by Liz Tolsma
“Rest as much as you can. Take it easy and allow your husband to pamper you. I’m sure that in no time, you’ll cradle your child.” If he kept giving her assurances, hope, perhaps her husband would not find a reason to be rid of him.
He pushed up from his creaky wooden desk chair and showed Pani Fromm out. He leaned against the door frame as she ambled down the street and out of sight. His wife approached and embraced him from behind. “You’re troubled.”
He turned and kissed the top of her head. “Aren’t we all?”
“But you’re worried about something you aren’t sharing with me.”
“It’s confidential.”
“I don’t know why she comes to you all the time.”
“She needs my help.”
“It’s dangerous, Pawel.” She kissed the inside of his hand. “I’ve already lost Józef. I can’t lose you.”
“Don’t fret.” But it was treacherous business he was about.
The days lengthened as Natia’s strength returned. In a way, the hard work Pani Fromm demanded of her was good. She didn’t have the time or energy to mourn the loss of her son. Or to dwell on the ache in her heart that came from missing her family. And Teodor.
Because without him, she wasn’t whole. She was as empty as the coal bin in the morning.
She tried to sing to fill the void in her heart. Always before, it helped. The melodies soothed her spirit at the loss of her children. The tunes celebrated each new day with Teodor. The songs spoke of better times amid hardship. Sweet memories of Mama and the rest of her family.
But now her mouth and vocal chords refused to cooperate. Each time she attempted to voice a melody, the notes choked out rough and scratchy. Not her usual smooth soprano, the voice Teodor compared to a bird.
She hummed a few bars, but even that bit of music was hollow.
Pani Fromm wanted apple strudel for dessert tonight. She told Natia where to find the recipe, but she knew how to make it by heart. Both the Germans and the Poles shared a love for this dessert.
She set out the flour and the butter, but she scraped the bottom of the crock that held the sugar. No sweets without it.
If Elfriede wanted more, she’d have to get it. Natia brought the container into the main room where the woman reclined on the sofa with her needlework.
“No sugar.” Natia pointed to the almost-empty jar.
Elfriede motioned to her pocketbook and said something. Natia fetched Elfriede’s purse from the table across the room and grabbed her shoes from the back entry.
“Nein, nein.” Elfriede took the handbag but swatted away the shoes. Instead, she pulled out her wallet and peeled off several złoty. “You go.”
“Me?” Natia pointed at herself, sure Elfriede must have used the wrong Polish word.
“Ja. You go.”
“Nie. You must.”
“Nein.” Elfriede settled back among the cushions. Her behavior had been odd the past several days. She’d gone out, came back an hour later, and planted herself on the sofa. From there, she directed Natia’s work. Pan Fromm told her that Elfriede wasn’t to get up and wasn’t to do any work whatsoever.
Was she expecting?
“No strudel.”
“You go.”
“Pani Fromm?”
“You go.” She set her full lips in a firm line.
Elfriede must feel that her husband wouldn’t object to Natia shopping. They didn’t keep her locked in a room, but they had never let her out of the house either. Then again, they knew Teodor was a prisoner. Even if she escaped, she wouldn’t go anywhere without him. If he was here, she would stay.
Maybe the fresh air would release her song.
She grasped the money Elfriede handed her, grabbed the straw marketing basket, and headed down the street. The village wasn’t large enough for her to get lost.
The sun illuminated the little town, and its warmth penetrated her white blouse. She’d been too ill and distraught when she arrived to notice its charm. Tile-roofed cottages lined the old, narrow streets. One stooped woman whistled as she swept her front porch. She stopped and waved at Natia as if all were right with the world.
Up ahead, a massive compound of buildings spread across the road, two smokestacks towering overhead.
Could this be the place where Teodor was, if he was alive? As she scrubbed the kitchen floor a week or so ago, she’d overhead a conversation Elfriede had with her husband. While she hadn’t understood most of it, she caught her husband’s name and something about a factory.
Could he be here? Almost right in front of her? Did she dare even dream the possibility? So close he was, and yet so far. Just out of her grasp.
And if he was here, were the others too?
She wiped her sweaty hands on her simple black wool skirt lined with petticoats. Her heart pattered inside of her. Oh, Teodor, if only I might communicate with you somehow. Speak to you. Let you know I am fine.
And that I love you.
She gazed at the long lines of windows. Three stories of them. Which one might be closest to where he worked?
Glancing around to make sure Pan Fromm and his underlings weren’t around, she set down the basket. She would have to start at this end and sing all the way down the line to be sure he heard.
If her voice would work.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. For the first time since they arrived, she let the music take control.
When for a moment thou dost speak, my darling,
’Tis like the music of angel voices calling,
Mute is my joy that I may be so near thee,
Hark’ning, and hoping that thou mayst persevere,
Naught else desiring, forever, forever, but so to hear thee.
Chopin’s words, those of a Polish hero, poured from her with very little thought. Not scratchy or hoarse, but clear and true. She closed her eyes, and the melody transported her to a better time, when she worked the fields beside her husband. When he loved her through the night.
The song spoke for her.
The music cried with her as she told Teodor of her loneliness. It held her up as she reassured him that she had recovered and was well. It soared with her as she poured her love out to him.
