prefer to look at the individual rather than the people as a whole.”

  Hitler would disagree, but Elfriede didn’t. Frau Rzeźnikowa had a point. “That’s a good way of saying it. I came to ask a favor.”

  “If it’s in my power to do it, I will.”

  “Is your husband around?”

  “He’s gone upstairs to take a nap. His heart isn’t too good, and he tires by this time. We’re usually out of meat by now, so that frees him to rest. Is it something womanly?”

  “Nein.” She spit the word out. “I mean, not really.” She couldn’t share that part of her life. “You see, Natia only speaks Polish, and I only speak German. We’ve learned a few words from each other, just enough to get by, but I’d like another woman to chat with.”

  “I see.” Frau Rzeźnikowa’s wrinkled face softened.

  “Not that I don’t enjoy a talk with you. But she’s my age. It’s different.”

  Frau Rzeźnikowa patted her hand. “I understand, I really do. How can I help?”

  “Will you teach me Polish?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You want me to teach you the language?”

  “Ja.”

  “What does your husband think?”

  “He speaks Polish.” True, he learned it as a child from their housekeeper, but he did know the language. “Why shouldn’t I learn?”

  “Because the Nazis want to destroy Poland and everything Polish. Including the language.” As soon as she uttered the words, she covered her mouth.

  “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.” Was it really? An image of the workers stumbling from the train’s cattle cars, the murders of the couple who refused to be parted, flashed in front of her. “Besides, I’m not telling Erich. He’s working. I need something to do all day.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” The older woman scrunched her forehead, deep lines etching her skin.

  “I will pay you well.”

  “You don’t have to pay me at all. I’ll do it.”

  Elfriede resisted the urge to clap her hands. “Danke, danke.”

  “That’s dziękuję Ci if you’re being formal, dzięki if you’re not.”

  “Dziękuję Ci.” Elfriede laughed at the strange word. “It’s very different from German.”

  “That it is. But you’ll pick it up with little trouble. You’re young, as I was when I first learned.”

  “What else?”

  They spent another thirty minutes practicing various Polish phrases, things that would be most helpful in communicating with Natia. By the time she bade Frau Rzeźnikowa do widzenia, or good-bye, she could ask for something she wanted and request a drink of coffee and a plate of schnitzel.

  She hummed a tune, one Natia sang all the time, as she strolled down the streets lined with quaint cottages. The sun melted away what little tension remained in her shoulders. This was good for her.

  Up ahead, the smokestacks of the factory rose, casting a shadow over the landscape. What were the people doing inside? What about Natia’s husband? Erich had mentioned that he worked there.

  She skirted the factory and came to her own home at the village’s edge. Roses climbed up the wall, and bright yellow and orange flowers nodded in the breeze.

  “Dzień dobry,” she called to Natia as she stepped over the threshold. “Jestem w domu. I’m home.”

  Erich stormed around the corner. He narrowed his stormy blue eyes. “What did you just say?”

  “I greeted Natia.”

  “Frau Palinska is busy ironing the sheets.” His nostrils flared. “Why do you speak Polish?”

  “You do.”

  “Unfortunately.” He stepped closer, towering over her. “But I don’t want to hear that language crossing your lips again. Not one word. Do you understand me? Speaking like them makes you no better than them.”

  She cowered in the corner. “Erich, you’re frightening me.”

  He huffed and turned in a circle before kneeling in front of her, softening his voice. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout. It’s what happens after dealing with those vile Poles all day. Listen to me, though. They and their language are barbaric. Don’t sully yourself. For me, please.” He stroked her cheek and kissed her, his mustache tickling her lips.

  But in this, she might have to disobey him. She just could never allow him to overhear her.

  For the past several months, a beautiful song drifted through the window as Teodor started his long factory day. He may not have food or a soft bed or warm clothes, but he had all he needed.

  Natia.

  While her first visit came late in the day, she now arrived at the same time every morning. If he started to look forward to it, that might jinx it. But he couldn’t help himself. Her music brought a sweet beginning to his days.

  This morning, as she passed under his window, she sang a happy, upbeat tune. One a little girl might skip rope to.

  Here we go to market,

  To buy my love a locket,

  To keep in every secret,

  And hold it in my pocket.

  So that must be where Fromm allowed her to go. Her excuse for getting out of the house and coming to within wishing distance of him. He didn’t dare go to the window to stare at her, thoug
h he could drink in the sight of her for hours upon hours.

