by Pam Jenoff
Helena clumsily replaced the clothes as well as she could. Then she walked from the bedroom. Had Mama sold the cup, after all? It seemed unlikely that she would have discarded it after keeping it for so many years. Helena’s eyes traveled to the mantelpiece. High above on the shelf there was a cabinet where Mama had once kept the medicines and other dangerous items she didn’t want the children to find. Helena reached up into the space, but it was empty. She started to pull her hand out, deflated. As she did, she noticed that one of the bricks on the base of the cabinet sat at a strange angle, slightly higher than the others. She dug at the brick, lifting it with effort. Beneath was a small empty space. Her hand closed around hard metal.
She lifted out the tarnished, soot-covered cup and held it aloft, considering. It was a link to their mother and the past they would never know. She wished she had remembered the cup and thought to ask about it when Mama was still alive. Now it was too late and that, like so many other answers, lay buried forever. But the chalice was the most valuable thing in the house by far. Selling it would bring money for food and possibly their passage.
A clattering at the door jarred her from her thoughts. She replaced the brick and closed the cabinet, climbing down from the hearth as the children burst through the door. Quickly she walked to the hook where her coat hung, and slipped the cup into her bag. Michal and Dorie chattered, breathless from the snow and anticipation of the holiday that evening. “Boots off,” she ordered, disliking the harshness in her own voice.
Then she stopped. She and Ruth were all they had now. Her hand rested on Dorie’s head. The girl looked up, unaccustomed to her affectionate touch. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Helena said quickly. “How about a horse ride?” Dorie’s face brightened, and she looked at Helena with such gratitude that Helena’s insides crumbled. The children took it on blind faith that she and Ruth would do what was best for them—a promise she had betrayed when she’d risked their safety for Sam. She dropped to all fours heedless of the dirt against the hem of her skirt, giving Dorie a turn first, then Karolina. Ruth would scold her for riling up the children, but she did not care.
“Enough now. Wash your hands, and your sister’s, too,” Helena said a few minutes later, breathless from play. As they obeyed, she moved to set out the black bread and cheese Ruth had left for their lunch.
Watching the children eat, the earlier debate with Ruth played over in her head. Run or hide? Now knowing the truth, doing nothing was not an option. Perhaps Ruth was right.
“No,” she said aloud to no one in particular. They would not hide only to be found like rats in a cage. They would keep going and if they were taken it would not be because they stopped trying.
15
The next morning Helena crept from the house before dawn. She searched the sky anxiously. Though the temperature seemed to have dropped ten degrees overnight, the weather was still relatively mild. In past years, there might have been as much as a half meter of snow. But now only a fine coating of white covered the ground. Her heart sank. A heavy storm was the one thing that might keep Sam from going. Then she stopped, taken aback by her selfishness. More snow would mean additional hardship for the family, burning coal and wood they could ill-afford and making it more difficult to find food. And it would keep Sam alone and freezing in the chapel, at constant risk of discovery.
Pushing the thought from her mind, Helena crossed to the forest quickly, feeling naked and exposed as though she might be apprehended—or worse—at any second.
She reached the trees, her breath calming as she began to climb. She had not woken Ruth to make excuses, for what reason could she plausibly give for going to the city now that Mama was gone? She had contemplated weaving a complex tale about trying to arrange for Mama’s burial, the paperwork involved. Her lies would be unabashed—their mother’s body was long since gone, making the possibility of a proper funeral nonexistent. Ruth would have known that she was going to see Sam. And in part that was true—but it was more than that. She fingered the packets of medicine that she’d stuffed into the lining of her coat. She’d gotten these for Alek in hopes that he might trust her enough to help Sam. Connecting Sam to the partisans was their only chance. Even now—especially now—she had to see this through.
Wait a week, Alek had said. Though it felt longer, it had, in fact, only been two days since she’d met him at the café. But things were worsening—she had to act now, or it would be too late.
At the fork in the path, Helena paused. She had left the house impulsively at her usual hour to start off into the forest. But she could not go to the café this early in the day. Alek would not be there; indeed, it would surely be closed, and she would not know where else to look for him. She hesitated, then started walking toward the chapel, joy and excitement rising in her as it always did when she was about to see Sam.
She knocked three times softly on the door, a habit she had formed in recent weeks, as though it was his proper house and she a visitor. Silence. Usually, Sam limped his way to greet her, or called to her from the other side. “Hello?” Helena pushed open the door. There was no answer. She inhaled sharply. Had Sam left, without saying goodbye, as she had asked him to do? No, she reasoned, his leg was not well enough for that. Perhaps someone had found him. She turned back toward the door, then stopped. Sam lay in the corner, leaves and a burlap sack piled over him. Hiding.
She approached Sam, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Her stomach gave a little jump, as it always did when she first took him in. He was curled up on his side, back pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around one knee. His head was cocked at a slight angle as though he had seen something curious. His mouth was agape, eyes closed.
Nearing him, Helena’s heart tugged. She ached to lie down beside him. She adjusted the burlap, and a wave of protectiveness arose in her. She knew in that moment that she would do just about anything to make sure he was safe.
