I balked. My brain worked frantically for a reason to be this far from the center of the ghetto. I remembered the previous day, when I had run away from Rachel, angry and frustrated. I had ended up on this very street, so close to the fields and farms beyond. I figured telling the truth, no matter how trivial, was the best solution.
“No, sir,” I answered meekly. “My friend and I got into a fight, you see, and I just—needed to get away.”
The two soldiers looked at each other and laughed. The second solider pulled his cap back on his head and murmured something I couldn’t quite hear to his partner. Then he looked at me and said, “Jewish girls. They bicker and squabble like so many chickens.”
His partner regarded me in silence, the smile still playing on his lips. There was something predatory about his expression. The glint in his eyes made me uncomfortable. I turned my gaze away.
“And what were you arguing about?” the second soldier asked. I thought again of Rachel, of her comments about Benni, and felt my face grow hot. Before I could answer, the soldier said, “Ah, yes, let me guess. Boys. Am I right?”
“I bet a pretty girl like you gets a lot of attention,” the first soldier said, taking another long puff on his cigarette before throwing it to the ground and crushing it with his boot. He took a step forward. My heart pounded painfully in my chest. He reached out a hand, and before I could move, he was stroking my cheek, fingering my braids. “Red hair,” he murmured. “So unusual to see red hair on a Jewess.”
The look in his eyes now scared me.
His partner seemed bored. “Kristoff, enough messing around,” he said shortly. He eyed me as well, but his eyes were cold and flat. The soldier named Kristoff moved his hand away, but not before touching my lips.
“You’d do well to go home,” the second soldier said.
I nodded. I couldn’t catch my breath. I peeked over their shoulders toward the fields. In the distance, I saw a small figure pulling a cow, heading in our direction. My heart jumped into my throat. But the two soldiers were watching me carefully, so I turned around and quickly hurried back toward town. I could hear them laughing as I fled.
When I was a block from home, I ducked into an alley and leaned heavily against the wall. My mind was racing. Did I dare go back to meet Fryderyk? What if the soldiers were still there? They would instantly suspect me then. But if I returned home, I would be met with David’s hollow eyes and Majer’s groans of hunger. My own stomach rumbled, and I realized I hadn’t eaten since the day before. I took a deep breath and stepped back onto the street. I just hoped Fryderyk would still be there.
To my great relief, I saw him in the field when I reached the edge of town once more. I hid behind an abandoned shack, checking to make sure the lane was empty before stepping onto the open road. If the two soldiers were still patrolling the border, I knew I would have no choice but to turn and run. Thankfully, the road was empty. But still I trembled as I stepped out into the open, fearing they might reappear at any moment.
Fryderyk saw me and raised his cap in greeting. As we approached each other, I noticed how his eyes crinkled in the corners when he smiled, how white his teeth were, how his hair shone like gossamer strands of fine silk in the sunlight. I wondered at the fact that my breath caught just a little, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks.
“You came back,” he stated simply when we again stood facing each other.
“Yes,” I nodded, looking away from his penetrating eyes, so unusual in color.
“I’m glad. Did you think about my offer?”
I nodded again. “I talked about it with my family.”
“Did they approve?”
I considered his question. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “But my brother Majer was ill this morning. He looks so thin. My older brothers are trying to find work in the ghetto, but we don’t get any money. And we have so little to eat.”
I don’t know why I revealed all this personal information. I felt suddenly vulnerable. As if he could sense my thoughts, he said softly, “I know how hard it’s been. It’s been hard for us too. It’s just my grandmother and I now. My parents died a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmured.
“They were good people. They believed in charity.”
Again, I felt affronted. “We don’t need charity,” I insisted, even though that’s exactly what I was agreeing to.
“I meant no offense,” he asserted quickly. “We are friends now, yes? And friends help other friends. True?”
I swallowed. “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Good,” he said. “Meet me tomorrow before dawn. It’s safest that way. There’s a path through the field just over there,” he said, pointing. “It will lead you to our farm. I will have the lantern lit by the front door. If for some reason the lantern isn’t lit, it’s not safe, so don’t approach. Understand?”