She meandered along the side of the building, singing the soft, tender melody over and over, with as much volume as she could muster. Would he hear?
Dare she hope that he would answer?
Silence echoed in the void.
No movement from the windows. No sign that anyone inside heard her over the noisy machines.
Of course. How silly to think her song would reach him. And especially crazy to believe he might sing back to her.
The hum and whine of machinery filled Teodor’s head as he reached the top step for the hundredth time during his shift and picked up another crate to be loaded for shipment to Germany. The Nazis hadn’t enlightened the men what the pieces his fellow prisoners manufactured were for. He rubbed his lower back. After several weeks on the job, his muscles still cramped after many long hours hefting the heavy boxes.
He wiped the sweat from his forehead before it dripped into his eyes. Their captors forbade them from opening the windows. What were they afraid of? Someone jumping out? Then again, a couple of broken legs might be preferable to working in this miserable place. At least he got to taste the fresh air each time he descended to the first floor. And had the chance to search for Natia’s family. So far, without success.
Oh, but he missed his land. The warm breezes in his hair, the kiss of the sun on his cheek, the taste of the earth in his mouth. He missed the familiar sight of the crosses on the hill, though it brought fresh pain. Tak, he worked hard for little, but what he did was for himself and Natia. Here, the walls confined him, stifled him. If only he had a few moments to roam free.
As he pulled the next box to be carried so he could lift it, the container slipped from his hand and clanged to the concrete floor. In two long strides their supervisor, Untersturmführer Fr
omm, reached him. He bent over Teodor, Fromm’s face mere centimeters from his, the pungent, vinegary odor of sauerkraut almost overwhelming. “What are you doing, you careless dog? For that, you won’t have anything to eat when your shift ends. Maybe that will teach you not to be so sloppy. Just like your wife.”
Once Fromm turned his back, Jerzy shot him a glance. Teodor shrugged. The paper-thin, dry piece of brown bread and the watery soup with only the promise of a rotten potato was no great loss. Let some other poor soul choke it down. Tomorrow, Fromm might turn his ire on one of the other workers, and he’d get more to eat.
But Natia. Was that hound depriving her of food? She needed to keep up her strength. What was he doing to her? Teodor dug his fingernails into his palms. If only he had a way to know she was safe and well. But if he ever found out that dog did anything to his beautiful wife . . .
Their shift ended many long hours later. The men from his department shuffled back to the barracks on the building’s top floor. Too tired to even be hungry, Teodor flopped onto the middle of the three-tiered bunk. He didn’t have the energy to scratch at the fleas that bit him.
Jerzy sat beside him. “I’m sorry you had to miss the meal. Though, as usual, there wasn’t much.”
“I figured so.”
“I saved this for you.” Jerzy slipped him a crumbly piece of bread.
Teodor sat up, almost banging his head on the bunk above him. “You didn’t have to. I don’t want you in trouble on my account.”
“Don’t worry. I’ve had my fill of Fromm. Anything I can do to lessen his bite, I will. It’s a small rebellion, but one nonetheless.”
“I’m grateful.”
“You have to keep up your strength. You proved the other day you can prevent us from getting to each other. We need you. And Natia needs you.”
The bite of bread stuck in his throat. Dwelling on his wife only increased his desire for her. His chest burned at the thought of Fromm with his hands on her.
“You long for her as I long for my family.”
Teodor wiped the crumbs from his hands. “At least you know where your wife is.” He shuddered.
“Maybe. They picked me off the street at random one day, and it would be just like them if they shipped her and my children to a different camp. But what can we do?”
That was the question. “Something. Anything to end this war as soon as possible. To rid our land of the Germans the way they want to rid the land of us. We can’t allow them to run over our people like they’ve done for almost four years. When they invaded, we fought the best we could, but it was over so fast, I didn’t have time to join the battle. And who could stand against the blitzkrieg, especially when Britain and France turned a blind eye to our plight? But now, we’ve given up. Stopped fighting. That isn’t right.”
“Look at us.” Jerzy gestured wide, taking in all the dirty, overworked, tired men. “They have us caged. What can we do?”
“I don’t know. But there has to be something.” Teodor massaged his temples. Something to get back at them for what they’d done to his mother. And something to get back at them for what they were doing to Natia and countless others like them.
This time of day, a quietness covered the room. The day shift workers settled into their bunks. Men from the night shift left to work. No one had the energy to speak.
Just as Teodor lay back on his almost-flat pillow and gazed at his picture of Natia, a sound cut through the calm. A beautiful, haunting sound.
A sound he would recognize anywhere.
Natia’s song.
Her voice, so pure, so clear, so perfect.
He hustled to the window. Despite the warnings, he flung it wide. There, three stories down, his beloved.
His breath hitched.
The music floated to him, enveloped him. Heartache. Love. And, in a strange way, peace. Her melody spoke to him.
Should he shout to let her know he heard? That he was alive and well?
Nie. That might put her at risk. And him.
The sweet, lilting melody was one he’d heard before. And the words captured him. She longed for him as much as he did for her. He answered her with the rest of the song, his voice rough.
