by Pam Jenoff
The policeman licked his lips and took a step forward. “Of course, I was pleased to question such an attractive suspect.” The man’s voice was gravelly. He took her in with a sweeping head-to-toe gaze, and for the first time in her whole life her looks seemed a liability. “Are you alone?”
She swallowed, searching for the right answer. “Yes.”
“Your cousin has gone, then?” Ruth cocked her head, puzzled, and started to say that she did not understand. Perhaps he had her confused with someone else. She decided instead to play along.
He took a step toward her. “It must be quite lonely here all by yourself.”
“I have a sister. She’s not here right now,” Ruth added quickly.
“But without a man...” His hand grazed her hair, his breath wafting sour upon her. Then he stroked her cheek. It was a gesture so bold that she thought she might have imagined it. She froze, not pulling away for fear of angering him. Mistaking her silence for acquiescence, he lowered his hand, tracing a line from her cheek to her neck to her collarbone and nudging back the fabric of her dress to expose her skin.
She flushed at the memory of Piotr’s furtive touch behind the barn, his clumsy gropes going farther than they properly should have before she pushed him away. It seemed now that she was being punished for the earlier transgression.
Ruth bit her lip, willing herself not to scream and attract the attention of the children. The policeman’s tobacco-stained fingers dangled above the edge of her breast, hovering, waiting to strike. She braced for the shame of what would surely come next.
Then he stopped. A half smile played at his lips. The power and threat were enough—for now.
“A woman passed through a few weeks ago,” Ruth blurted out, seizing on his hesitation. She instantly regretted it. Helena would have remained strong, and would not have helped the enemy. “Not from these parts. Jewish, I think.”
Though the woman was not his present quarry, Wojski’s’s eyes widened. “Did you see which way she went?”
“Over the fields.” Ruth pointed in the opposite direction from which she had seen the woman go, praying that the policeman would not sense the lie.
She held her breath. Surely he would leave now. But he continued staring at her—did he think she had helped the woman? “I would have informed you, but I lost your card.” She did not mention that the woman predated his earlier visit, having come just before he had.
Just then a loud wail came from the bedroom, Karolina awakening. The policeman raised an eyebrow. “You said you were alone.”
Her breathing stopped. “One hardly counts a baby.”
The policeman did not reply, but moved swiftly in the direction of the bedroom. Ruth leaped ahead of him, picking up Karolina before his outstretched hands could touch her.
“What a beautiful child,” the police officer said, but there was no tenderness in his voice. “I do not have any myself, but I was a teacher once.” As his crude finger rubbed the baby’s soft apple cheek, Ruth wanted to slap his hand away. Her eyes traveled to Tata’s hunting box, which sat high on the shelf. She did not know how to use the rifle as Helena did, had resisted Tata’s attempts to show her. But she would try rather than let him hurt the children. “Is she yours?”
Ruth shook her head. “My sister.”
He clucked his tongue. “That’s a terrible burden to shoulder in these times. Families in Germany are paying dearly to adopt such Aryan-looking children. ‘Lebensborn,’ they call it. I could arrange for an application.”
“No!” she blurted out with more force than she knew was left in her. Her anger boiled. To him, Karolina was a commodity, to be bartered for favor, or perhaps even money.
The policeman looked embarrassed. “Of course, I had not meant anything by it.” He stepped backward, retreating. “Still, if you’d like to cooperate...” He licked his lips and his salacious tone left no room for misinterpretation. The man reached in his pocket and produced a pair of nylons like the very ones she had dreamed about. He held them out to her, the fine fabric soft as silk beneath her calloused fingertips. They weren’t new and she could not help but wonder who had worn them, how he had come to have them in his possession.
She stared at the nylons, considering. Cooperating with this man would bring security for the family, perhaps even the gifts she’d heard about from the soldiers. It wasn’t as if she had anyone else.
He reached in his pocket again and pushed a tin of sardines across the table. Ruth’s mouth watered. “I could help you.”
With difficulty, she handed both items back. There were some lines she could not cross. “That is very kind of you, but I really cannot accept these.”
His lips curled in a sneer. “You think you are too good for me. This is my jurisdiction now. When the Germans come you’ll be begging me, pani. You are a fool if you think you are safe here.” He paused, as though expecting her to change her mind. Several seconds passed. “If you see the woman again, or hear anything unusual...” Then he turned and walked from the cottage.
Ruth stood motionless for several seconds, then raced to the window. The policeman strode in the direction of the barn and opened the gate. He led Bolek the goat from the pen. She gripped the window ledge, paralyzed. The Germans and their puppets were free to “procure” anything they wanted, and protesting would just give him more reasons to cause trouble. There was nothing she could do.
Watching the policeman retreat down the road with the goat, Ruth clutched Karolina, shaking so hard she thought she might drop her. Ruth dropped to a chair and looked around the room. There was no hint that the policeman had been there, other than a faint coating of mud on the floor that just as easily could have come from the children. Still, it looked wrong. Everything was tainted now by what had happened.
