by Pam Jenoff
Krysia returns to the table a few minutes later, having managed to save some of the choulent that has not touched the floor. She sets three small bowls of the stew on the table and puts Lukasz in his chair. Food is precious, I realize. Even in a catastrophe, one must be practical. She scoops a spoonful of choulent and blows on it to cool the temperature before feeding it to Lukasz. She alternates spoonfuls between the child and herself. Numbly I eat my stew, trying not to think.
When Krysia’s bowl is empty, she pushes it away from her and begins speaking. “Emma, I was pregnant once, too. In Paris. Before Marcin.” I look up, stunned by her admission. I had no idea that Krysia had ever been pregnant, and certainly had not imagined her having lovers other than her husband. I think of all of the times these past several months that she has comforted me about my illicit affair with the Kommandant, how she tried to assuage my guilt about my confused feelings about him. She understands, I realize, because she had an affair of her own as a young woman.
“Who was he?” I ask. Though I know him only from the photographs, it is difficult to picture Krysia with anyone but Marcin.
Krysia smiles. “His name was Claude. He was a writer, or wanted to be, anyway. He lived in a tiny room above a café. The landlord let him wash dishes in the kitchen and sweep the café floor because he could not afford to pay rent.” She pauses and studies her fingers. I can see a thin line of blood where a shard of porcelain cut into the pale, smooth back of her hand. “I never thought it would happen. I was young and carefree and in love. We both were, or so I thought. I was prepared to leave my family to be with Claude, but he said it was impossible, that he had no money for a family. That a child would interfere with his art.” I can see the sadness now in her eyes as she remembers going to her lover with dreams of a future together, only to be rejected. “I would have kept the child and raised him or her alone, scandal be damned. But my parents would not hear of it. The nineteen-year-old daughter of the chargé d’affairs studies art and music at the Sorbonne. She does not have an illegitimate child. They threatened to cut me off entirely. I would have been penniless.”
“Oh, Krysia,” I say.
She stares straight in front of her, unblinking. “I could have chosen to make a go of it on my own with the child. I could have gotten by somehow. But I was young and afraid. So I did what they wanted. I asked if I could go away and have the child then put it up for adoption. They refused, said the scandal would have been too great.” She rises and walks to the sink, her back to me, turning the faucet until the cold water sprays hard on her hand, flushing out the wound. “I let my parents decide for me, and it is a decision I have paid for all my life.” Krysia shuts the water off and wraps her hand in a clean towel. She turns to face me again. “Do you understand what I am telling you?” I nod. Whatever they had done to Krysia to end her pregnancy must have left her unable to have children. “Good. A child is a blessing.” As if on cue, Lukasz toddles across the room and tugs at Krysia’s skirt.
“But what if it is the Kommandant’s?” I ask. “I mean, what would Jacob…?” The sentence catches in my throat.
Her hand still wrapped in the towel, Krysia lifts Lukasz with a groan, then sinks into a chair; he is getting too big for her to carry. “Your child has a Jewish mother. He or she will be Jewish. A Jewish child. And it will be Jacob’s child.” She raises her eyebrows for emphasis. “No matter what.” I know then that the secret would be ours, and that she will never tell anyone.
“Jacob’s child,” I repeat hesitantly. Does Jacob even want children? There were times before the war when I was not certain. Once before we were married, when discussing politics, Jacob had said that the world population was growing too quickly, that he wasn’t sure if he could bring a child into this world with all of its problems and political injustice. His words had been a blow to me. I had always wanted a family. I did not react outwardly or argue, though. I told myself that he would change his mind after graduation when we were married and he had settled down from his student causes into a job. But that had never happened; the war broke out and he became more politically involved than ever. We never discussed the matter again. I wonder what he would say now, whether the war has strengthened his view that this world is no place to raise a child. He might be unhappy with my pregnancy, even if he thinks the child is his. Then I remember him the day of his visit, kneeling down to speak to Lukasz. Perhaps he will see the importance of carrying on the Jewish faith through our children.
