by Liz Tolsma
By the storm they breasted,
Every leaf is wrested,
Now a birdling only
In the tree sings lonely:
Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat.
O native land! Thy furrows
Native blood doth redden,
Woeful are thy sorrows,
By foes thou art downtrodden.
The wind tugged at her hair. Dominik whimpered. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” She whispered her words to the empty heavens. “God, aren’t you listening to me? Where are you when I need you?”
Top-heavy with Dominik in her arms, she tottered to her feet. She had nowhere else to go but to the Fromms. The onion-domed church spire, its cross reaching to the sky, beckoned her to come and rest, but without a priest, the doors remained locked.
She entered the Fromms’ home through the back door, unwrapped a fussy Dominik from the blankets, and settled him on a quilt on the floor.
“Where you go?”
Natia gasped. “You startled me.”
“Where you go?” Elfriede frowned.
“Out.”
Elfriede approached her. Touched her face, caked with dried tears. “You sad.”
Natia turned away.
Elfriede spun her back around, her blue eyes soft. “Why you sad?”
“Pani Rzeźnikowa’s husband died.”
“Oh no. She sad too. Such a good lady. Very, very sad thing.” Elfriede shook her head, her hair in rolls around her face and hanging loose in the back.
“And men are coming.”
“Ja, ja. Two days.” Elfriede’s countenance shifted, and she all but beamed.
“I have to cook.”
“Good food. German food.”
“Nie. I don’t know.” Natia gestured at the row of worthless cookbooks.
“Ah. I help.” Elfriede scanned the books, pulled one down, and handed it to Natia. “Here.”
Natia took the volume, the book heavy in her hands. She flipped the pages. “I don’t know.”
Elfriede furrowed her brows. “Nie. It’s Polish.”
“I. Don’t. Know.” Natia slammed the book on the table, sending Dominik into a wail.
“You don’t know?”
Natia shook her head. “Nie. None of it. I can’t read any of it.”
“But you cook.”
Natia pointed to her head. She’d watched her mother and memorized her recipes. But none of them were German, only simple Polish fare. Pierogi. Cabbage and peas. Borscht.
Her employer grinned. “I help.”
“How?”
“You see.”
Natia exhaled, long and slow. She’d witnessed Elfriede’s clumsy attempts in the kitchen. There was no way she’d be able to save Natia.
One day to go before the inspectors from Berlin arrived. Butterflies flitted in Elfriede’s stomach, more than you’d find in an Alpine meadow. Erich had informed her these were very important men. He had to make a good impression. If he did, Vater promised him a promotion and a better position somewhere in Germany.
And now, she had a chance to help him find favor with these officials, including Herr Eisinger, the man whose wife had eight children for the Führer. She had to prove herself a worthy German officer’s wife. Tomorrow, she would play the part to perfection.
Imagine, Natia couldn’t read. She’d never met anyone who couldn’t pick up a book and glean either information or entertainment from it. Maybe Erich was right. The Poles were much more ignorant than the Germans.
On the other hand, she enjoyed helping Natia. Right now, she sat at the kitchen table, jiggling Dominik on her knee while the baby gnawed on a piece of dry toast. Natia worked at the counter.
“Next?”
Elfriede glanced over the recipe for the Black Forest cake. “Flour. Two cups of flour.”
Some of the German words were similar enough to the Polish ones that Natia understood what she said. Others, like this one, weren’t. “What? I don’t understand.”
“Flour.” She scraped her chair back, balanced Dominik on her hip, and opened the cupboard. To host this party, they had been allowed extra rations. Of course, the food labels were in Polish, which Elfriede couldn’t read, but by opening the packages and tasting the contents, she found what she wanted. “Stir it in.” She mimed what Natia needed to do.