She tried to move quietly as she knelt, but a twig cracked beneath her foot. Suddenly his head snapped up and he reached for his waist. “Wait!” She put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s only me.”
Sam’s eyes cleared. “Lena. I must have dozed off.” Deep half circles ringed the bottom of his eyes. He slept lightly, she surmised, fearful that someone might come and catch him off guard. He held out his arms to her. She folded wordlessly into them and lay down beside him. He kissed her, his full lips warm from sleep.
As they broke apart, she noticed her photo propped up against the wall of the chapel, placed close to where he slept. Warmth filled her as she imagined him looking at it at night, seeing her face before he closed his eyes, as she did his in her mind when she lay in the darkness with her siblings.
His face clouded. “What are you doing here so early? Is something wrong?”
“I’m headed back to see Alek and deliver the medicine.”
She watched him wrestle once more with his concern for her versus his need to escape. “I thought he said to wait a week.”
“He did. But I don’t think I should wait.” Their eyes met and locked in agreement.
He coughed then, a deep racking noise like heavy wagon tires on gravel. “You’re getting sick,” she fretted.
“No,” he replied quickly. But with the constant dampness of the chapel and in his weakened state, it was inevitable. She pressed her hand to his forehead, noting with relief that it felt only slightly warm. Anxiety pressed at her stomach still. There was nothing she could do for him if he fell seriously ill, no medicine and certainly no doctor she could bring. He had to remain strong.
“Why don’t you sleep while I’m here?” she suggested. “I’ll make sure no one comes.”
He looked at her dubiously. “You’ll stand watch?”
“I suppose that’s what it’s called.” She had intended only a brief visit, but he could not heal if he did not rest.
“Th
at seems a terrible waste of our time together... I mean, your time.”
“Not at all.” He wrinkled his brow, tempted but not convinced. “You don’t have to sleep. Just close your eyes for a bit while we’re talking.”
He did not lie down again, but leaned against her shoulder, burying his nose into her neck. She fought the desire to turn to him and find his lips. He closed his eyes and a moment later he was breathing against her skin, as evenly as before, only deeper. Moving slowly as not to disturb him, she reached with her free hand and covered him with the burlap, then sat back again.
Watching Sam’s chest rise and fall, she was reminded of her father. An image flashed through her mind then of a January morning when she was twelve. Helena had risen early and discovered the fire had gone out, the cottage dangerously chilled, a frost growing on the windowpanes. Tata never let that happen. She had slipped from bed and found the space beside her mother empty. Alarmed, she put on her coat and went outside. Tata was passed out half inside the barn. She could not wake him and for a moment she thought he was dead, but his stale breath was warm. He might have died, frozen to death. She had used all of her strength to pull him into the barn, then gathered the wood and started the fire before anyone had noticed.
“It’s chilly,” Mama had remarked when she’d awoken, the cold still lingering, though the fire had burned brightly again. A few minutes later, Tata came into the house, the faint stubble on his cheeks the only evidence of anything amiss. They exchanged looks, a silent vow, and she knew she would never say anything. And so it began, Helena covering for him, getting food and wood when he could not, making sure he passed out somewhere safely until that last night when she had so terribly failed. Mama and the others would not know, or chose not to guess, the truth about the extent of his drinking.
What if she had said something? she wondered now, as she had so many times over the years. If she had told Mama about the liquor, perhaps she could have done something, and Tata would be alive today.
Sam shifted beside her. He straightened and pulled away, leaving the spot where he’d nestled against her neck damp and chilled. Eyes open now, he propped his hands behind his head. “Hello.” He smiled with a lightness that he could not possibly mean, given the grim circumstances. “I’m not tired anymore,” he added before she could protest that he needed to sleep longer. “That was the best rest I’ve had in some time.”
“You were smiling in your sleep. Was it a nice dream?”
“Oh, yes, we were at one of those dances I told you about, but you just kept eating bread and cheese as if we were here at the chapel.” She chuckled but there was a note of truth to what he dreamed—even if they made it to America, she would somehow always be changed by the hunger and other struggles they had faced here.
Helena stood and went to the stove and made him some tea. Pouring it, she recalled Dorie looking for the cup a few days earlier by the fireplace. “My doll’s cup,” Dorie said, wrinkling her nose until the freckles formed a single red cluster. “I’m sure I left it here.”
“You should be more careful with your belongings,” Ruth scolded. Inwardly, Helena cringed, knowing that the fault was hers, not Dorie’s. She wanted to own up to taking it, but could not afford the questions it would bring.
Helena shivered as she returned with the tea, noticing then how low the fire had gone. “Do you need more wood?”
He shook his head, gesturing to the pile in the corner. “I’ve just been keeping the fire low to be safe.” He rose and limped to the stove and, before she could protest, added several more sticks. “It’s a kind of cold that gets into your bones,” he observed, holding his nearly healed leg.
She nodded. “I had to pour boiling water on the latch to open the barn door yesterday. Of course, it isn’t nearly as cold there,” she hastened to add, feeling guilty at the comforts of home, which she enjoyed and he did not.