I do not share these thoughts with Krysia. I am sure she presumes that Jacob wants children, that he will be a good father. “You must assume that the baby is Jacob’s,” Krysia adds, mistaking my hesitation as being about the paternity. “You can say that he or she was born prematurely, if you need to.”
I look at her, puzzled. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s a way to make the dates fit respectably. Women who have accidentally gotten pregnant before their wedding day have been doing that since the beginning of time.”
“Oh,” I reply with surprise, realizing again how much I do not know.
The corners of her mouth turn up slightly. “How ironic it is that one of the Nazis may have helped to put another Jewish child on this earth.”
“If the Kommandant finds out…” I stop midsentence, shuddering.
Her slight smile fades quickly. “Richwalder can never know about this baby. We have to find a way to get you out of Kraków before the truth becomes obvious.”
“Okay,” I agree. Keeping up appearances has been hard enough without this. And there is no telling how the Kommandant will react.
“I will try once more to get in touch with what is left of the resistance, Marek or possibly Marta, to let them know we need to get you out.” Inwardly, I cringe. Marek will surely blame me for getting myself into this predicament and inconveniencing the resistance at such a desperate time. And Marta…somehow I know that she will suspect that the baby is the Kommandant’s and see this as evidence that I do not really love Jacob. Krysia continues, “Thankfully, you aren’t showing yet, but that won’t last. We will need to get you some fuller clothing so no one notices. Because even if I am successful in getting through to the resistance, I suspect it may take several weeks or even months for an escape route to be devised. Can you manage to keep up appearances until then?” I nod. “Good. This will not just be a question of getting you out of Kraków. You need to leave the country. Somewhere that Richwalder will not be able to find you once he realizes you are gone.” I shudder, picturing myself hiding in the woods as Nazis fan out across the countryside, hunting me like an animal.
“What about Jacob?” I ask.
“Good question. We need to find out where he is and when he will be healthy enough to travel, so the two of you can go together. In the early spring, when the snows thaw, I think. I am sure you will have to go over the mountains.”
“And Lukasz?” Hearing his name, the child looks up.
Krysia bites her lip. I can tell that she is remembering our earlier fight about the child having to leave us. “I don’t know. Let me try to get some information first and we will cross that bridge when we get there.”
“My parents…?”
Krysia hesitates. I know I am bombarding her with questions to which she does not have answers, but I cannot help it. “I’m afraid that getting them out of the ghetto now will be impossible,” she replies gently.
Though I already know what she is saying, my heart sinks at her words. “I understand,” I reply. “But I need to know whether they are all right before I leave.”
Her brow furrows. She will not, I know, make promises that she cannot keep. And getting information from inside the ghetto, like everything else, has gotten harder in the weeks since the Warszawa bombing. “I will try to find out.” She stands up.
“Thank you.” I reach up and grab her hand. “For everything.”
She pats my shoulder. “I’ll clean up. You get some rest. And try not to worry too much.”
> I stand and walk from the kitchen to the base of the stairs. Behind me, I hear Krysia placing dishes in the sink, followed by the sound of water running. I turn back. Her hands are washing a plate, but her gaze is fixed on the wall in front of her. I know that she is lost in memories of Claude and Paris in her younger days. It must have been so painful keeping the truth secret from her beloved Marcin all of those years, not being able to tell him why she could not have children, about the horrible choice she had made. Will I someday be like Krysia, alone with my secrets, regretful of the choices I made to survive? The thought is almost too much to bear. A wave of nausea overcomes me then, and I turn and hurry up the stairs.
CHAPTER 22
We do not speak of my pregnancy again after that night. A few weeks later, I find a new skirt and two new sweaters lying across my bed. They look much the same as my other work clothes, except that the sweaters are a bit longer and fuller and the skirt has an adjustable waistband. They will hide the growing roundness of my stomach, at least for now. I wonder where Krysia got them.