But when the love light in thine eye is glowing,
And on thy cheek the roses red are blowing,
With fonder yearning follow thee my gazes,
Ah, then! Ah, then! Ah, then, my darling,
Ah, then, my darling,
I long to draw near thee, sweet though thy lips,
I no longer will hear thee,
Will seal them with kisses.
And then a uniformed German came along. He gestured to Natia and pushed her forward.
Teodor caught her green-eyed glance before she scurried away.
Oh, Natia.
If only the German soldier hadn’t come and pushed Natia along. For just a few more precious seconds with Teodor. He’d heard. He’d answered. Tak, she should be satisfied. But she couldn’t get enough.
At least he was alive. But when would be the next time she would hear from him?
As she headed to the Fromms’ house, she swung the grocery bag filled with sugar, vegetables, a jug of milk, and a loaf of bread. The song she’d sung resonated in her heart. In the depths of her being, she held a piece of him. A place where the Nazis couldn’t steal him from her.
She examined every home she wandered by, some painted peach, others blue, still others mint green. Who lived in each of the cottages? What were their lives like under the occupation? Had they lost anyone they had loved?
That was the worst part about not being in the factory. She couldn’t search for her family. Perhaps she could find a way to ask Teodor. Maybe he knew. Zygmunt and Helena must be so afraid. If only Natia could comfort them.
As she strolled on, a mewling sound emanated from the alley to her left and drew her from her reverie. A kitten? Perhaps the orange tabby she fed a few scraps to every night had given birth to a litter. The animal was scrawny, but weren’t they all these days?
She peeked down the dark alley, not able to distinguish much. There it came again. Once she had glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one watched, she followed the sound into the darkness.
Something ahead of her shuffled. A weak shaft of light dispelled the gloom. Natia moved deeper into the alley and almost tripped over something. She gazed down.
Nie, not something.
Someone.
A haggard woman crouched in the shadows, a faded blue kerchief on her head, a scrappy baby with dark, matted curls clutched to her breast. She stared at Natia with large brown eyes.
Natia knelt beside her and stroked the child’s head. Her son might have had hair like this, might have held on to her like this child clung to his mother. She closed her eyes, then opened them and straightened her shoulders. “What are you doing here? Can I help you?”
The woman shook her head.
“Please, let me do something.”
The infant moved just enough for Natia to spy a spot of yellow on the lapel of the woman’s coat. A Star of David.
She was Jewish.
Natia’s mouth went dry. How had she survived all these years? Had she been in hiding? Most of the ghettos had been filled and some emptied. Despite the chill in the air, Natia shrugged off her sweater and wrapped it around the woman and child.
“Don’t turn us in.” The woman’s voice was low and scratchy.
“I would never do that.” Never. Life was too precious. Too fragile. “But you can’t live in the alley. When did you last eat?”
“I don’t know.”
What could she do? Bringing the woman to the Fromms’ was out of the question. And Natia knew no one else here. Not anyone she could trust. She hugged herself. The alley was dirty and garbage filled. Not good conditions for a young child, his life threatened by innumerable diseases. But if the baby remained quiet, the shadows hid them. No easy task for the woman.
“I’m Natia. I’ll help as much
as I can.” She drew the bread and milk from her bag along with a bunch of carrots. “For you.” She held out the offering.
“You would give this to us?”
“They hate me almost as much as they hate you.” She pointed to the diamond-shaped scrap sewn to her dress, the large P proclaiming her status. “But you have to keep your baby from crying. That’s what led me to you.” She rubbed the child’s bony hand, and he grasped at her finger. If only . . .
The woman nodded. “He’s hungry.”
The banter of a couple of German soldiers drifted into the hiding spot. Natia shrank back, her breath coming in short gasps. If they found her here, giving aid to a Jewish woman and child, they would send her to a camp worse than Teodor’s. Natia had heard the rumors about them. Everyone had. About how women and children were murdered upon their arrivals. The three of them must be still. Silent.
The child whimpered. Natia covered his mouth and glared at his mother who jiggled the boy in her lap.
Eternal moments passed. The soldiers moved on. Even after their words faded in the distance, Natia kept her voice at a whisper. “This will help the baby. He won’t cry if he’s been fed.” How she would explain the double purchase on the Fromms’ account, she had no idea. But one thing at a time. She couldn’t leave the woman and infant to starve.
“I’m Rachel. This is Solomon. Dziękuję Ci. Thank you from the bottom of our hearts.”
“I’ll come as often as I can. If I can sneak a blanket from the house, I’ll bring that.”
“You’ve done enough.”
Nie, it wasn’t enough. It never could be enough. Not for the mother, and especially not for the little one. She had to save them. She couldn’t watch another child die. For now, this would have to do. Helpless as she was herself, she could aid another human. “I have to go before I’m missed. If you need anything, I live in the cottage at the end of this street. The pink one with the roses blooming in the front. Come there but go to the back.”
Rachel nodded. “Again, dziękuję Ci.”
Natia stood and hurried toward the street and then glanced both ways, holding her breath. No Nazis. She blew out the air in a single puff. Her pulse hammered in her neck. She would do what she could for Rachel and Solomon.
