“Maybe it is too dangerous,” Henryk says.
Róża moves aside the shards of glass that landed nearest Shira, then leans her cheek in to touch her forehead, oven hot. If they can’t make this work, what is going to happen to her?
Henryk reads her thoughts. He puts an arm on her shoulder. “We’ll try once more.”
He prepares the second glass and Róża holds a flaming cotton ball inside it. It burns and flares, and the glass darkens to the rim, but it doesn’t shatter. As the flame winks out, Henryk passes the glass to Róża, gloved hand to gloved hand.
She looks at Henryk, who looks back at her, uncertain. Shira’s expression is blank. Róża feels feverish herself, dizzy and hot, but she takes a breath and places the cup on Shira’s back. Shira stiffens only slightly.
Is Róża burning her, yet she is too torpid to react?
“I’m sorry, Shirke. I’m trying to make you well.” She moves the cup in a circular motion until it suctions tight to one spot. “Do you think you can handle two more?”
Shira blinks.
Shira falls asleep with three glasses stuck to her back. Róża does not know how long they are supposed to stay on, so after a few more minutes she wrestles a finger beneath each rim to break the suction and pulls them off. Shira’s skin is welted, red, and angry, but she sleeps on.
Henryk uses his sleeved arm to sweep the shattered glass into the box.
“I’m sorry we broke that one.” Róża wraps the three intact glasses in rags and places them by Henryk’s legs.
“I hope Shira will get well.”
Róża sees the uncertainty still in his eyes.
* * *
By morning, Shira’s rattled wheezes give way to smoother, less jagged breaths. Her forehead is sticky with sweat. She awakens late in the day, still flushed but clear-eyed and focused. Róża floods with relief when, at nightfall, Shira asks her to hum a lullaby.
Her back has three rounded welts, bruises circling the edges.
* * *
As Shira recuperates, Róża skips her usual lessons on words, sums, and maps and instead teaches Shira about music. She starts by drawing two staffs, each with five lines and four spaces, and explains how the lower-pitched notes sit on the lower part of the staff and the higher-pitched notes sit higher. She draws a treble clef on the top staff and a bass clef on the bottom.
“What are those for?”
“They tell you where to place your notes on the staff.”
“Why are they different?”
“They’re for writing music for different instruments.”
“Why?” Shira’s stare doesn’t veer from the page.
“Different instruments have different pitch ranges. It would be impossible to fit them into a staff with just one clef.”
“Which is used for violin music?”
“The treble clef. You know how the violin can go very high, while the cello can go very low?”
Shira takes the pencil and tries over and over to draw a treble clef.
“I can’t do it.”
“It takes practice. The treble clef tells you that the note G appears on the second line, like this.” Róża writes the G note into the treble staff, then places the other notes around it. “Now look at how it is for the bass clef, where much of the music for cello is written. The F note appears on the fourth line.”
When Róża writes notes into the bass staff, she varies them, using wholes, halves, quarters, and eighths.
“What are those?”
“They’re all notes, but they last for different lengths of time.”
“Why?”
Shira never asks this many questions about places on the map!
“Sometimes you want the notes to be long and continuous and sometimes you want them to be short and quick, right?”
Shira nods.
Róża takes some strands of hay. She keeps one long strand intact and breaks others. She illustrates the value of notes this way: the long strand is a whole note; two half-size strands represent half notes; four quarter-size strands represent quarter notes. “I’m sorry, I can’t tear the hay small enough to show you the eighths!”
Shira rummages in the hay and pulls out the paper with the beginning of Brahms’s Scherzo on it. Róża can see, she is examining it anew. There’s still so much to explain—the flats, the ties—but Shira looks tired. She’ll teach her more tomorrow.
Róża writes out the musical notes to a simpler piece: their nightly lullaby.
Cucuricoo!
Di mom iz nisht do.
Vu hat zi geyn?
Tzu bakumen a glaz fun tay.
Vas is gegangen tsu trinken es?