The bigger problem came to Natia’s singing. If she couldn’t read Polish, she certainly couldn’t read German. As Natia pitted the cherries, Elfriede sang the songs line by line. Her voice wasn’t the best. In fact, Erich commanded that she not sing in his presence. Still, Natia was talented enough to figure out the melody. The words were another problem. Elfriede started with the first line of “Panzerlied” once again. “Ob’s stürmt oder schneit, ob die Sonne uns lacht.”
Natia stilled and focused on Elfriede as she sang. “Ob’s stut oder schnell.” She huffed. “That’s wrong.”
Elfriede chuckled, something she hadn’t done since the night Dominik cried. “Nie, nie. Like this.” With painstaking care, she modeled the line syllable by syllable.
Natia repeated, this time with the right words.
“Tak. That’s good.” She clapped, and Dominik, now sitting on a blanket in the middle of the room, imitated her. “Baby happy.”
“Tak, he’s a good baby.”
Elfriede leaned over to kiss Dominik’s forehead. An almost overpowering odor backed her away. “Dirty baby.” And soiled diapers gave her gagging fits.
Natia directed her to the counter. “Here. You do it.” She gave the batter a stir, then handed the spoon to Elfriede, stepping away and motioning for Elfriede to take her place.
She pulled the spoon through the flour and eggs. “Good?”
Natia shook her head. She took the spoon back and gave the batter a vigorous beating.
This time, Elfriede’s efforts won Natia’s approval. “Good, good. You do it.” She scooped up Dominik and disappeared upstairs.
Nein, Erich was wrong. Natia and the other Poles weren’t stupid or lazy or even ignorant. In many ways, Natia was smarter than she was, even though she couldn’t read.
In another time, another place, another circumstance, they might have been friends. And Elfriede surely could use one.
Pawel hurried down the quiet street in the direction of the factory. Funny how Fromm almost killed him one minute, and the next, he was calling for him because he needed his services and expertise.
He entered through the main door. Fräulein Wurtz, a petite, red-haired woman, sat at the desk, clacking away on her typewriter. In the distance a phone rang and someone shrieked. “I’ll be right with you.”
“I’m the doctor.”
She whipped her attention to him. “Of course. We’ve been waiting for you.”
“Where is the injured patient?”
“Right through here.” She led the way into a back office and opened the door. A young boy, no more than eight, sat on a chair holding a bloody rag around his hand, snot pouring from his nose as he screamed and sobbed.
Pawel’s stomach clenched, threatening to expel his small breakfast. He hated being called to tend to children. Boys and girls who should be enjoying life, not working in squalid conditions.
A commotion sounded from the office. “I have to see the boy. Let me in. I have to talk to him.”
The secretary almost shrieked her reply. “You can’t. Get back to work or I will call Untersturmführer Fromm.”
The door banged open. A scrawny man rushed in and knelt beside the boy. “Zygmunt, is that you? Is it really you?”
The child screeched. “My finger! My finger!”
“Zygmunt, listen to me. It’s Teodor. Praise the Lord that we found you. Natia is here in town, living with a German family. She’s going to be so happy.”
The boy’s wails lessened. “Teodor?”
Pawel turned to the prisoner with dark bags under his eyes and slurred speech. “You know this boy?”
“He’s my wife’
s brother. Her family came with us on the train, but we had no idea what happened to them.”
“You can catch up later. Right now, I need to care for him.” He turned to Zygmunt. “Let’s look at that.” The child screamed as Pawel unwrapped the towel from around his hand. All color drained from the boy’s face.
“Hold on now. Take a deep breath. Don’t faint.”
Pawel unwrapped the last bit of bandage. Blood gushed everywhere. Zygmunt’s left middle finger was missing.
The man behind him gasped and fell to his knees. “Oh, Zygmunt, Zygmunt.”
Pawel’s heart clenched. What an awful way to locate your family. “What is your name?”
“Teodor Palinski. I sneaked out during a bathroom break to check on the boy. Word got around that a child had been hurt. When I heard his description, I just knew, and I had to see for myself.”
