The Light in Hidden Places

by Sharon Cameron

  Or maybe I can.

  Max is on his knees, a thick plank of wood in his hand. I think it was to bash my head in.

  “Fusia!” he hisses. “Tell us next time! What—”

  “They’re taking the house,” I say. “The Nazis are taking the house in two hours. Stay where you are. I’m going to find a place for us to go.”

  But where am I going to take thirteen Jews? Right now?

  I don’t know.

  Max grabs my arm. “When they come, we’re going to fight. That’s already decided.”

  “I’m going to find something.”

  “Take Hela,” Max says. “And don’t come back.”

  “If she comes, tell her to hide at her castle ruins …”

  “Fusia, take Helena and do not come back!”

  “Tell her I’ll find her there,” I say, and go down the ladder like he hasn’t spoken.

  I run down Tatarska Street in the bitter wind, and my eyes are roaming, roaming. Where can I take them? A cellar. A garage. How will I get them there in the daylight? They’re dingy. Shaggy. Unshaven. Pale. They look like they’ve been sitting in an attic. Where can we go?

  I fly through the door of the housing department, causing outrage when I push aside the men and women in line. The woman who helped me get Tatarska is sitting at the desk.

  “I need an apartment,” I say. “Right now. The Germans are taking the house, and my sister and I have nowhere to—”

  “Five days at least to get an apartment,” the lady says. She doesn’t call me her butterfly or mouse or anything else this time. Probably because I’m being rude.

  “More like two weeks!” yells a man from the back.

  “You don’t have anything right now?” I ask her.

  “Of course not!”

  After that I run aimlessly up and down the streets, because I don’t know what else to do. Looking for anything that might be empty, where I could put thirteen people for a day, for two days. Two weeks until I get a new apartment. But would that apartment even have a place I could hide them? I knock on two doors where there are signs in the window, but no one is willing to let me move in before I do my paperwork. I run into the cathedral, wet my cold fingers, kneel, and cross myself so fast it makes two women stop their praying and turn their heads.

  I ask. I beg. The arches of the ceiling feel empty above me.

  The bells ring.

  I have half an hour.

  I have a decision to make.

  I run from the cathedral, letting the heavy oak doors thud shut, and don’t stop running until I’m at the door of Tatarska 3.

  Helena is there. And Max. And all of my thirteen, just standing in the living room. Max has his board. Mrs. Bessermann a kitchen knife. Siunek has a hammer.

  We have fifteen minutes.

  The door isn’t even locked.

  Max sets down his board and walks up to me. He takes my face in his hands and looks me in the eyes. “You listen to me,” he says. “You have done enough. You take Helena, and you run. Do you understand me?”

  His eyes are dark and angry and desperate.

  “Go, Fusia,” says Siunek.

  “Run,” says Jan Dorlich, and Sala, and Mrs. Bessermann. They each put a hand on me where they can.

  “Go now, girl,” says Old Hirsch.

  “Run,” says Dr. Schillinger.

  Dziusia puts her arms around my waist. And I am looking at Max, and I am crying.

  Because I cannot run.

  “Helena,” I whisper. “Go to Emilika. Until Mama comes home.”

  My little sister shakes her head. She puts her arms around me with Dziusia.

  We have ten minutes.

  “Stefania,” Max says. He’s still holding my head while I cry. He’s crying, too. “You take Hela, and you go. Right now!”

  Except I can’t live with that. I want to live, but I can’t live with that.

  I shake my head.

  “I’ll make you go!” Max says.

  “Fusia,” says Henek. “You run! Now.”

  Danuta is still crying. She puts a hand on my shoulder.

  I don’t know what to do. What can we do? Helena has to go. My heart beats and beats, hard against my chest. I can’t watch Max cry. I close my wet eyes.

  And a calm steals over me. Warm. Soft. Like the night I found the furs. Like the night I found Tatarska Street. And like that night, I have a conversation with some other part of myself.

  Send them to the attic. Open the windows. Act like you’re not afraid. Get the second bedroom clean.