“Yes,” I repeated, nodding.
He reached out then and took my hand in his. I was startled by the contact, but some part of me was pleasantly surprised as well. He held it for a moment in silence as our eyes met.
“You are brave, Sarah,” he murmured, giving my hand a squeeze before letting it fall.
I looked down, knowing full well my parents would disapprove. When Fryderyk let my hand drop, I backed away, embarrassed and uncomfortable. Yet I also felt a rush both exhilarating and enticing that I couldn’t quite explain. I turned to walk home, staring at my hand the entire time, still feeling the pressure of his fingers against my own.
Seventeen
“How can you let her go?”
Jacob and Sam stood just inside the doorway, watching as my mother fussed over me. It was 4:30 in the morning. The sky outside was pitch-black. The wind hummed like breath over a reed as it lashed the side of our flat. I shivered, but I wasn’t sure if it was from cold or fear. My brothers hadn’t been home the day before when my father had agreed to let me go meet Fryderyk. They left every morning before we were awake. Lately they had found work laying bricks outside of Olkusz. They were marched there each morning and returned home exhausted every evening. They were paid a pittance. Now Sam took a step forward and said, “How can you do this, Mama? She’s just a girl. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m sixteen,” I said crossly.
My mother was silent as she wrapped my shawl around my head. Her lips were set in a grim line. My father coughed on the stained mattress. The night before, he had gone to bed early, complaining of pains in his stomach. Like the twins, he was growing thinner, a shadow of who he’d been, his cheeks gaunt and his eyes sunken. I’d notice his hands shaking at times, and his breath rattled in his chest; occasionally, he would have coughing fits he couldn’t control. I tried to push away my concern, but it was getting increasingly difficult to do so.
“There’s still another way,” Sam said, lowering his voice. “We have more to trade.”
My mother had allowed them to trade a few pieces of jewelry and china, even our Sabbath candlesticks, but still she refused to part with the violin. Again, our eyes shifted to the instrument sitting silently in its case in the corner. Most nights, Jacob was too tired to play. But the nights he did, we all gathered around him. The music was something apart from the ghetto, something beautiful, something sacred. When I listened, I closed my eyes and could imagine being somewhere else—somewhere with green grass and blue skies, somewhere warm and clean, not gray and dirty and crowded. Jacob’s fingers were now rough, his nails soiled with dirt and grime, but still they produced pure, sweet music. No one wanted him to trade the violin, least of all my mother.
“No,” my mother said softly.
“I don’t understand,” Sam insisted. “I know someone outside the ghetto, Mama. We could get so much for the violin.”
“No,” my mother said again, slightly louder.
“You’re putting Sarah in danger!” Sam exclaimed, and my
mother’s face turned pale.
“I want to do this, Sam,” I interjected, turning on him. I did want to do it. The idea of seeing Fryderyk filled me with a strange sense of exhilaration and longing I didn’t quite understand. The idea of helping my family gave me courage. And if I could keep the music in our life, keep some part of our old life intact, I felt I was doing something good. “I can do it, Mama,” I said bravely, turning back to her.
My mother looked down at me; her eyes were an unfathomable pool of worry. “You’ll be safe, won’t you, Sarah?” my mother whispered, searching my face. “You’ll be careful? If you see anyone, look straight ahead. Don’t look away nervously. Don’t do anything to rouse their suspicion. If you come across any trouble on the street, turn and come home immediately.”
“Yes, Mama,” I promised.
My mother lifted a corner of my wool cloak to inspect the sleeve of my shirt. The band with the Star of David was wrapped firmly around my upper arm. My eyes followed her gaze. She swallowed and pulled the cloak more securely around me, fastening it below my chin. I knew I was to hide whatever food I was given beneath the cloak, but now my mother said urgently, “Once you are outside the ghetto, make sure no one sees the star, Sarah. Do you understand?”
