They parse new: “Could you make a cheese soufflé one day and a mushroom soufflé the next?”
Another arm squeeze from Miri and Róża looks over to see Chana, a vexed expression on her face. At some point they vow that they will steal eggs the next chance they get so that Chana can work her magic, albeit over an open flame.
* * *
Night falls and the weather remains mild, the air sweet. A bright moon shining through branches dapples the forest floor, chandelier-like, with droplets of light. Róża looks from one sister to another.
“Let’s sleep out in the open, just this once as a special pleasure. Our hands need a break from digging.”
However reckless, it feels imperative to Róża to avoid the desolation of sleeping in a makeshift grave. In her burrow, surrounded by dirt and shadowed by branches, doubts creep into her mind: that she may never make it to the convent, may never again see Shira and hold her in her arms.
Miri looks as if she is about to protest, but Chana agrees and Miri stays quiet.
“Good!” Róża exclaims. “Our bed will be under the trees.”
* * *
Mother Agnieszka told Zosia always to hide in her closet when the Germans come, but tonight there’s no warning. Soldiers are already in the stairwells, heading toward the children’s room. Zosia sees the terror on Sister Alicja’s face as she steers Zosia into a makeshift line—the second roll call required of the children.
A tall, stern-faced soldier paces before them. Zosia clutches the fabric of her nightgown to stop her hands from shaking. She keeps her eyes down, but then the soldier’s boots snap together, causing her to startle. She adjusts her gaze straight ahead, fearful, breathing in his scent of starch and cedar and sweat, trying not to stare at the tiny hairs that poke out from his nostrils, the faint mark of an iron upon his shirt collar.
Sister Olga paces behind them just as he paces in front. Sister Olga is the one who in winter suggested the musical instruments be burned for firewood and who just yesterday made Janina kneel on beans for giggling during chores. Zosia wishes she could break out of the line, run to her closet, curl up in her solitary space, however dark and lonely.
At some point the soldier stills, distracted by the cross-stitched linens topping the bureaus. His expression softens as he walks over to look at them. After a few minutes he nods to Sister Olga, and she ushers him toward the stair. The girls shuffle toward their beds.
Adela asks, not quietly, “Why weren’t you in the line last time?”
Zosia freezes, fearing the soldier is still in earshot. Are his footsteps on the landing? Was he first heading down the steps, now turning back?
As Zosia stands, unmoving, Adela grabs Zosia’s blanket from the corner of her bed, throws it into the air, and catches it. Zosia rushes forward and retrieves it. She buries it deep beneath her bedcovers, thinking of the letters tucked into the seam, spelling out her name.
In bed, Zosia cups her hands even tighter than usual because her bird’s bright yellow feathers are puffed out in a flamboyant ruffle. No striated feathers as in her dream; he is healthy and poised to protect her, his piercing eyes trained on Adela. Yet his call is still a two-note tremble.
Zosia makes a quiet clucking noise to soothe him. In her head she speaks admonishing words. I know that you want to peck at her, but you mustn’t, not now with Sister Olga coming back. We’d get in terrible trouble. When she is sure her bird will stay put, Zosia lets a finger rise to stroke his soft, downy chest. She thinks of the time Ula awoke with a cry, clutching her arm in confusion. Zosia and her bird knew what happened.
Zosia positions herself to be still through the night—shoulders and head lined straight, never tilted to one side—and drifts into sleep. Her dreams go not to Adela or to Ula or to Sister Olga but to a long-ago sunlit room filled with the scents of varnish and wood glue.
Violins are everywhere, scattered among boards of maple and spruce on worktables crowded with glue pots and brushes and chisels and knives. In the center of the room, a man Zosia once knew but can no longer remember sits on a stool, hunched over a violin, his fingers stained the color of cherries. He has a beard that a bird could nest in, bushy and long, and his eyes crinkle up at the edges like a smile even as he complains that, with the high humidity, his varnish is slow to dry.
“How long have you been waiting?” Zosia asks, happy to be standing beside him once again.
He winks. “Do you see this beard? I didn’t have it when I applied the first coat.”
Zosia asks the man if he might play something for her. He lifts a violin from the wall rack and plays a snippet of Gypsy music. Then he continues his work. He tells her Jesus wished to be a violin maker, so that he might have the joy of creating something not just with his mind and his heart but also with his hands.
A bit later, it is time for her to go. The man kisses Zosia on each cheek and puts his hands palm to palm with hers. But just as he begins folding his long fingers over her short ones, she sees the glare of bayonets coming through their entwined grasp. “Nie—”
Zosia wakes in a sweat. Several girls stare sleepily in her direction, all too used to nightmares. Kasia once again offers her doll. Zosia takes it and swallows hard, unable to blot out her scream’s echo.
