At nightfall, Krystyna brings soup. Neither she nor Henryk mention them leaving. After they eat, Róża beds Shira down for the night, telling a new installment of the story. The little girl discovers a family of moles, gently poking one another with their noses and scuffling about in a hole near the garden! The girl fears the moles will tunnel through a bed of enchanted flowers, so she smartly composes a “moving song” for her bird to sing to them. Upon hearing the jaunty tune, the moles don their hats, reach for their rucksacks, and scurry off, heads bobbing to the music—and the garden is safe. Shira asks: “What do the moles carry in their rucksacks?” Róża answers: “Their eyeglasses!” Shira’s own eyes grow wide with delighted wonder. Then Róża whisper-sings the lullaby, folds her hands over Shira’s hands, and tucks her in with her blanket—all before Henryk scales the ladder.
They are not kicked out of the barn the day after or the day after that. Róża carves shallow nicks in the barn rafter with a rock to keep track of each day. She likes the weight of the rock in her hand, the give of the soft wood beneath. In the accumulation of marks she feels the triumph of survival, tempered always by fear.
Chapter 4
As Róża marks the rafter, another day’s end, Shira whispers her persistent questions: “Why must we hide? Why must we stay silent?” Róża fixes Shira with her eyes, wishing she had answers that would still her.
“Some giants don’t like flowers, and because they believe the music in our voices helps the flowers grow, we must never let the giants hear our songs.”
“Is it all right for a bird to sing?”
“Yes, so long as we stay silent.”
Róża turns back to the rafter, thinking of Henryk’s visit the previous night. He moved inside her slowly, almost gently. She couldn’t help noting his differences from Natan: the very heft of him, how his chest has less hair, how his smell holds the earth’s tang in it. Even as she kept herself entirely still—looking on as if from a different body, a different place—her eyes wandered from the wall to his face, his sloping gray eyes—
The sharp point of the rock, clenched in Róża’s fist, bites at her flesh. She swallows a yelp and sets the rock down in the corner. She calculates back, trying to figure out which nick Shabbas fell on, unobserved.
Maybe the merchant’s wife lives by herself in the tall house? Unlike Henryk, who is exempt because of an eye nerve problem that keeps him from clearing his vision quickly in smoke, the husband has likely been conscripted.
Counting the nicks, Róża sees it is their eleventh day in the barn.
Chapter 5
Shira and her mother don’t speak during the day, the nineteenth day, when sunlight streams through cracks in the wallboards, dappling patches of their skin a luminous white. Even Henryk’s treat of an extra baked potato can elicit no words of thanks. Only her mother’s flat smile as she watches Shira soundlessly devouring it.
In the silence, other sounds are pronounced. Inside the barn, the rustle, thump, and nibbling of rabbits. Outside, the morning calls of the wrens and the rose finch. The whispering leaves. The slap and crunch of Henryk’s boots. And late, late at night, when Shira is to stay especially still, the high creak and shift of the barn door. The scrape of the ladder against the floorboards. The distinctive groan of each rung, then the hushed tones of Henryk, up in the loft with her mother.
Henryk carries outdoor smells with him to the loft. Sometimes there are leafy bits from his boots. He mumbles words that Shira cannot hear. Her mother gives Shira the card fold of photographs to hold, enclosed in her blanket, as she nods and mumbles back to him. When Henryk is there, Shira must lie apart from her mother, turned away and confused by the commotion.
Some evenings, Shira hears soldiers walking along the road. If they have been drinking, they sing about kissing pretty girls, songs that Shira secretly enjoys. Otherwise, sharp footfalls and talk.
When it is too dangerous even for whispers, Shira and her mother gesture. A simple finger near the ear means I hear someone, but more particular signs denote Henryk (the tug of a beard), his wife, Krystyna (the tying of apron strings), and the three Wiśniewski boys (oldest to youngest, a hand upon a child’s head at high, middle, and low heights). A neighbor (palms facing, held near). Soldiers (fists clenched at the chest, as if around a gun). A stranger, they don’t know who (eyebrows raised). Taps on different body parts show hunger, thirst, pain, a full bladder. A hand on a clump of hair, Do you want a braid? It passes a bit of time. A brush of the fingers over closing eyelids, Try to rest now. Shira watches her mother’s lips shape prayers in Hebrew before falling off to sleep. This, more than anything, calms Shira, for in her mind she hears her mother’s silent chants as music.