Setting Karolina back in her cradle, Ruth ran to the closet and pulled out one of Mama’s sweaters, ignoring in her need to change and clear herself from the man’s touch her earlier admonition to Helena to leave the clothes undisturbed. She hated to defile the soft, clean fabric with the man’s filth, and she would have taken a bath then and there if it would not have aroused too much suspicion from the children. Her skin crawled. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her face now blotchy. Shame and loathing rose in her.
Her thoughts returned to the policeman. Once he had been a schoolteacher. What made someone like him turn against his own people—was it money or fear, or the need to find a better life or protect one’s own? He had offered to arrange for the baby’s placement. Ruth shivered. They must stay together at all costs. The war suddenly seemed closer, on their doorstep, large and menacing. As Ruth wrapped her arms tighter around Karolina, she understood then that she had not nearly begun to lose everything.
10
Helena made her way through the woods toward the city. The sky was pooling to the west with thick dark clouds that signaled snow. As she reached the place where the path broke off, she looked longingly in the direction of the chapel. She wanted to go and make sure Sam had made it back safely the previous day, and that he had not strained himself too much from the journey to the plane. But she needed to get to the city to see Mama as well as try to make contact with the resistance, and she had no idea how long that would take. And time passed so quickly when she was with Sam; if she went to him now, she would surely stay much longer than she intended. Plus, she had promised Sam she would help and he would be eager for information that would help him escape. She did not want to face him again until she had something to share.
As she continued up the hill, her doubts rose. She wanted to help Sam, and it had seemed like the right thing to do. But going into the city and asking questions meant even greater danger, and she owed her loyalty to the children and to keeping them safe. She imagined her sister’s reaction if she had known what Helena was doing. Ruth would be furious. Helping the soldier survive was on
e thing—taking on his mission quite another. This isn’t our fight, Ruth would say. But she would be dead wrong. Because aside from any feelings Helena might have for Sam, the truth was that Sam had come halfway around the world and risked his life to try to help them. How could they expect anyone else to fight for them if they did not stand up for others—and themselves?
Behind her, the wind grew stronger now, unabated by the pine trees. It pushed at her back, seeming to urge her forward. A sudden surge of energy raced through Helena, strengthening her legs, and she found herself walking with renewed vigor. Helping Sam was purposeful and real, more so than anything she’d ever done. It seemed in that moment as if she’d been waiting her whole life for this. She passed the point where the path divided. For the first time, she did not look in the direction that would take her away from this place, but instead focused straight ahead.
But as she climbed the hill above the city, her doubts bubbled anew. This time she questioned not whether she should help, but could she? She had offered to help Sam connect with the resistance without really thinking about how—or if she could even do it at all.
Pushing her questions aside, she descended the hill and crossed the wide steel railway bridge that spanned the Wisła River. Daylight, too bright for December, broke through the thick clouds, bathing Wawel Castle in dazzling, golden light. The soot-covered facades of the stone buildings below the fortress seemed to glow, as if saying defiantly, We have withstood war and suffering across the ages, and we will transcend this, too.
At the base of the bridge, she paused, looking toward Kazimierz. Should she go to see Mama first? No, better to try to make contact for Sam. Mama would still be there in a few hours, and perhaps Helena would be able to coax a bit of food into her.
Turning away from the Jewish quarter, Helena made her way along the high stone wall at the base of the castle. She turned onto Grodzka Street, taking care not to slip on the slick cobblestones. She had only seen the Old City from a distance before and she marveled at the sloping buildings that lined the winding medieval thoroughfare, their carved stone fronts and high windows elegant even in disrepair. Save for the automobiles, it was as if she had stepped into a storybook a hundred years earlier, making her feel awkward and out of place.
The street soon opened onto the rynek. Helena stopped, taken by the size of the massive square, divided by the long yellow Cloth Hall that housed merchants’ stalls. A sharp breeze cut across the square, which was littered with bits of dirty snow at the corners. Drawing her coat closer, Helena was struck by how normal it all seemed, save for the swastika flags that billowed from the buildings. The shops were open and pedestrians walked easily along the pavement at midday. There was no Christmas market on the square, as there might have been in happier times, but festive wreaths hung in a number of the shop windows.
Helena hovered on the edge of the square uncertainly. Where should she begin in her search for the resistance? Ahead of her a little girl walked with her mother, eating roasted chestnuts. She looked slightly younger than Dorie, with silky blond hair peeking out from beneath a fur-lined bonnet. But Dorie would have eaten carefully without dropping precious bits to the pavement, as this girl did. Watching the child, oblivious to her own good fortune, resentment welled up in Helena. Why had fate chosen to treat this child so much more kindly than her own siblings?
Just then a horn called out above. Helena’s gaze traveled to the towering spires of the Mariacki Cathedral, dark against the gray sky, where a trumpeter heralded each hour. The nurse Wanda had spoken of the church as a center of black-market activity when describing her attempts to procure more medicine. Helena knew little about the black market, since Biekowice was too small to have one of its own. But it sounded secretive and underground, so perhaps someone there might have a connection to the resistance.