Mir aun dir.
The tune repeats, gentle and lilting, like a boat crisscrossing a placid lake. For the rest of the afternoon, Shira hums it quietly, contentedly, over and over, pointing at it note by note as she goes.
* * *
At first, Shira does not understand how her mother’s marks on the music page match the sounds of their lullaby, but then something snaps into place and Shira sees how the pattern of notes matches the swaying melody, the simple rhythmic repeats. She turns once again to the start of Brahms’s Scherzo, and what has looked like her mother’s scribbles coalesces into the repeat crescendo of staccato notes, sounds she remembers from her mother’s humming, her father’s practice sessions. A new feverish feeling, this one from excitement and urgency, washes over her. The concertos her parents played, the symphonies her grandfather listened to, the music that rushes through her own head, can be put onto paper! Shira can write all of it into these staffs—even the feelings embedded within. She reaches for a pencil.
Chapter 19
On a cool September day, frantic screams pierce the silence of the barn. Peering through a crack, Róża sees Krystyna shooing a pig out of the root cellar. Next: the pig darting around the front of the barn, squealing.
“What is it, Mama?”
“Shh. A pig got loose.”
From the despair in Krystyna’s shouts, Róża guesses the pig feasted on the winter store. Róża had watched as the family stockpiled the harvest and stowed it in the cellar, hoping to avoid a German raid. It seems the pig sniffed it out.
Róża thinks: This could be what finally exiles her and Shira from the barn. Krystyna will no longer have enough to feed her family, plus two. Róża hoists herself, weak and stiff, to standing; then she sees the barn door shifting open. She ducks beneath the hay, grabbing Shira with her. She squeezes Shira’s wrist tight, a code for utter silence.
Jurek’s high-pitched pig calls trail up. “Pigpigpigpig! Where are you hiding?” He seems to be circling beneath the loft.
Within her hay burrow, Róża holds her breath, then swallows, trying to stifle the heaving. Henryk bursts in just then.
“Jurek, come out of there.”
“But Tata, the pig—”
“This instant.” His voice carries a note of fear.
Róża keeps hold of Shira’s wrist long after the barn door closes. She insists they remain buried until dark. Shira grows restless and tries to wriggle her hand away, but Róża doesn’t let go. Their bellies growl. Krystyna does not arrive with soup. Henryk does not visit either.
Eventually Róża unwraps half of an old potato she’s saved and gives it to Shira. Shira eats it and afterward sucks on a small pebble to keep her mouth occupied.
“Mama, tell me again why are we hiding from Jurek?”
“Because he might tell someone we are here.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know. A past schoolmate. A neighbor. It’s too dangerous.”
“The Wiśniewskis know we’re here.”
“They are helping to keep us safe.”
“But Mama…?”
Róża doesn’t answer immediately. She listens to the gathering night, wonders if there is a chance Henryk will come. “Hmm?”
“What did we do wrong?”
“We didn’t do anything wrong, Shira. It’s ver
y difficult to explain—”
“Did they get the pig back into the pen?”
“Yes.”
“I want to go home.”
* * *
Weak with hunger, Róża drifts off to sleep. She wakes to find Shira hunched over the pad of paper, scribbling on a new sheet. Shira has managed to draw staffs, crooked and uneven but legible, with symbols resembling the treble clef on some and the bass clef on others. Except for the last, all the staffs are filled with notes.
“What have you got there?”
“My music.”
“You are writing it, just from what I told you? I need to tell you about key signatures and rests and—” A sideways glance at the paper and Róża can see: two lyrical melodies, intricately entwined. Astonishment catches in her throat. The tunes Shira hums have always been advanced, but this composition is another level entirely. Is her child a prodigy?
“I am writing a violin part and a cello part. You could play it with Ta—” Shira looks up, worried.
Róża turns away but manages to say, “It’s brilliant, Shirke. Maybe you’ll learn the violin one day and we’ll play it together.”