Zygmunt pressed his bloody hand tight to his chest. “Nie, nie. Don’t let anyone touch me.”
Pan Palinski rubbed Zygmunt’s back. “Don’t worry. The doctor is here now. He’ll make it better.”
“I want Tata.”
His brother-in-law paled. “He’s here?”
The child shook his head. “I haven’t seen him since the train.”
Pan Palinski’s voice remained calm. “For now, you’ll have to put up with me.”
“I need to take him to my office for stitches. Can you carry him?”
In answer, Teodor lifted Zygmunt from the chair with a great deal of care. “You’ll be just fine. I’ll make sure.”
They exited the room and hurried to the front office where Pawel paused just a moment to speak to the secretary. “I have to take the boy to my exam room. And Pan Palinski is coming along.”
“You can’t whisk them out of here without permission.”
The slamming of the door behind them cut off the rest of her words.
Zygmunt continued his high-pitched wailing as they hustled away from the factory and toward Pawel’s residence. He led the way to his exam room. “Put the boy on the table.”
Pan Palinski did as ordered.
And Zygmunt passed out.
Teodor rubbed his gritty eyes and opened them as the doctor whipped the last stitch into place in Zygmunt’s hand where his finger had been. Terrible as this was for Zygmunt, it provided Teodor a tiny bit of sleep. Still, the world around him spun. “Is the boy going to survive?”
The doctor nodded. “He should, barring any kind of infection.”
“Conditions at the factory are not sterile. Far from it. Dirt, vermin, and disease are too common.”
“And they have children running the drill presses?”
“Nie. Not running them. Mostly sweeping up, carrying the pieces from station to station. But we’ve been working long hours this week, getting ready for the inspectors. Could be they put him on the machine. Or he might have been playing around. You know how children are.” Or how they used to be. Acid ate at Teodor’s stomach.
His eyes burned seeing Zygmunt this way. He had always been somewhat of a mischief maker, but not a bad boy. Just a boy. One who liked to laugh, to run, to play.
If only Natia could see him. She’d had so much loss in her life. To be able to give this back to her would mean so much.
“That’s why they don’t have any business being near the factory. Let’s move him upstairs to the bedroom.”
Teodor lifted the boy, little more than a feather in his arms, and carried him up the steep steps to a simple room with a wrought-iron bed, a painting of Jesus above it.
“And he’s your brother-in-law?”
“My wife has helped raise him since her mother died shortly after his birth.”
The doctor gazed at Teodor. “When was the last time you had a full night’s sleep?”
“I don’t remember. What day is it?”
“What are they doing to you in there?”
“Whatever they please.”
“And where is his sister, your wife?” The doctor pulled a quilt over Zygmunt’s thin shoulders.
Some of the feeling returned to his numb heart. “She works for Untersturmführer Fromm.”
The doctor stepped back, almost knocking over a small bedside table and a glass of water. “Your wife is Pani Palinska?”
“You know her?”
“I’ve met her several times.”
“How is she? Can you arrange for me to see her? And for her to see her brother?” Teodor’s heart danced. Maybe he could be close to her, maybe even touch her. That would be enough. Even if the guard shot him tonight, it would be enough.
The doctor gave an almost-imperceptible nod. “For her own protection, my wife has had to leave. I would do anything to be with her, so I understand. Your wife is a strong, brave woman. You should be proud of her.”
Teodor’s throat constricted. “I’ve always known and admired that about her.”
“Stay here with the boy. I’ll fetch her.”
This was Teodor’s chance. Perhaps the three of them could escape. Partisans lived in the forests. They would survive there until the end of the war. It would be hard, but if they were together, it would be worth it.
A pounding sounded from the door downstairs. “Open up, open up.” Germans.
And just like that, any hope he might have had for escaping vanished like a dream when one awakened.
“I have to let them in.”
Teodor shrugged his assent, even as the doctor took off down the stairs.