  That’s ridiculous. Why should I do that when I’m about to be shot?

  Because they’re not going to shoot you.

  But the Gestapo said they would shoot me. And then they’ll find the others.

  They won’t shoot anyone. They just want a room. You can give them a room.

  They’ll shoot Helena.

  No, they just need the room. Act like you’re not afraid. Give it to them.

  But …

  Give it to them. Do it now. They’re coming.

  I open my eyes. And Max is shaking me. He might have just slapped my face a little.

  They’re going to think I’m crazy. I’m risking Helena’s life. It might not work. My head says it won’t work.

  But inside, I know. It’s quiet there. And I am not alone.

  “Go up to the attic,” I say. “All of you!”

  “Please,” Max whispers to me. “Don’t.”

  “Go!” And I walk away from his hands, from all their hands, and turn the lock on the door.

  “Go,” Max says, his voice low. “And don’t make a sound.”

  And they go. Like ghosts up the ladder, taking their weapons with them. They’ll fight, when the time comes. Only the time won’t come. Max grabs his piece of wood, looks at me one more time, and goes up the ladder. Now his eyes are only sad. More than sad. He looks lost.

  He thinks he won’t see me again.

  “Hela,” I say. “Quick. Empty the bucket from the bedroom and leave it outside. Then chase out the chickens and stay with them. I’m going to lock the door behind you.”

  She doesn’t say a word. Just pulls on her coat and does it while I take down the curtain where the bucket was and throw it under my bed. I pull back the window curtains and push up the sash. Breathing the clean air. I’d forgotten how this room looked with the light streaming in. And then I sweep. Singing. The hidden space in the attic is directly over my head.

  I know Max thinks I’ve lost my mind.

  I might have lost my mind.

  If I have, I prefer it.

  The bells ring in the steeples. And there’s a fist on the door.

  I don’t hurry to answer it. I don’t go slowly, either. I go carrying my broom. I’ll open the door when I get there.

  I’m going to find out whether I live.

  Or whether I die.

  I open the door.

  It’s an SS man. A different SS man. Stern-looking. With a nose red from cold and a pistol. He’s alone.

  “Miss … Podgórska?” he says, checking his list. “I am here about the housing?”

  More decent Polish. I take a deep breath.

  “Yes, they said you would come. I was just sweeping out the room for you.”

  “I will look, please?”

  I didn’t know the Gestapo knew how to ask permission. I open the door wider and smile at Helena, who is shivering in her coat, peeking around one side of the toilets. The SS officer thinks I’m smiling at him.

  He walks through to the back bedroom, makes some notes, and when he passes my bed, he stops and picks up an envelope. It’s the letter from my mother. Helena had been reading it again last night. Suddenly his face is much less stern.

  “Salzburg?” he says. “I am from Salzburg!”

  “My mother and brother are in a labor camp there. That’s why I’m raising my little sister.”

  “The one outside? She is very pretty. Very shy.” He smiles.

  H
e doesn’t seem like he’s about to shoot me.

  He sits with me at the table. He says they have only two nurses left to house, and he doesn’t see why they would each need a bedroom. They can share, while my sister and I stay in our current room. Would that be acceptable? It’s so good that we didn’t move too quickly, because it works quite well for us to stay. Soldiers will be coming in a few minutes to deliver two beds. And could he take a letter to my mother for me when he goes back to Salzburg?

  I thank him and shut the door.

  He had a gun, but he didn’t use it.

  I am alive. Helena is alive. We are all alive.

  Then I have to open the door again because the soldiers are here, carrying painted iron bed frames. They set them up in the back bedroom, and the German conversation and the banging are loud. I wonder what my thirteen can be thinking. And in the middle of it all, the two nurses arrive. Karin and Ilse. Young. In their twenties, with painted nails and freshly curled hair. And they do not seem so pleased with their situation. They had not intended to share a room. They cannot live without electricity. Or a proper kitchen. And the toilets are where?

  I get all this from the reactions of the soldiers setting up their beds, because the two women do not speak Polish at all.