  He chuckled to himself at the ditty. So good it was to hear her cheery song. Her heart was healing. The heaviness, the pressing ache over their baby’s death, lifted.

  He answered with a silly tune of his own.

  Here we go to labor,

  To buy my love a fish,

  Never more so happy,

  Than when it’s on the dish.

  Okay, he didn’t have her sweet voice or even her talent for singing on key, but he let the melody flow from his lips. To let her know he heard her. Thought about her. Loved her.

  Mostly, to let her know he was fine and that she didn’t have to worry about him.

  When I want for mother,

  For sister and for brother,

  You’ll tell me they are near you,

  To see you and to hear you.

  Of course, she wanted to know about her family. But he didn’t have good news for her. Not bad, but not the best.

  You lack the tender care of mother,

  The joy of sister and of brother,

  Oh, but that I might find them,

  That once more you might mind them.

  A slap on his back broke his reverie. “You’re rather chipper for the start of a dull working day.” Jerzy chuckled.

  “She puts me in a happy mood.” He cocked his head in the direction of the window.

  “If only we all had wives who sang like doves.”

  “I wouldn’t give her up for anything. And to know she’s alive and well, stronger than when we arrived, makes this place bearable.” How much better it would be if he could touch her or talk to her. But most of the men didn’t get the thinnest shred of information about their wives. He shouldn’t complain. Only, to have her so close, within a whisper, and not be able to be with her was its own form of torture.

  “I anticipate her morning songs, and she’s not even my wife.” Jerzy bent to tie his heavy work boot.

  “It’s amazing what a little uplifting like that can do for a person.”

  Off in the corner, one man retched. The sharp, putrid odor permeated the stifling room. Jerzy scrunched up his nose. “Tak, but we need more of it. Months have gone by with no relief. The men get weaker and sicker by the day.”

  They moved to the floor of the factory. Each week, their captors raised the quota of pieces that needed to be produced and readied for shipment.

  Today, Teodor worked on a drill press. On the floor below, the women produced needle bearings. On this floor, the men manufactured other pieces. Like what he worked on now. He had no idea what they were for, but over and over he drilled six holes into a rounded slab of metal. Over and over he dropped the finished parts into the box beside him. Still more parts came.

  He inhaled, long and slow, imagining the fresh smell of the rain on his crops, the low of the cow in the barn, the softness of the dirt under his feet. And in his mind’s eye, he saw the cemetery on the rise. His throat constricted. Too much loss. He sighed. Best not to dwell on his faraway home.

  As he pulled down the lever on the drill press, he sang Natia’s song in his head. A place where the Nazis couldn’t hear him and couldn’t order him to stop.

  Fromm made his way to Teodor’s machine and kicked over the box that held his work. “You don’t have much done for so late in the day.” He scooped up all Teodor had finished and placed it in Jerzy’s box. “See, he has completed double what you have. You will stay at your station until you meet the quota.” With that, he marched away.

  Teodor wilted.

  Jerzy leaned over. “We must do something. We can’t allow him to get away with this.”

  “What? Retaliate?”

  Fromm thundered from across the room. “Quiet on the floor.”

  “I don’t know. But we have to come up with a plan.”

  Teodor lowered the drill press. The bit screeched as it ate into the metal. His head throbbed. But he picked up another undrilled piece and repeated the process. Five, ten, fifteen times.

  What could they, mere prisoners, do? He lined up the template, making sure it was on just right, as their overseers had taught them.

  Wait a minute.

  What would happen if he didn’t drill the holes in the exact place they were supposed to go? What if he moved the template over just a few millimeters?

  Perhaps these parts wouldn’t fit whatever they were supposed to fit. They wouldn’t be usable. The prisoners might slow down the production of whatever equipment these pieces belonged to.

  His hands trembled. Wouldn’t that be something?

  He resumed his task with renewed fervor. Every few pieces, he placed the template in the wrong position. Just a little bit off and not every piece, so the supervisor would never suspect.

  He flew through the quota Fromm set for him and returned to the barracks as Jerzy settled in for the night.

  Teodor leaned over his friend’s bunk. “Hey, wake up. I have a plan.”

  “Hmm? A plan for what?” Jerzy opened one eye.

  “Shh, keep your voice down.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “You said we had to find a way to exact our revenge on the Germans. Well, I believe I’ve come up with something.”

  Jerzy opened the other eye and sat. “You did? What is it?”