I nodded, my thoughts running wild. Fryderyk had told me to take the path that led to his farm. Would I pass other homes on the way? Other farmers setting out for their day’s work? How would I know which farm was theirs? I hadn’t thought to ask. Now I felt my stomach clench nervously. What would happen if I got caught outside the ghetto?
My mother pulled me forward into her arms. I felt her breath against my ear. I felt the warmth of her body against my own. “I love you, Sarah,” she said.
I clung to her for a moment. She rarely spoke such words. Her love was always felt, always freely given, but rarely addressed. I closed my eyes and rested my head on her shoulder. I wanted desperately for that moment, when I was safe in her arms, to last forever. “I love you too, Mama,” I whispered.
Crickets chirped in the tall grass on either side of me. An owl gave a loud hoot from a nearby tree. I clutched my cloak close around me, glancing in all directions as I followed the path to Fryderyk’s farm. I had passed through the streets of the ghetto undisturbed. The whole ghetto was asleep. The soldiers were nowhere to be seen. Now, the full moon overhead played tricks on my senses; my shadow stretched out before me, rose onto the wall of grass on either side of me, so I felt pursued by a ghost. I swallowed. Each deliberate step I took sounded thunderous in my ears. By the time I saw the light of a lantern ahead of me, I felt I had been walking for a year.
Fryderyk’s farm held a modest cottage that sat next to a weathered barn and was surrounded by a fence where cows stood sleeping. I was grateful that it was the first dwelling I passed. I didn’t know how far outside the ghetto limits I was, and I let out a sigh of relief that there was no other building around for miles, except for a small chicken coop to the right of the cottage. A rooster stood on its roof, cocking its head, considering me as I approached. I left the safety of the grass and followed the little cobblestone path up to the door of the cottage. The lantern that stood on the porch beside the door dispersed a small amount of light as I lifted my hand and gave three quick knocks in succession, like we had discussed.
A moment of silence passed in which I stood breathlessly on the doorstep. I could see on the eastern horizon a crimson glow outlining the mountains. I wanted to be safely back home by the time the sun was fully up. When no one answered, I hesitated, wondering if I should knock again or turn and run. What if this was another farmhouse with a lit lantern? What if a stranger opened the door and questioned what I was doing at this early hour? What if I was found out?
Before I could move, though, I heard a latch turn and the door opened a fraction. The face of an older woman I didn’t recognize regarded me curiously, and I thought, This is it. I’ve been discovered. But then a voice said, “Babcia, this is Sarah.”
I looked up and saw Fryderyk standing in the shadows over the woman’s shoulder. He stepped forward and smiled at me as he put a hand on his grandmother’s shoulder. I let out a breath. My knees suddenly felt like they would give way beneath me. I hadn’t realized how tense I had been, every muscle taut, prepared to run. I fell heavily against the door frame. Both the woman and Fryderyk instantly looked concerned.
“Come in, child, come in,” the older woman said in a low, gravelly voice. She reached out a withered hand and took my own, pulling me inside. Once I stepped over the threshold, Fryderyk grasped my elbow, and together they led me to a chair. I gasped silently at his touch, feeling again the not unpleasant tremor at his proximity.
“You poor dear,” the woman said, regarding me kindly as she leaned against a walking cane. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”
Her eyes, beneath folds of aged skin, reminded me of Fryderyk’s. “I’m all right,” I insisted. She tsked and shuffled to a stove in the corner, pouring a steaming liquid into a cup and returning to my side. “Drink,” she said. “It’s tea. It will give you strength. Rest for a moment.”
“Thank you,” I said gratefully as I wrapped my hands around the warmth of the mug, breathing in the steam that rose from the tea. Taking a sip, I felt the warmth spread through my body and I closed my eyes, falling against the chair.
“Did you pass anyone on your way here?” Fryderyk asked kindly, kneeling before me.
I opened my eyes and shook my head. “I don’t think so,” I said.
“You must be scared.”
“A little,” I admitted.