* * *
Krystyna comes to the barn before dawn. Róża fears she’ll take stock of the rabbits, but her eyes are focused on Shira. “Is she asleep?”
Róża nods.
“I think you should move her.”
“What?”
“For her safety. I know someone who is part of a network that hides children. Shira will be better off in a convent orphanage than in this barn.”
Róża jolts to a stand, her legs tangling in hay as she takes a step backward, her thoughts ringing in protest: Absolutely not; I will never part with my girl.
She hovers over Shira now to see if she’s woken her. No. She struggles to breathe.
Róża is aware that the risks here have become too much to bear. The food supply is low. And Krystyna surely knows about Henryk’s visits. She must see him duck into the barn on his way back from the tavern.
Róża combs the loft for their few possessions. She will collect Shira and get out now. To where she does not know, only that it will be best for her and Krystyna both. The nicks in the rafter top four hundred and sixty—more than she could have ever hoped for.
“I realize how much danger we’ve put you in. I am sorry,” Róża says. She has seen Krystyna, her arms tight around Łukasz’s shoulders, ushering him away from the barn.
“Róża, it’s for her sake. The nuns will see to it that she gets exercise and schooling. She’ll be far safer hidden among the devout.”
Róża stops moving and stares hard at Krystyna. She has a kind face, deerlike. The curled blond hairs at the nape of her neck, too short to be swept into her high bun, puff around her face like soft cotton. Is it her faith in her Christian God that drives Krystyna to make such an offer? Or an emotional attachment to Shira? Perhaps she’s dreamed of having a little girl. Could Krystyna be right, that Shira would be safer apart from Róża?
Róża thinks of how treacherous the journey here had been, with Shira constantly needing to be carried and soothed, quieted and fed. She recalls crossing the long stretch of pasture. She’d needed Shira to walk on her own, but Shira kept kicking off her shoes and reaching for Róża to pick her up. Over and over, Shira complained that her tata would have carried her. Róża dragged her in her stocking feet until Shira pleaded, promised to wear her shoes and walk—
“You can arrange for this?”
“As I told you, I know someone who does this work. My sister, actually.”
Róża drops to her knees, disconcerted, as the trust she’s placed in Krystyna clouds with doubt. Her sister knows of our hiding? What guarantee is there that she will keep Shira safe?
Instinctively, Róża’s fingers go to where her wedding ring used to be. She looks around the tight space of the loft. It has been exhausting to keep Shira hushed up, day and night.
“Your sister—she would accompany Shira to a convent?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you help us so?” Róża blurts.
Krystyna’s motivations continue to confound Róża. Might she like separating Róża from her girl, a way of punishing her for Henryk’s attentions?
Krystyna looks squarely at Róża. “In God’s eyes your child is no different than mine. She deserves every chance to live.”
Róża looks away, chastened.
Chapter 20
Autumn 1942
Before Róża and Krystyna settle on a plan, Germans sweep into the village. Some by horse. Some by car. They teem the area. For three days, neither Krystyna nor Henryk enters the barn. Róża and Shira stay buried deep in hay, foggy from hunger, silent, and unmoving. The tavern emits a raucous din long into the night. Shira falls in and out of sleep, but Róża remains awake, vigilant. Her parched throat itches from hay dust; her skin goes clammy from the sweat that dries cold.
When she hears what sounds like an approach on the farmhouse, Róża shuttles Shira down the ladder. Shira has been terrified to get into the narrow dugout that Henryk made in the barn floor, but now there is no choice. Róża moves the hay bale that covers the opening and hustles them into the hole. Dirt loosens and slips with her every movement. It’s cold and dank and, when Róża pulls the bale back over the top, completely dark.
They shiver and blink, and suddenly it occurs to Róża that there are objects in the loft, unconcealed, that might give them away. The atlas. The novel. If pressed, Henryk can say that his boys like to read up there. But what about the other things? The needle and thread. The alphabet pages—Jurek and Piotr are too old and Łukasz too young for them. And the music pages—no one in Henryk’s family plays an instrument. How can Henryk possibly explain these things? Far worse is the waste pail, which surely smells terrible after so many days. Neither he nor Krystyna could come to remove it, and in her haste Róża didn’t think to cover it. Henryk no longer has the excuse of his livestock animals—they’ve killed them all for meat. The straying pig was the last to go.