  “Shh, I don’t want anyone else to hear.” He shared with his bunkmate what he had done. “What do you think?”

  “You’re brilliantly out of your mind. What happens if we get caught?”

  “That’s why we have to do this just right. Too much, and the Nazis will catch on. Too little, and our sabotage will be ineffective.”

  “It might work. But are you willing to suffer the consequences if we’re found out?”

  A chill raced up Teodor’s spine. But whatever it was, the risk was worth it. They needed to defend their country however they could. Restore Poland to its former glory. They needed to get back to their lives and their families as soon as possible. This was one thing that he could do on the inside to take care of his wife. Bringing the war to a swifter close meant one less day Natia had to be subjected to Fromm.

  Teodor could do his part.

  Great risk? Yes. Worth it? It had better be.

  Fall 1943

  A hollow, empty ache overwhelmed Natia as she worked in the kitchen frying pork and cabbage for Elfriede’s dinner. Pan Fromm informed her yesterday that he would be out tonight.

  Teodor’s last song to her spoke of hunger. Hunger for her. Hunger for God. And probably physical hunger. At least she had a small meal in her stomach. What was he enduring? How did he manage to stay alive? The tunes they sang each other were wonderful, but never quite enough. More. That’s what she needed. More time with him. More words from him.

  My, how she missed Teodor. Not even a child to remind her of him. And what if he died in there? And how were Tata, Zygmunt, and Helena doing? If Teodor suffered, they must be also. God, protect them all. Or she would be left with nothing?

  Like always, she bit back her cries, then scooped a spoonful of the pork onto a saucer and blew on it until it cooled. Each evening, the tabby pawed at the back door, so Natia fed her a tablespoon or so of whatever they had. The scrawny feline gobbled it up.

  She opened the door. Her breath hung in the air, her own little cloud. Any day now, winter would come. Had they really been here six months? And yet, the time without Teodor stretched out forever.

  A sprinkling of stars glittered in the dark velvet sky. She chuckled. Teodor tried once to teach her the constellations. How had he seen a bear and a goat and a dipper in the shimmering lights? Nie. They were jewels at the Lord’s feet.

  From the ground came a groan. The kitty? Cats didn’t make noises like that. Noises wringing with misery. She glanced at the tiny yard. Another groan and a feeble cry. And two dark lumps in front of her. Natia took three steps and bent down. A thin, frail woman and an emaciated child.

  Rachel and Solomon.

  She had found them
in the alley once after their first encounter, but then they were gone. Disappeared. She had guessed on a train much like the one that brought Teodor and her to this place.

  But nie, they weren’t taken away. They were here.

  She touched Rachel. Burning with fever. No coat, no star anywhere to identify her as Jewish.

  Blood whooshed in Natia’s ears. What was she supposed to do?

  “Help me.”

  Natia almost didn’t hear Rachel’s faint plea.

  “Tak, I will get you help. Don’t move. Stay right here.” Not that she was in any shape to go anywhere. Natia turned and stumbled into the house. “Elfriede! Elfriede! Come. Help.” Her mistress’s Polish had improved to the point they could communicate their basic needs to each other.

  Elfriede scurried into the kitchen. “What? Food not good?”

  Natia shook her head as she pulled the frying pan from the fire. “Nie. Outside. There is a woman and a child who need our help. Come with me.” She scurried from the home again. Elfriede followed, her oxford heels clicking on the tile floor.

  Elfriede stepped outside and gasped. “Who are they?”

  “I don’t know. I found them when I came to feed the cat.” Elfriede probably didn’t understand half of what she said.

  Elfriede bent beside Rachel and touched her forehead, much the same as Natia had done. “Woman sick.”

  The baby cried. Shaking from head to toe, Natia picked up the little one. A child in her arms once more. A warmth rushed through her. “Hush now, hush. Everything will be fine. We’ll take good care of your mother.” She made a move toward the kitchen door.

  “Nein.”

  Elfriede’s sharp word halted Natia in her steps. “What?”

  Elfriede answered.

  Natia crinkled her forehead, not understanding the German word. Elfriede pointed to the bug bites and the rash, touched her forehead, and clutched her head.

  Ah, typhus. A deadly disease. And often, epidemic inducing. “Nie. We will help her.”

  Elfriede grasped at her arm, but Natia wrenched away and hustled into the house. She set the baby on the davenport in the living room, tucked embroidered throw pillows around him so he wouldn’t roll off, and went back for the mother. She motioned for Elfriede to help.