At least no one will question why I am wearing such heavy clothes, I think as I leave the house for work in one of my new outfits for the first time. Though it is early March, the weather remains bitterly cold, the ground still covered by a thin coating of ice and snow. As if on cue, a sharp gust of wind blows down from the hills. I draw my winter coat closer and make my way to the corner. A few minutes later, the bus arrives, and as we board, I eye the other passengers surreptitiously: do they notice anything different about me, these people with whom I ride nearly every day? They do not, I decide as I make my way down the aisle. A few nod, most barely look up or make eye contact. Each is preoccupied with his or her own day-today life, with survival. That has not changed just because my world has.
The morning after my conversation with Krysia, I had been awakened by Lukasz standing at my bedside, patting my face with his tiny hand to let me know he was hungry. Downstairs, I found that Krysia was gone. Though she had not left a note, I knew that she had gone to try to make contact with the resistance. I fed Lukasz his cereal, too nauseous to eat anything myself. As I finished drying the breakfast dishes, I heard the front door creak open. I set down the dish towel and walked to the top of the stairs. Krysia, who was stamping the snow from her boots in the entranceway, looked up at me. “I sent the message,” she replied to my unspoken question. “Now we just have to wait.”
Wait, I think now, as the bus lurches forward, its wheels skidding slightly on the icy road. How long can I wait? Krysia’s words from our conversation the night she learned of my pregnancy echo in my head: the Kommandant must never know. Fortunately, I only have to keep it from him in the office. He has been so absorbed with work that he has made little effort to see me outside of work in recent weeks. I accept his rushed apologies only too willingly. If he tried to touch me now, he would surely know the truth.
My mind turns to Jacob. Krysia had said that there is a possibility I will be reunited with him, that we will leave Poland together. Of course, she cannot know this for sure, but the very thought, a long-held dream, nearly forgotten, fills me with warmth. And questions. Where would we go? How would we make a living? There are few jobs for scientists and library workers now, I suspect, though I have picked up good secretarial skills working for the Kommandant this year. I allow myself a small, inward smile at the irony of this, but my amusement quickly fades to nervousness. Even if we are able to escape and survive, what will our life together be like? I had not wanted to admit it, but there was some awkwardness between Jacob and myself during his visit. On some level, we were strangers to each other. That will improve, I tell myself, when we are together permanently again. But a part of me is not convinced: the war and all that has come with it has changed each of us so, how can we expect to be the same together as we were before?
I am hesitant for other reasons as well. I think of Krysia and Lukasz. As I have dreamed of a future with Jacob and free of the Nazis these many months, I have always imagined them being with us. Krysia had said that Lukasz might not be able to go with me, and she has not spoken of her own future or escape at all. The notion of leaving them behind to face the questions and consequences that would surely follow my sudden disappearance is unthinkable. I must persuade Krysia that she and the child go with me, refuse to leave if they do not. We are a family now.
Family. I shudder, thinking of my parents, whom I have not been able to see or speak to in nearly a year. Krysia promised to try to check on them, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that she did not think it would be possible. How can I leave town and abandon them even further?
The bus lurches to a sudden stop, jarring me from my thoughts. A tense murmur arises from the passengers. Recently, the Gestapo has established new security checkpoints at all major entry points into the city, including the spot where our road bisects the Aleje. Vehicles are subject to random stops and searches. I have seen cars and horse-drawn wagons pulled over, ordinary citizens forced to stand by the side of the road and answer questions about their identities and destinations. This is the first time, though, that I have seen or heard of them intercepting a bus. For a second, I wonder if they are looking for me. Perhaps someone from the resistance talked after being arrested and named names. A chill runs down my spine. Don’t be silly, I tell myself; if the Gestapo wanted you, they could just as easily find you at the Kommandant’s office or at Krysia’s house. It is just a routine stop.