There’s nothing to do. Róża strains to listen above the rush of blood in her ears. She hears a German say, “I will tour your sheds and barns.”
Róża inhales, bracing herself, one hand on Shira’s wrist. A clump of moist dirt slides down her neck and into her shirt, settling at the small of her back. Minutes pass. Henryk must have taken him to the far sheds first, allowing them the time they needed to move to the dugout.
When the barn door scrapes the earthen floor and boots pound to the left of their heads, Henryk’s voice comes loudly—perhaps too loudly—but steady.
“It’s a basic barn as you can see.”
“You have a lot of space here, the outbuildings, the barn. Yes?”
“I tend several large fields. It takes a lot of equipment.”
“You could keep a second family here. Or hide a swarm of Jews—”
Róża feels as if her bowels might give way. Henryk doesn’t miss a beat.
“Oh, maybe just a pretty girl to have my way with in the night. Of course, I’d have to kill the rest of her family—”
The soldier laughs. His tone is friendlier now.
The conversation is muffled for a moment. Then Róża hears:
“We need your barn for storing supplies. I’ll give you four days to clear it out.”
So this is it.
“Of course,” Henryk says, sounding lighthearted. “I will clean out some space and, you know, get my girl out before the wife sees.”
The clomp of boots recedes. The barn door scrapes shut. For several moments, Róża holds herself frozen. What will become of them?
She waits a long while before moving Shira back to the loft. Once there she insists they remain buried beneath the hay. She weighs their options: The Gracja ghetto? The woods? The merchant’s house?
At nightfall, Krystyna steps inside with food.
“Róża.”
Róża attempts to disentangle herself from the hay, to stand,
but her legs shake terribly. “I know.”
Krystyna’s pails hold twice as much as usual—barley soup and radish salad. She speaks in the most formal Polish, coded to keep the conversation above Shira’s comprehension. Arrangements for Shira are nearly set: false papers, a transport plan, her placement in a convent orphanage.
“Where?” Róża asks.
“In Celestyn.”
“How far is that from here?”
“Others refused, Róża. This one said yes.”
“But how far?”
“Nearly three hundred kilometers, due south.”
Three hundred kilometers! Róża slides back to sitting and gathers Shira close.
What better alternative does she have?
She can’t know what safety she can secure for Shira, with her or apart. She tightens her clasp around her girl, her lips moving in a loop of prayer. With every sound from outside the barn—the ricochet of voices, the creak of wagon wheels, the slow clop of horses’ hooves—she seizes up with fear.
* * *
The streets are quiet now—the Germans have gone from the village, no ruckus even from the tavern—yet her mother won’t let Shira out of her grasp. Shira shifts to evade her mother’s scent, breath like turned milk, and peers through a wall crack. Her mother strokes Shira’s cheek, over and over, presses her face to her neck. When Shira asks what’s wrong, her mother looks away, mumbling.
The following day, Shira notices Krystyna with a lady she doesn’t remember seeing before. Arms hooked and heads bent together, they walk a full circle around the barn. Later, Krystyna stands on the loft ladder and whispers to her mother in big, winding words. Her mother nods knowingly but searches Krystyna’s face the way a lost person searches a map. Again, the pail has more food than they’re used to, so Shira eats and eats, happy to stuff herself. A full belly hurts her mother, but not her.
When Henryk comes in, Shira isn’t made to hide. In fact, he has clothes for her tucked inside his jacket: a dress made of yellow gingham, only slightly frayed at the collar, and larger shoes. She trades out the shoes immediately, stretching her crushed pinkie toes. She is to try the dress on tomorrow when she wakes.
The Yellow Bird Sings Page 6