Within seconds, three lower-ranking enlisted soldiers, two bars on their collars, all carrying weapons, marched in. They grabbed Teodor and pinned his arms behind his back.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“We have come to return you to the factory. You left without authorization.”
Like they would have given him any. “I had every intention of returning.” He swallowed the lie. “This boy needed immediate medical attention. By the time I got permission to leave, he might have died.”
“We’ll see what Untersturmführer Fromm has to say.” They dragged him toward the staircase.
The doctor stepped in front of them. “Wait a minute. My wife isn’t here, and I need a nurse to watch the boy. Let Pan Palinski stay while I fetch her. I’ll return in less than five minutes.”
The big, burly guards glanced at each other, at Teodor and the doctor, and back to each other. The one with a slight lisp answered. “Five minutes. Not one more.”
The guards released their hold on Teodor. He rubbed his sore wrists, then pulled a small, tufted chair to Zygmunt’s bedside. The boy took steady, even breaths.
Bitterness filled Teodor’s mouth. He’d been close, so very close to seeing Natia, and maybe even escaping this miserable place with her and her brother. She was all that held him here.
He gazed at Zygmunt’s peaceful face, a fair-colored curl flowing across his forehead. Poor child. While it was one thing to miss your wife, it was quite another to be eight years old and without either parent. Even if they hadn’t been able to run away, it would have been good for Zygmunt and Natia to see each other.
The little alarm clock on the bedside table ticked away the minutes. True to his word, the doctor returned within the allotted allowance.
Teodor turned.
And there, in the doorway, stood Natia.
Time stopped.
The doctor peered at him over her shoulder, a word of warning in his hard stare. Teodor clamped his lips shut. But he couldn’t look away. Here she was, his wife, in front of him just a couple of meters.
She’d lost more weight since the last time they’d been close. But her green eyes still sparkled. A dimple appeared in her cheek as a wide smile broke across her face. Her dark hair hung in waves. He itched to touch it, to run the silky length of it across his fingertips.
Teodor stood and motioned for her to sit. She scooted past him. On purpose, he didn’t give her the room he should have. Instead, she brushed against him.
The ache in his chest
expanded.
For an eternal moment, Natia stood in the doorway and stared at her husband, still unable to believe what Dr. Bosco had told her. Teodor. At his house. Close enough to touch. To whisper to.
And not only Teodor, but also Zygmunt. She must be dreaming. The beauty of this moment was too much to be reality.
Teodor stood, his blue coveralls hanging on his thin frame. He sported a good amount of light-brown stubble on his chin and cheeks. His hair hung over his collar. His blue eyes were red, and dark half-moons hung underneath them. The poor man was exhausted.
But he pushed back a laugh.
Always laughing, he was.
Still her Teodor.
He motioned for her to take the seat beside the bed where her brother lay. She slid by her husband, brushing against his chest as he didn’t leave enough room for her. Heat rushed through her body, a long-forgotten sensation of love and desire for him.
She dipped her head and dropped into the chair, still warm from his presence. Pretending to be the nurse, she held Zygmunt’s hand and examined the bandages. Was he taller than she had remembered, or had time erased her recollection? Like Teodor, Zygmunt’s fair hair was longer. And his hands were calloused, no longer the hands of a child. Not even the hands of a farm child anymore. Oh, the sweet boy. To suffer so much at such a young age.
Why, God, why?
She turned to Teodor. He blinked several times. He knew. He understood. His hand grazed her shoulder as he moved to the side. He was here for her.
She leaned over Zygmunt but used the song swelling inside to speak to Teodor. The words came out soft and pained at first.
When for a moment thou dost speak, my darling,
’Tis like the music of angelic voices calling,
Mute is my joy that I may be so near thee.
As she continued singing, the notes reaching and soaring with her, the warble left her voice. The room paled, and only Teodor stood beside her.
Hark’ning, and hoping that thou may persevere,
Naught else desiring, forever, forever,
But so to hear thee, still to hear thee.