He chuckled softly, seeming not to mind. “And to think I used to complain about Chicago winters. A hot bath,” he said wistfully. “When I get home I’m going to climb into a hot bath up to my neck and not get out for a week.” She blushed as the image of him naked in the tub penetrated into her mind.
They fell silent for several seconds. “Better today?” he asked gently, touching her cheek.
She shrugged, remembering the grief at losing Mama that had threatened to drown her just a day earlier. Sadness washed over her anew. It might have been any other visit to Sam, except that when she went to the city, Mama would no longer be there. The pain was a bit duller, like a cut just barely begun to heal.
“No, of course not,” he said, answering his own question. “How stupid of me.”
“More surreal, maybe. I don’t know if it will ever get better.” It would, of course. It had gotten easier with time after Tata’s sudden death. But to acknowledge that now seemed like accepting Mama was gone, and she wasn’t ready to do that. After Tata had died, she understood that people left—that she and her siblings would lose one another, one by one, separately, painfully. With Mama, she thought she had been ready. But all of the months of suffering had not prepared her for this. “I just never thought it would end this soon.” She was talking about Mama, but the words seemed to mean so much more. “I feel so guilty,” she added.
“You can’t possibly blame yourself for what the Germans did at the hospital.”
“I know that. My mother needed care and it was the only place. But Tata was so good at protecting her. I can’t help but think that if he was alive, things might have turned out differently. And I think that’s my fault, too.”
“Your father dying? How can you possibly blame yourself for that?”
She recounted the story of finding him passed out in the barn years earlier. “I could have done more,” she lamented. “If only I had said something about his drinking, maybe he would still be here—and Mama, too.”
“You can’t fix everything, you know.” Sam was right. She had spent her whole life, it seemed, trying to make things right for others. “Your mother’s cancer, for example, was out of your hands.”
“Part of me knew how it would end with Tata’s drinking, though. If I had told my mother that day, things might have turned out differently.”
“That, I understand.” His face dropped and she saw a darkness there she could not have imagined in his otherwise bright demeanor. “I didn’t say much about my family before. It’s not as cheery as I might have let on. My dad was a hitter, you see, mostly Mom, though my brother and I stepped in to take some of the pressure off her. See this?” He raised his hand to the scar on his temple. “I didn’t fall. He pushed me into a table when I was nine.”
“Oh!” Helena reached out to the spot where he had indicated, putting her hand over his. She felt the pain of his wound as she had the day she had found him with the broken leg in the woods. The hurt of the blow, and betrayal by his own father, reverberated through her, as though they were happening now and not a decade ago.
“My brother left for the army to get away from him, I think. I couldn’t have abandoned Mom. But then things got worse.” Sam pulled away from her touch, going somewhere deeper inside himself, a place that she could not reach. He licked his lips and she braced herself, intensely curious and yet filled with dread, as if she was about to walk down a dark scary hallway and open the door in spite of herself. “One night I caught him beating Mom worse than ever.” His eyes darted back and forth as he relived the moment. “I tried to pull him off, but I couldn’t. I got a baseball bat—just to break it up, you know? But then he tried to grab it and I was afraid he would use it on her.” His voice cracked. “I hit him much harder than I intended and...and he died.”
“Oh, Sam, no...” She searched for words but found none. How could sweet, gentle Sam, her Sam, have done such a thing? Because he had been protecting his mother—trying, as she had done by hiding Tata’s drinking and on so man
y other occasions, to do the right thing—and getting it so horribly wrong.
“The judge said it was self-defense and he let me enlist instead of going to prison.” Watching Sam’s fists clench and unclench as he spoke, Helena understood then that his anger came from his determination to protect the innocent who had been caught up in this war, driven by his frustration that he could not protect his own family. Is that why he wanted to help her, as well?
His guilt washed over her then, dwarfing her own. She reached out and drew him close as Ruth might one of the children, trying to absorb some of the pain. “It’s all right,” she said, offering the pardon that was not hers to give. “It was an accident.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I thought you’d hate me.”
“Not at all.” His father had been a bully. And Sam, more so than anything else, hated bullies. So did she. Though Tata had not been a violent man, Helena had instinctively taken on the role of gentle Michal’s protector. “You were defending your mother, I understand.” But how could she possibly? She’d been angry before at people, like the Germans at the hospital, and once a woman in the village had sneered at Dorie’s limp and made her cry. Helena had wanted to throttle her. To actually have killed, though... Once she might have been horrified by Sam’s story, judged his actions in terms of right and wrong. But everything was just so gray now—none of the old rules seemed to apply anymore.
He lifted his head, eyes damp. “I don’t mean to burden you with my story now, on top of everything else. But I wanted to let you know I understand the what-ifs. And it might sound crazy, but even after everything, I miss my father.”
“It doesn’t sound crazy.” So he had lost someone he cared about, after all. His grief and guilt were, like her own, inextricable.
His hand closed around hers tightly as though he were clutching to her for stability, trying to right himself. Was he worried that since he had shared the truth about his past, she would no longer want him? “You’re the first person that I’ve trusted.”