Two brutish police officers climb aboard the bus, shouting for everyone to get off. Hurriedly, we gather our belongings and obey. I avoid eye contact with the men as I pass them. Two more Gestapo police stand outside the bus, each with a large German shepherd on a thick leash. I stand huddled with the other passengers on the street corner in the freezing cold while the Nazis inspect the bus. We do not speak. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen. I am going to be late for work. I picture the Kommandant looking at the clock and pacing his office impatiently, wondering where I am. I briefly consider leaving the crowd and walking the last few blocks to Wawel; it would be much quicker than waiting. Then I decide against it, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
Twenty minutes pass. Finally, the policemen emerge from the bus and wave us back on board. They stand by the bus door as we enter, demanding identification papers from several passengers, seemingly at random. I brace myself as I pass, but they do not stop me. When everyone is reseated, one Gestapo officer stands on the steps of the bus by the still-open door. “Klopo-wicz, Henrik!” he barks. There is silence. The officer repeats the name, his face reddening. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man across the aisle from me slowly raise his hand. His face is ashen. I do not turn toward him, but remain facing forward. “Schnell!” the officer shouts. The man rises and makes his way forward reluctantly. As he reaches the front, the officer grabs him by the arm and drags him off the bus. The doors slam shut behind them. I have seen that man on the bus every day since I started work. He appeared unremarkable, a manual laborer of some sort. I wonder what he has done, or was thought to have done, that caused him to be arrested. There must have been something; it did not appear to be a random selection. I shudder as the bus lurches forward once more.
Some fifteen minutes later, I reach the base of Wawel Castle and race up the ramp. Malgorzata is already seated at her desk when I enter the reception area. The clock over her desk says that it is eight-thirty. The Kommandant will be waiting.
“Dzien dobry,” Malgorzata says smugly. Her greeting is a reproach: you are late and I am not.
“Czesc,” I reply hurriedly. She opens her mouth to say something, but I am already through the door to the anteroom.
I shut the door behind me with a click. The anteroom is warm, a cozy fire burning beneath the furnace grate. Malgorzata must have made the fire for me. She tries sometimes, I think, removing my hat and gloves. I really should be more kind to her. I remember asking Krysia after the dinner party where I met the Kommandant how she could be so pleasant to
those we despised. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” she had replied.
As I start to remove my coat, the door to the anteroom opens. It is Malgorzata.
“Yes?” I say, looking over my shoulder at her.
“The Kommandant went to a meeting at Pomorskie,” she says.
I turn toward her. “Did he say when he will be back?”
She shakes her head. “He said to tell you that…” Malgorzata stops midsentence. Her eyes grow wide.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
She does not answer. I follow her stare, then freeze. Her eyes are fixed on my midsection, her mouth agape. As I’d been taking off my coat, my sweater had pulled from the waistband, revealing the fullness of my belly.
“Malgorzata…” I say, then stop, uncertain how to continue.
She turns hastily to leave, nearly tripping on a corner of the rug that has turned up by the door. As she stumbles, I catch her by the arm. “Malgorzata, please wait…” She pulls her arm from my grasp. “I can explain,” I add, though I have no idea what to say.
She does not meet my eyes. “I have to go. There is much work to be done before the Kommandant returns.”
“Malgorzata,” I try again, but she is gone, slamming the door behind her.
Oh, God. I sink to my chair, a wave of nausea overtaking me. Malgorzata saw my stomach. She knows that I am pregnant. I consider racing after her, pleading for her silence. It would do no good. Malgorzata has sought my favor for months, hoping to be my ally because I occupy a favored position with the Kommandant. Now she no longer needs to be nice. She has all of the information she needs to unseat me. And it is only a matter of time, I am certain, before she tells the Kommandant.
“I made contact with the movement,” Krysia tells me a few days later after we put Lukasz to bed. We are sitting in the parlor sorting clothes that she had washed earlier that day.