They wear their shoes always, in case they need to run. Shira’s shoes crush her pinkie toes, but she doesn’t tell. She doesn’t tell about the hay splinters in her fingers either, or about the way she feels hungry all the time. Her mother gives her the larger portion of everything they get to eat. If Shira ever offers her mother more, she never takes it; she sucks on hay instead. The soft, fleshy parts of her are gone. Shira can see her mother’s collarbones jutting out.
Shira wears the dress Krystyna snuck in for her, outgrown by her niece, with its pretty checkered pattern and gray trim. It isn’t soft like the dresses in her closet at home, sewn by her grandmother, fitting just right, and almost as wonderful as the ones in the shop windows in Gracja. Her mother wears a pair of pants cinched at the waist and a wide-collared shirt—clothes for traveling, she says. Together, they lie silent in the hay, inhaling its layered scents—sweet, sharp, dank, and rotting—and listen to the sounds of the night. A screech and a whistle. A dog’s bark.
Shira met a dog as she and her mother crossed the pastures near Henryk’s barn. Her mother sought to shoo the dog away, fearful that he would bark. But Shira put out her hand. The dog tilted his head and sniffed, his nose twitching, his eyes flickering with golds and yellows, his felted ears dropping back. He seemed to understand, even to share with Shira this project of invisibility. Dodging to the side, he trotted off as if weightless, not even the slightest tap-tap as he padded along the road. Shira imagined him carrying a wordless message to her father.
* * *
Shira watches through a crack in the boards as Henryk plays with Łukasz outside, zooming him through the air. Łukasz squeals and reaches out a chubby hand to grasp at Henryk’s puckered lips, to rub his whiskers against the grain.
There had been evenings, after her mother unstraddled her legs from around her cello and set to tidying the kitchen, that Shira’s father lifted her on his lap and showed her how to form whole scales’ worth of notes by pressing different places on the violin strings. His voice, low and close, reminded Shira of water: creeks and rivers, the whisper of tides. Eagerly, she stretched her fingers across the strings, as far as they would reach, and he sounded out her notes with long, smooth bow strokes. Sometimes he let her try to hold the violin all by herself, clasping the smooth wooden neck between her thumb and forefinger, placing her chin on the big oblong rest. When she set her fingers to quivering upon the strings as she’d seen her parents do, to make a vibrato, her father laughed, the sound like a tumbling spring, his breath the scent of coffee, moist upon her cheek.
Does Shira truly remember her father, gray speckled and musky, his embrace warm and soft but not like her mama’s, or is she making him up, mixing him up with her visions and dreams? A star-backed violin at his bearded chin, notes undulating like a tuning fork come to pierce her mother’s heart. The dancing stopped short, the violin boxed and buried after he didn’t return. Upon waking, the thought that if she could just lie with an ear to the ground, she might hear her father’s notes floating up through the rooted earth.
To ask about him would cause her mother to fold in upon herself like a paper swan. So Shira bites her lips and closes her eyes against the scene outside.
Shira and her mother devise silent games. Guess how many swallows are nesting in the barn. Co
unt the knotholes in the wallboards. When it is time to sleep, Shira snuggles close, hands cupped, as her mother begins the story.
Tonight a white-spotted deer has entered the garden, hoping to feast on enchanted flowers. The little girl and her bird fear (rightly) that a giant will want to eat the deer for dinner, so they devise a plan: the girl conducts and the bird chirps a pastorale of bleating fawn calls. The deer lifts her head, alerted—she’s sure her baby is calling—and scampers off just as the giant’s thundering steps can be heard in the distance.
Shira begs her mother to continue—she loves imagining the girl and her bird in the garden with white daisies, with deer and symphonies, dark sounds to warn of danger—but her mother is firm.