“You are very brave to do this for your family,” Fryderyk’s grandmother said, shuffling around the small kitchen where we sat. I looked around at the modest surroundings that were still richer than our own. Aged, hand-embroidered drapes were pulled across the paned windows, filling the candlelit room with a certain sense of security. I let my body relax as I watched Fryderyk’s grandmother move from the stovetop to a small table, where she began to fill a satchel with bread and eggs. My mouth watered at the sight of the eggs. She continued to shake her head and mutter under her breath while Fryderyk stood watching me. I sipped my tea, avoiding Fryderyk’s eyes.
“Here you are, dear,” Fryderyk’s grandmother said, returning to my side and placing the satchel at my feet. “Our hens gave us a good number of eggs, more than we need. And the bread is a bit stale but still good. We have our cow, so we have milk. And last spring I made a fresh batch of jams and preserves as well. I put some in for you.”
My mouth salivated at the thought of something as sweet as jam, as fresh as milk. I could feel tears of gratitude welling in the corners of my eyes. “Thank you,” I choked, swallowing hard. The old woman sighed and put a hand on my cheek. It was rough and calloused, but the touch was so kind that I started sobbing in earnest.
“Oh, my child,” she said. “It’s all right.”
“I’m sorry,” I gasped, mortified, trying to stop the tears. “I didn’t mean—”
“Shhh,” she said, patting my cheek. “It’s all right to cry. There is much to cry over.”
I swallowed again, wondering at her words. I wiped the tears that clung to my lashes, blurring my vision. “I should be getting home now,” I whispered.
The older woman leaned against her cane and nodded. “Come back in a week’s time,” she said. “We’ll have more for you and your family then.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, overwhelmed by their kindness.
“No need for formalities, dear. Call me Babcia.” When she smiled, the fine wrinkles around her mouth creased her aged lips. The smile was beatific. Her eyes lit up beneath a fringe of gray bangs, and her pale cheeks turned an almost plum shade. “I am grandma to all who know me,” she said genially. I imagined she must have been beautiful in her prime, but more than that, I recognized an inner strength, despite her now frail body.
Fryderyk w
alked me to the door. I paused, bracing myself for the journey back. My heart fluttered as I tucked the satchel in the crook of my arm, pulling my wool cloak securely around it. “Sarah,” he whispered as I turned the knob. I looked up at him. “Be careful going home.”
“I will,” I said. The flutter in my chest grew stronger.
“You will come back, won’t you?”
“Yes,” I promised. “I’ll come back.”
Eighteen
My mother and aunt cried out in delight as they pulled the food from the bag. They stared, incredulous, at the spread before them. “What a treasure!” my aunt exclaimed, examining the jar of strawberry preserves. She lifted the lid and stuck a finger in the red jam, touching it to her tongue. Her eyes closed as she relished the sweetness in her mouth. Majer and David ran to her side, pulling on her skirt and asking for a taste. She laughed and handed them each a wooden spoonful of jam, which they proceeded to lick loudly, their lips quickly becoming a shade of sticky pink.
“Why would anyone do this?” my mother asked, shaking her head in disbelief as my father sat silently in a chair in the corner. “Why would they risk their lives, share so much, for complete strangers?”
Her question remained unanswered, but in bed that night, I pondered it myself. We were strangers. I had only talked to Fryderyk a few times and had just met his grandmother. So why did he seem so familiar to me? Why could I not stop thinking about him?
I kept imagining Fryderyk’s face, his kind smile and gray, almost transparent eyes. I pictured his feather-soft hair that fell in blond waves to his shoulders. I felt a tightening somewhere in my lower abdomen when I thought of the freckles on his nose and the plumpness of his lips. I rolled over, hugging my knees to my chest, staring over the heads of my mother and aunt in the darkness.
The following morning, we had boiled eggs and toast. “I want more!” David exclaimed, licking every crumb and morsel from his fingertips and gulping milk from his tin mug. I savored the taste of egg in my own mouth, chewing slowly before swallowing to make each bite last longer.
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