  Maybe they’ll want to go away so much that they’ll find a way to make it happen.

  While they’re settling themselves in, I say that I’ll be moving a few things out of their way. I do this by pointing in several different directions and leaving them looking confused. They seem to be just as repelled by me as by their new surroundings. Helena sits at the table, ready to whistle if there’s trouble—like if the nurses try to climb the ladder, or more Nazis come to live with us—while I creep up to the attic with the dirty bucket and the clean one full of water. I don’t think these women will be leaving anytime soon.

  Max is already opening the false wall. He’s half in, half out the little door when I go to my knees. He grabs my forehead and puts it to his, and says in barely a whisper, “You are such an idiot.”

  I nod, my forehead rubbing against his. I know.

  I leave the buckets and crawl back down.

  And later that afternoon, Ilse comes to me and says, “Ratte. Ratten!” She’s pointing upward. At the ceiling. I realize she’s telling me that we have rats.

  I think she’s telling me she can hear something in the attic.

  “Oh,” I say, letting understanding blossom on my face. “Rats, yes. Sorry.”

  I shrug. She looks disgusted.

  I need to warn Max, but I can’t.

  The nurses help themselves to our supplies. As if my food is German Army issue. They eat all the bread. And the butter for the week and half the eggs. There’s nothing left that I can slip up to the attic. Not without cooking. Then they sit on the sofa for a while, talking to each other. They seem in better spirits. Ilse helps Karin with her lipstick. Then she answers the door when someone knocks on it. Like I’m not even there.

  It’s two German soldiers. One of them SS. They all greet and kiss each other.

  Then they all go to the back bedroom.

  They don’t seem concerned that there’s a child in the house.

  Helena and I sleep on the sofa that night. Or, at least, she does. I lie still with my eyes open, waiting for the best moment to crawl up to the attic. When I do, Max barely moves the planks, in case of noise. He’s made a tiny peephole in the boards, to see who’s coming.

  “They can hear you,” I whisper.

  “We can hear them,” says Max.

  I know. “You have to keep everyone quiet.”

  “The children are hungry.”

  “Helena will come as soon as they go to work. But all of you, you have to be silent.”

  Max nods yes, but I don’t think he’s sure he can keep them still enough.

  I’m not, either. Some of our thirteen are a handful. Some of them are just too young.

  When I lie down on the sofa beside Helena, and the house is finally quiet, the old fear comes back. It’s never gone away. Just stewed and simmered, lurking beneath the lid of false security I’d dropped on top of it. But my security is gone now. It’s hard to breathe, hard to think, and there’s such a sharp pain behind my eyes it makes me see lights. I want to grab Helena and run. Like they told me to.

  I was such a fool not to run. I’ve only delayed the day. Made them all suffer.

  And then I remember my certainty.

  There has to be a reason.

  There has to be a chance that we will survive this. I cling to that thought like my belief in God.

  There are four Nazis sleeping in the bedroom.

  There are thirteen Jews in the attic above their heads.

  Helena and I are standing in between.

  I think we are all about to reinvent our notions of hell.

  It is impossible to feed them.

  I go to work earlier than the nurses. I come home at about the same time. Their boyfriends come not long after that. Since the hospital is directly across Tatarska, it’s no trouble for them to run home for a change of shoes. A forgotten sweater. For warming up beans and frying sausages for lunch while my people lie in the attic and smell it. Their days off rotate during the week, and when they don’t go to work, they sleep late. Some days, they never go out at all.

  I lie awake at night. Jumping at every tiny sound.

  Helena is doing her best. She sneaks the dirty bucket down and the water bucket up every morning, as soon as Karin and Ilse are gone. Then she goes to the market for the next day, hauling the fake bags back and forth, while two of my thirteen sneak downstairs to wash, stretch their legs, and prepare food for the others. On Danuta’s day for doing this, she puts on thirteen eggs to boil, only to get just enough warning to slip up the ladder with Henek before Karin comes waltzing back through the door, home to fetch her boyfriend’s SS hat. When Helena trudges back to Tatarska, exhausted from hauling the food bags up the hill, she gets a slap in the face from Karin for starting a fire in the stove and leaving it.