“Tomorrow, Shirke. We’ll have to wait and see what excitement comes tomorrow.”
Her mother whispers her lullaby, and Shira stretches out her hands, watching as her mother’s fingers fold over hers like a promise. Then she settles with her hay-coated shred of blanket and Shira drifts off to sleep, listening as always for the sound of footsteps.
Chapter 6
While Shira sleeps, Róża lies motionless beneath mounds of hay, straining to hear the world outside the barn. The distant clop of horses. Indistinct voices from the tavern down the road.
People pass by day and night; yet no matter how Róża tries, she cannot keep Shira entirely silent and still. It is hardest in the morning when Shira first wakes. Róża must constantly signal. A finger to the mouth: Be quiet. A hand to the leg: Don’t move. Shira chews on her lips in response, yet her every breath, her every swallow, seems to ring out.
The hours stretch before them, endless, and each minute demands vigilance as Shira’s imagination flutters and darts and her body pulses, irrepressibly, with song.
Along their journey here, on the far outskirts of villages, Róża could permit Shira’s humming and tapping. Her tunes—startlingly complex and layered, notes merging and colliding—reminded Róża of the symphonies her father had listened to.
“What music is that?” Róża had asked Shira.
“Hmm?”
“What you’re humming—”
“Oh. Just what I hear in my head.”
How Róża wishes Shira could continue, recognizing her talent and knowing what solace it brings her—but not now. “It’s lovely, but you must keep it inside you.”
Róża wishes Shira would keep her constant, whispered questions—“Mama, why are we here? Where is Tata? Can we go home soon?”—inside her too.
Henryk and Krystyna would not denounce them—their fates were by now entwined—but a neighbor might hear. With a tip-off, German soldiers would come searching.
The one time Henryk pronounced a leave date, conferencing with Krystyna in low tones by the chicken coop, out of earshot from neighbors and the children, it met with Krystyna’s unexpected petition, “Where will they go, Henryk? The girl can’t be much older than Maryla’s little Łucja.” At that time—the thirty-second day in the barn by the count of nicks in the rafter, and all her barter goods given, gone—Róża could feel only the luck of Krystyna’s plea. Yet she has cause to doubt Krystyna now, as she steps up the loft ladder and reaches a hand toward Shira.
Róża scans the loft, fearful that Shira’s sleep pad, shoved all the way to the side, will give away what Henryk does here at night. But Krystyna doesn’t seem to notice.
“Why don’t I take her out for a bit? She needs fresh air.”
Róża grips Shira, tight. What? No! “Thank you, but it’s far too dangerous.”
“Just a little walk. A few steps to see the chickens. The sun is hardly up yet.”
Róża flushes hot despite the crisp air. The way the farm is set, on a long, narrow swath of land, the chicken coop sits close by the barn, fields running behind. Even with the hay still piled up outside, someone might see to the coop from the curved point in the road. She doesn’t want to anger Krystyna, but she can’t possibly let Shira go. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Mama, I want to see the chickens!”
“Shh!”
Róża searches Krystyna’s face.
“Henryk has taken the boys to his parents’. As for our neighbors, Ludwika is at her sister’s and Borys is sleeping off his night at the tavern.”
“What if soldiers pass by? Or other neighbors…” The one who baked sugar cookies.
Krystyna glances in the direction of the road. “The hay blocks the view.” A pause. “I just can’t imagine if one of my boys had to lie still and silent for so long.”
A small barn swallow flutters in the eaves. Róża feels Shira wriggling from her grasp.
Sweat breaks and gathers beneath Róża’s arms. She has seen the way Shira envies Jurek and Piotr tromping in and out of the coops, their hair wet. What if Krystyna is right, that Shira needs to move about more? She grows unsure and Shira sidles toward Krystyna. Together they move down the ladder and out the barn door, toward the coop.