Helena stepped from the curb, still looking up at the church spires. Something slammed hard into her, sending her sprawling to the pavement. Potatoes clattered to the ground around her. “Stupid!” a gray-haired man swore, diving after his fallen crate.
She sat up, ignoring the throbbing pain where she’d landed on her hip on the pavement. “Pardon me...”
“You clumsy girl, watch where you are going!” The man waved her off as she tried to help, then plucked a potato unceremoniously from beneath her. Helena could feel her cheeks grow red as he continued to berate her, drawing the attention of passersby.
“Halt!” A German soldier, noticing the commotion, walked over. At the sight of the glinting silver swastika on his collar, Helena’s heart stopped. “What is this about?”
The man pointed at Helena. “This girl caused my potatoes to fall.”
“That’s all? Be gone with you, before I arrest you for causing a disturbance.” As the man scampered off with his crate of potatoes, the German turned to Helena. He was Gestapo; she could tell by the insignia on his lapel, part of the police force that fiercely patrolled the city. But beneath the wide brim of his hat, he was not much older than she. “You must be careful, my dear.”
Careful. She suppressed an improbable laugh at the irony. Then, catching the glint of metal from his waistband, her humor faded. Attracting the attention of the Gestapo was the very opposite of what she wanted to do.
The man held out his hand expectantly. Her breath caught. Would he ask for her kennkarte? She carried it with her, of course, the identity card that had been issued by the Germans at the start of the war. But it noted that she was from Biekowice and it did not have a stamp authorizing her to travel.
But the man took her hand in his. “Allow me,” he said, helping her to her feet.
“Oh, thank you, sir,” she said sweetly, doing her best impression of Ruth. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come to stop that awful man.” She lowered her eyes, then looked up again, marveling at the way the German’s gaze followed her own, disarmed. The power she had as a woman was not one Helena had acknowledged before. Even as she availed herself of it to ward off the man’s suspicions, she hated it.
The German lifted his shoulders. “It isn’t a good idea for a woman to be out on the streets alone these days. May I escort you to your destination?”
“That’s very kind of you but not at all necessary. I’m just going to the church.” She pointed over his shoulder, watching for a reaction. The Germans hated not just Jews but all religion, and had stopped just shy of forbidding a devoutly Catholic nation of Poles from worshipping. “I need to say a prayer for my ailing mother. Sickness of the female parts,” she added conspiratorially, knowing that the intimate reference would stave off further questions.
“I’m sorry.” A look of what appeared to be genuine concern crossed the German’s face as he stepped aside to let her pass. “I hope she is well soon.”
“Thank you.” Helena freed herself from his grasp and hurried onward, still shaking under the burn of his gaze.
Inside, she paused to calm her breathing, blinking in the dim light. The cathedral was grander than anything she had ever seen. An enormous crucifix rose from the nave to the cupola, set against an altarpiece embossed in gold. Solemn organ music played. She trembled, shaken in equal parts from the encounter with the German and the daunting task that stood before her. What was she doing? Looking up at the ornate stained-glass windows, it seemed hard to believe the kind of people she was looking for might be found here. But as her eyes adjusted, Helena could see the back rows more filled than they should have been on this weekday morning, mostly by young men. She slid into a pew across the aisle from them, trying not to stare as a flash of bills changed hands. Wanda had been right about the black market. Could one buy information there, as well? It had not occurred to Helena that she might have to pay for what she needed, and she had no means to do so.
Inhaling the scent of something that burned sweetly, she leaned over into the aisle. “I’m trying to make contact with the resis
tance,” she whispered.
The man closest to her ignored her and turned away. “Seven o’clock at Pod Gwiazdami...” she heard him say to his companion before getting to his feet and swiftly leaving.
She reached in her pocket for a coin and held it out to the man who remained. He took it hurriedly. “The resistance,” she whispered. He did not answer but pushed his hand down low as if to say wait. Then he, too, disappeared.
Helena sat alone now in the pew, watching people come and go from the church, including one stooped old woman clutching a rosary who actually seemed to be there to pray. “Ojcze Nasz...” the woman intoned in a low voice. Our Father. Thirty minutes passed, then forty. She scuffed her feet restlessly, uncertain what to do. A priest walked down the aisle and Helena held her breath, waiting for him to ask why she was lingering there, but he simply nodded as he passed. Outside, the trumpeter played again, signaling three o’clock. Helena’s shoulders slumped. She had been duped.
Defeated, she got up and walked to the entrance of the cathedral, an ignorant village girl, unable to make her way in the city. Though still afternoon, it was getting dark and the lights had gone on above the shops, casting eerie halos in the mist. She had not yet gone to see Mama, but if she did not start home right now, she would never make it before it was completely dark. She did not want to risk, either, being caught out in the city after curfew. Would Mama notice that no one had come to see her that week, or had she gone to a place where time ceased to matter? She left the church, skirting the side of the building and cutting down Stolarska Street to avoid seeing the German soldier on the square once more. When she reached the railway bridge, she turned back, her eyes traveling remorsefully in the direction of Kazimierz. She had failed Sam, and had not seen Mama at all. She held her hand up in silent apology, feeling Mama in the cold, still air before her.
