by Pam Jenoff
“What happened?” she asked aloud to no one in particular over the nausea that rose in her throat. People hurried by pretending not to see, as if nonplussed by the scene that had turned the peaceful square into a horror novel. Did they fear his cruel death was somehow contagious?
“Hoarding,” a woman beside her whispered as she passed. Ruth’s blood froze. The very crime of which the policeman had accused her—and which Helena had, in fact, committed. Reflexively, Ruth crossed herself. If the Germans would do this just for hoarding, what might the penalty be for stealing food for an American soldier?
Ruth forced herself to press onward, pushing the image of the man from her mind. Market was closing when she arrived, the sellers packing away their remaining foodstuffs and returning home early to enjoy the holiday with their own families, at least as much as they were able under the grim circumstances. The fishmonger was already gone. She would have to make do with what she had already purchased. Dejectedly, she turned away.
She turned toward the church at the top of the square, elevated slightly above the rest of the town. A good-size building and larger than the town might have needed, it had an unbroken sandstone facade, rising to a rounded cupola. Church bells no longer rang out as they had in past years but a slow line of parishioners streamed from the front door of the church, leaving an early mass. Ruth watched longingly. She had loved going to church as a family. Huddling together in the warm close pew, she had felt for a brief time like a part of something.
Even after they had stopped attending Sunday service, Ruth had made a secret weekly pilgrimage on her own until Helena had found out. It seemed ironic—confession itself being a secret. She had gone persistently, though in truth she had nothing new to say because nothing worth confessing ever happened, not here. She felt selfish, taking time away from her chores just to talk about herself. That was why she had hidden it. But it was the one time she could be sure that someone was listening.
Ruth moved closer to the church now, noting that the nativity that stood out front in past years was missing. Her eyes rose to the simple metal cross atop it and she thought of kindly Father Dominik, who had patted their heads and given them the occasional sweet as children. She passed the small graveyard that wrapped behind the church. The too-close stones lilted toward one another, as if being pushed from the ground below by unseen hands. Her stomach tightened. She had insisted on the proper stone for Tata over Helena’s objections, using too much of the little money they had to pay for it, rather than allowing him to be buried in a pauper’s grave. And she had chosen a spot by the edge of the cemetery deliberately, hoping that space might remain beside him when their mother’s time came. Now that would never be.
Ruth walked against the tide of departing parishioners into the emptying church. Her eyes traveled to the front pew where Piotr’s family sat on Sundays, toward the confessional. Once, the pouring out of her sins, even the little everyday ones, had brought her much solace. But it seemed pointless now. Instead, she went to the knave and lit a candle and she was praying then, for Mama’s soul and for them all.
She looked up, wiping away a tear. The door leading to the rectory was open. Pushing Helena’s admonition from her mind, she walked toward it. The gray-haired priest looked up, his expression instantly guarded. “I’m sorry,” Father Dominik said as she neared, “but the charity baskets were given yesterday.”
“I’m not here for charity,” she said, struggling not to sound indignant. Her cheeks stung. She pulled her hood back. “It’s me, Ruth Nowak.” Had she really changed so much?
His watery eyes blinked once. “Yes, of course.” She waited for him to rebuke her for not having come to church in so long. “How can I help you, my child?”
She swallowed. “My mother died.”
His brow furrowed. “I had not heard. I’m so sorry.”
“It only just happened.”
“Death is very hard to make sense of...” he began, resorting to platitudes. “She was in the Jewish hospital, wasn’t she?” His tone made it sound as though that had somehow contributed to her death. “Well, she is with God now.”
“Do you remember her when she was younger?” Ruth was hungry for information, memories that might add to her own now that she could no longer do so.
“Your mother moved here not long after I came to the parish. She was from the north, I think. Your father had been on an errand there and had been taken by her beauty.”
Ruth smiled at the familiar story. But how had Tata approached her mother, a strange woman he did not know? And how had he persuaded her to leave everything to go with him?
Remembering the man who hung from the swing set, anxiety flooded her once more. “Do you think we should leave?”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“Do you think it will be safe for people here in the village? Like that man who was hoarding...”
The priest raised his hand, willing her to be silent. A guarded look flickered across his face. “Each must follow his own conscience.”
Isn’t that what you are here for? Ruth wanted to ask. “But if one wanted to go, surely there are ways.” She searched the priest’s face, pleading.
His eyes widened. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. I will call around to see your siblings,” he said, in a way that suggested they were finished. Ruth opened her mouth to tell him that was not necessary. She was the only one who put stock in the church, and if the priest visited the house Helena would realize that she had come here against her wishes. Looking at his face, though, she knew she had nothing to worry about. There would be no visit. Her charitable side wanted to believe the priest was too busy with the work that the war had made for the church, so many needing help. But even without the war, the orphaned Nowak children were not a priority for the parish.