Róża’s heart batters in the cage of her chest as she shifts between cracks in the wall, glimpsing her child in fragments: Shira’s cocked head, her left leg, a dangling hand. When they step into the coop, disappearing entirely from view, Róża starts to count, one, two, three, four, five, six …
Distraught, she picks up Shira’s blanket, runs her finger over the seam. She could sew Shira’s name there, tiny stitches, in case they were ever parted. She could ask Krystyna to borrow needle and thread—
She puts the blanket down. Where are they? She peers through the largest crack, desperate for the sight of her child.
They reappear and in a few steps they are back in the barn. The whole outing, less than five minutes. Despite her relief, Róża flares with anger. She’d barely breathed while Shira was gone.
“There will be chicks in the spring!” Shira’s voice trills.
“Quiet!”
“Yes, Mama,” she whispers.
Krystyna stands just inside the door as Shira scuttles up the ladder. Róża rakes her into her arms and tries to regularize her breathing.
* * *
A few days later Krystyna comes back, again before sunrise. Róża strains against the dull light to watch as Krystyna leads Shira by the hand to see the chickens, a bit farther to pet the cow. Even as she keeps vigil, her eyes trained on Shira’s every movement, Róża feels grateful for these few moments alone.
Krystyna sets out a small basket of food behind the hay pile that blocks the barn. Róża squints, straining to see: Hard-boiled eggs? Slices of bread? She wants Shira back—but she is eating.
Róża’s stomach rumbles; saliva pools in her mouth. When she thinks Krystyna sees her watching, she shifts and peers through a different, tinier crack.
Krystyna abruptly packs up the food.
Is someone passing by on the road?
Róża listens for the clomp of boots as Krystyna leads Shira back to the barn, up the loft ladder, into Róża’s arms. Róża inhales the scent of bread on Shira’s lips.
* * *
Beneath the hay, Róża lies beside Shira, her hand gently running over the child’s full belly.
“I wanted to bring food for you, Mama, but Pani Wiśniewska took it away.”
“It’s all right, Shirke. I’m glad you had good things to eat.”
“She said that Pan Wiśniewski would bring you potatoes later.”
Róża is silent.
“I wanted to bring an egg for you! I promise to, next time.”
“No talking now.” Róża swallows hard, on nothing.
* * *
Later, Róża takes Shira into her lap and parts her thick hair into three even clumps. With the separated hair clasped between her fingers, she begins to braid, weaving the strands over and under, each cross marked with a gentle tug, until just wisps remain. With Shira’s hair pulled back, her resemblance to her grandmother, olive toned and heart shaped, is acute. Except for her eyes, the shape and color of almonds, like Natan’s.
“I’ve made your hair es
pecially fancy today. Just as it will be when I take you to see the Philharmonic.”
Shira turns to look at her, disbelieving.
“That’s right. When we can go home, we’ll splurge for seats and you’ll hear the symphony.”
Shira pats the braid that cascades down the nape of her neck.
Róża thinks back to concerts she attended as a girl with her parents. Dressed in their best, they still looked shabby compared with most of the other concertgoers, but it didn’t matter because her father had made several of the violins that were played there. Afterward, Róża was permitted to join her parents, late, at the kitchen table for tea and linzer torte.
Róża ties off Shira’s braid with a fresh strand of hay as the barn tints with the pale purple light of dusk. She drapes her arms around her girl and drifts into fitful, hungry sleep.
Chapter 7
Shira knows her mama prefers her to stay holed up, but the excitement of walking outside—feeling the fresh air on her face and in her hair, darting among the chickens as they strut and peck, and then getting hard-boiled eggs to eat—builds, so that every time she sees Krystyna approaching the barn, Shira sits up, hopeful. She yearns so badly to go, just the few steps between the barn and the coop, with Krystyna’s firm hand on her back all the while.
Her tata would understand. Last birthday, he set up a whole scavenger hunt for her, up and down the riverbank. If he were here, she knows: he would want to go too.
As her mother sleeps, Shira pats the top of her bird’s fluffy yellow head and feeds him tiny droplets of nectar from her littlest finger, wondering what story adventures await them tonight. His heart beats heavy and quick. With each new sound outside—the stomp of boots, the rise of voices—he burrows deeper into the nest of Shira’s hands.
The Yellow Bird Sings Page 2