  We have words over that, Karin and I. Very broken words in German and Polish. But I think I make my meaning clear. Hit my sister again and you will be hit yourself, and I don’t care who your boyfriend is.

  I go to work the next day and beg Herr Braun to switch me to the night shift. I flatter him. Grovel. And he says he won’t do it. And I am nauseated at work, sick with fear about what might be happening at home. And Karin watches us both like a Nazi eagle. Especially when we eat.

  I always have to hide the food now. If the nurses see it, they eat it.

  Two weeks into my new life running a Nazi boarding house, I come home from work with a basket of beets. I peel them, slice them, put them in the soup pot, and Ilse starts to sniff the air, polishing her nails on my sofa. She’s waiting for her boyfriend. Karin joins her, and they watch me stir, talking among themselves. But I hear them say, “borscht.” And when Karin finally gets impatient, she strides over with a spoon and lifts the lid of the pot. Only to recoil, drop the lid down again, and complain loudly to Ilse.

  And after the boyfriends have come and everyone is locked away in the back bedroom, I lift the pot lid and fish out the ball of yarn from the borscht, which is not that different from yarn dye anyway, and then sneak the whole pot up the stairs. The yarn was clean, and Max says the tiny fibers left behind just made it more filling.

  If I really thought they could eat yarn, I would feed it to them. Max is very thin. And when it’s Sunday, and the nurses are both on duty, and it’s his day of the week to come downstairs, I discover he has fleas. There really are rats, he says, because of the food in the attic. And the rats brought the fleas. Everyone is bitten. Everywhere. I let him wash in the bedroom while Siunek is on duty at the window, and I think about our time at Christmas, when Max had his arm around me on the sofa. And the night before that, beside the window, when I thought he must have felt so caged.

  Now his cage has shrunk again.

  I wa
nt Max to live. I think I’ve decided I want Max to live more than I want not to be shot.

  I sacrifice another chicken and use the rest of the potatoes to make a stew they can take upstairs, and while it’s boiling, I try to comb the fleas from Max’s hair. I’m not sure I’m doing any good, but the combing makes him relax. His hair is so long. And his beard, too. I should cut his hair, but I know I’d ruin it. It runs black through my fingers.

  “We’re a mess, aren’t we, Fusia?” he says with his eyes closed.

  We’re alive, I think.

  I give him the baking soda while Siunek takes the soup. “Scatter some on the floor. Use the rest of it on their skin,” I say. He nods.

  I want to cry when he climbs so slowly up the ladder.

  But he’s left me a present beside the sugar tin, where the picture of an SS officer once sat. It’s a piece of paper with a simple pen drawing. Of me. “Fusia,” it says, my hair tumbling on either side of my face, and Helena is labeled, too, smiling by my side. But instead of arms, Max has drawn Helena and me with angel wings, spreading from one end of the paper to the other, and under our wings are thirteen faces. Max, Dr. Schillinger, Dziusia. Siunek and Old Hirsch. Malwina Bessermann with Cesia and Janek. Monek and Sala, Henek and Danuta, and Jan Dorlich.

  I touch the one labeled Max, and when I hear Ilse’s voice outside the door, I hurry to my bedroom, and tuck it safe underneath the mattress. With everything else.

  The next day, on my break, Januka tells a story about a woman on the other side of Przemyśl, across the San, who was hiding Jews in an attic. Her husband had rigged up a system, an extra pipe that ran down the side of the house, where the people in the attic could take care of … you know, only the pipe leaked, and the lady downstairs kept having horrible dirty windows. So the husband of the lady downstairs looked at the pipe, realized it shouldn’t be there and what it meant, and called the Gestapo. And they found four Jews and shot them, right there in the yard, and then they shot the woman who was hiding them, her husband, and her two children. The man downstairs felt so bad he went inside and shot himself, too, and now his wife has gone crazy with the grief of it.