“Thank you.” She walked down the aisle between the pews. The Virgin Mary seemed to stare down at her, demanding repentance. Ruth slipped from the church into the cold and dark and made her way to the edge of town, heading toward home.
As she started across the open field, her skin prickled with awareness. She turned sharply. A figure appeared from behind a tree, then disappeared from sight, dark and shadowy. The policeman. Surely he had better things to do than follow her. He was watching her, though, as if waiting for something to happen that she herself did not quite yet know. She quickened her step, praying that he would not come after her. When she reached the gate by the barn, she glanced over her shoulder. He was not there. But her relief was short-lived. Surely he would come again.
Calming her breath, she walked into the house. She was touched to see that Michal and Dorie had set the table and lit the candles, giving the room a merry feel. Michal’s eyes dropped to Ruth’s basket, which was as empty as if she had not gone to market at all, then darted quickly away.
“Where’s Helena?” Ruth asked, looking around the quieter-than-usual cottage.
Michal shrugged. “She went out. Said that she would be back soon.” Ruth’s indignation rose. Helena must have gone to see the soldier again, on Christmas Eve no less. Struggling not to comment aloud, Ruth took off her coat and set about finishing the babka cake she’d made earlier with a dusting of sweetened flour.
A few minutes later the front door burst open. “Merry Christmas!” Helena strode into the cottage, her arms filled with a small evergreen.
“A tree!” Dorie exclaimed jubilantly as Helena set it in the corner and fetched the stan
d.
“Tee!” Karolina echoed, toddling toward it.
“But...” Ruth looked at her puzzled. “We agreed just to decorate the mantel.”
“I know, but I thought...” She gestured toward the children, who jumped up and down merrily.
“You did what you wanted. Again.” And now you’re the hero for it. Resentment welled in her. Then watching the children, she softened and walked to the cedar chest. “Here.” She handed Michal the box containing the few glass ornaments Mama had collected over the years. “Be careful,” she admonished as the children set about hanging them quickly. In other years it would have taken hours to decorate the tree, but they could not spare the fruit and nuts they had once strung. The tree looked naked with just half a dozen or so ornaments. The children did not seem to mind, though, as they danced around it with excitement.
Helena went to the stove and lifted the lid on the pot that was simmering there. “Golabki? We always have carp,” Helena said pointedly.
“There was none to be had. So tonight,” Ruth snapped, “we are having cabbage rolls.” The children watched, the tree forgotten, consternation on their faces. There was a level of acrimony between the twins they had not before seen, unheard of on the holiday when fences were to be mended. “Why don’t you go look for the first star?” Ruth suggested, and they scampered to the window. By tradition, the Wigilia meal could not commence until they had seen the first star. She turned back to her sister, trying to find a way to ease the tension. Quarreling on the holiday was a poor omen for the year to come. But the gulf between them was too wide to bridge.
“I see it!” Dorie cried a few minutes later. “The first star!”
“’Tar!” Karolina echoed, pointing and jumping.
“Then let’s sit down.”
They all came to the table. Ruth produced a single oplatek, which she divided into pieces and gave to each of them. The breaking of the thin wafer between two people was a Christmas Eve ritual intended to symbolize forgiveness and letting go of the past. She reached across the table to Helena and extended the wafer. “Peace,” her sister said as they broke the tiny piece between them. But the words were hollow, the kiss on her cheek stiff. How could one cracker heal so much division?
Ruth went to the kitchen and picked up the serving dish. Once Wigilia had consisted of more than a half dozen different seafood recipes. Now the only dish was golabki. She had boiled the last few cabbage leaves, which she had feared would be too tough for eating, then filled them with a savory mixture made from the apples she’d purchased at market and some ground nuts. She had been quite proud of the result, a plate of delicious cabbage rolls.
“No sauce?” Helena asked mildly when she had set out the feast.
Something burned white-hot in Ruth then and she stood, knocking several of the golabki from the plate beside her. “How dare you?” The children’s eyes widened in surprise. Ruth hated for them to see this side of her, especially now. But she had slaved to make the best meal she could. She walked into the bedroom, trembling.
Helena followed, closing the bedroom door behind her. “Ruti, let’s not fight on Christmas.”
But Ruth was too far gone for that. Suddenly, it was about something much bigger than her cooking—or Helena’s lack of gratitude. “You saw him again, didn’t you?”
Helena’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean to. I even left a note telling him I wouldn’t come again. But then everything happened with Mama, and, well, I was so sad I just couldn’t bear it.”
“So you went to him.” Helena had a man’s arms in which to seek solace, Ruth realized with resentment. “Once or more than once?”
Before Helena could answer, Michal knocked tentatively on the door, then opened it. “Please don’t... That is, it’s Christmas and you’re upsetting the girls.”
“We’ll be right out,” Helena replied, waving him away. When Michal had closed the door again, she turned back to Ruth. “I have to help him,” Helena said, her face animated in a way Ruth had never seen before. “His work is so important to the war.” Then her expression grew serious. “But it’s more than that... The soldier, he’s Jewish.”
“Is that so?” Ruth’s lip curled involuntarily, her dislike of the soldier hardening. She waved her hand. “You said you would stop going. You lied.” The words hung between them, heavy with accusation.
“I’m sorry, I tried not to go. But I won’t abandon him, Ruth. I can’t. I’m all he has.”
Ruth’s voice rose, and this time she did not try to control it. “You care about him more than us.”
“That’s not true! But yes, I do care about him.” Helena was open and exposed in a way she never had been before. “Why must it always be one or the other?”
“Because life is about choices.” She understood this in a way that Helena did not. Ruth searched desperately for an argument that would convince Helena to stop seeing the soldier. But Helena was loyal—it was one of the things Ruth loved best about her, even as it infuriated her now.
They stared at each other, the issue looming unresolved between them. “I’m sorry about what I said about the cabbage rolls.” Helena shifted to an easier topic. “It was completely thoughtless of me.” Helena was genuinely contrite and she did not try to justify what she had done. She held out her hand. Ruth took it and returned to the table with her, somewhat mollified. Dorie had picked up the cabbage rolls from the table, dusting imaginary specks of dirt away. She stared hard at the table, not meeting her sisters’ eyes.
Michal squeezed her hand under the table as she sat down. “They’re delicious,” he said a moment later. He would not, she knew, ask about the quarrel for fear of restarting it.
Ruth sniffed. Cooking with little was hardly new. Mama had taught her well how to stretch the broth for soup and other meals. She had prided herself on being able to roll the dough for pierogies thinner than any woman in the province. Of course, it had been easier then; when the land was plentiful and not picked over by starving people and animals, they had eaten with the seasons—root vegetables in the long winter months, carp and trout fresh from the stream when the waters flowed in spring.
They ate in silence. “Mischa,” Helena said. “Remember the year that Papa said the angels had brought you a lump of coal?”
Ruth smiled, joining in at the attempt to make light for the children. “Of course, that was before he gave you the beautiful sled he’d made.”
“That was funny,” Michal said, his face brightening.
“I bet you didn’t think so at the time,” Dorie rejoined.
When they’d finished eating, Dorie and Michal cleared the plates, more helpful than usual, mindful that Christmas gifts were coming. “Come,” she said when they’d finished, walking to the chair by the fireplace and calling the children to her. The girls piled on her lap and Michal sat by her feet on the hearth. “Mary, a virgin, was living in Galilee of Nazareth and was engaged to be married to Joseph, a Jewish carpenter,” she began. “An angel visited her and explained to her that she would conceive a son by the power of the Holy Spirit. She would carry and give birth to this child and she would name him Jesus.” The children listened raptly as she told the Christmas story, trying to remember the words exactly as Mama had said them and get the inflection just right.
As she finished, there was a ringing sound; Helena held aloft the small bell that signaled an angel had left gifts at the door. The children rushed to claim them, discarding the brown paper wrappings feverishly. Ruth helped
Karolina to unwrap the simple rag doll she had made. There were books for Dorie and a secondhand pair of boots for Michal that she’d managed to barter for some knitted mittens at market as Helena had suggested. Each child got a piece of candy, too. It should have been more, Ruth lamented. But they laughed and smiled excitedly, grateful for what was given.
As the children examined their gifts, Ruth gazed toward the door. For a moment it seemed that Tata might walk in. She turned toward the kitchen, straining to see Mama at the stove where she once had stood. Above the children’s heads, her eyes met Helena’s and held, their thoughts one, shared sadness transcending the differences between them. She batted back tears, unwilling to dampen the children’s holiday.
Helena cleared her throat. “How about some koledy?” she suggested to Ruth, who had the better voice. Ruth nodded and began to sing, “Today in Bethlehem...” The children joined in, their voices gaining strength and rising to the rafters. When they finished the carol, she quickly began another, as though the music could keep out the sadness that surrounded them and maintain at least for a bit longer the pretext of Christmas.
“Off to bed with you,” Ruth told the children when the last carol had been sung and the candles on the table burned low. They bounded to the bedroom still excited. Ruth smiled inwardly, pleased that they had made it a good Wigilia, after all. She kissed them each and tucked them in.
“Please tell us one more story,” pled Dorie.
“But I’ve already told you the story of Christmas.”