Chapter 29
When she is summoned to Mother Agnieszka’s chamber, Zosia finds a man nearly as old as her grandpa standing beside Sister Nadzieja. His heavy mustache and bushy sideburns give him a downturned look, but his eyes are soft and light, and a black violin case is tucked neatly beneath his arm.
“Zosia,” Sister Nadzieja starts, “this is Pan Skrzypczak. He is a real violin instructor, and—”
Mother Agnieszka shifts uncomfortably and cuts in. “As I mentioned, Pan Skrzypczak, our asking you here may have been ill conceived. A teacher of your renown and we have no funds.”
“I thought you could play for him,” Sister Nadzieja presses on before Pan Skrzypczak can respond to Mother Agnieszka. “Perhaps start with your arpeggios?” She hands Zosia the classroom violin and bow, and Zosia understands: she arranged this meeting.
Pan Skrzypczak nods Zosia on. Zosia brings the violin to her chin and plays her arpeggios. As soon as she finishes, Mother Agnieszka breaks in again. “That was very nice, Zosia. Now, Sister Nadzieja, if you will take Zosia back to—”
“Please—wait.” Pan Skrzypczak looks apologetically at Mother Agnieszka. Turning to Zosia, he says, “Do you know any songs you could play for me?”
“She knows the beginning of Mazurka Obertas,” says Sister Nadzieja.
Zosia loves the dramatic start! As she plays, she imagines costumed dancers circling one another, arms hooked, their eyes sparking with each playful pluck of strings. Zosia pulls her bow its full length, back and forth. When the music slows, briefly languid, she imagines an embrace; then speeding up, the flight of feet, raised arms, and twirling skirts; and on an extended note, long and trilling, her bird flitting above the dance, excited and happy.
“That was very good,” Pan Skrzypczak says when she finishes midway. “Now, can you copy me?”
Pan Skrzypczak takes out his own violin and plays an array of notes, simple at first, then more and more difficult, with subtle variations in tempo and volume. Zosia matches him exactly each time. They play, back and forth, a long while.
“Pan Skrzypczak, I must apologize for taking up your time—”
“Astonishing.”
Zosia flushes warm.
“But we cannot afford—”
“You needn’t pay me.” He smiles at Zosia. “Twice a week.”
“What?” Surprise marks Mother Agnieszka’s face.
“I’d like to work twice a week. She must have a better bow. I can get one for her. And she must be given time every day to practice.”
“You’d have to teach her here, Pan Skrzypczak. Zosia cannot leave the grounds.”
Pan Skrzypczak turns to Mother Agnieszka with another smile. “A teacher lives for a student like her.”
* * *
Back in her room, Zosia sits on the edge of her bed, her mind a jumble. A real teacher! Once, in a snippet of story she remembers about an enchanted garden, the little girl composed a pastorale for her bird to chirp, alerting a mother deer to a giant’s presence. Now, Zosia thinks, I can learn to play it myself!
Chapter 30
Summer 1943
The girls form a tight circle in the yard, each with a daisy in hand, and take turns playing “He loves me, he loves me not.” Each flushes and giggles as the group demands, “Who? You have to name the boy before you start, or else it won’t be true!” Ula and Adela wear daisy chains as crowns.
Zosia is in the outside corridor, praying they won’t notice her as she rushes by, but Adela calls out.
“Zosia, why don’t you join us? Oh, but it may not be possible. There would need to be a boy who could love you.”
Zosia’s bird batters in her sleeve, eager to swoop upon Adela and rip the crown off her head. He wants to send the flower petals into the air like feathers, like shreds of handkerchief squares. But Sister Nadzieja appears.
“You girls should concern yourselves with God’s love, not boys’ love. And it’s chore time. Go quickly—before Sister Olga notices that no one is helping in the refectory.”
Zosia reaches a finger into her sleeve to pat her bird, but he nips at her. She swallows a cry. Sister Nadzieja looks over at her, kindly.
Zosia wonders if Sister Nadzieja feels frightened by Sister Olga too.
If she wishes, she could play the girls’ games.
If there is someone else, other than God, whose love she longs for.
* * *
Róża and Miri venture out to gather mushrooms, minding how they move through the woods, pulling their feet back with each step as Henryk instructed Róża, weaving through the vegetation in strides that defy patterning. They discover cloudberries and greedily add handfuls to their harvest. They return to the fire to find Chana presiding over a soup. When they present their yield, she looks disappointed at the mushrooms.
“Just the kurki?”
Róża and Miri exchange looks.
“I can make a much better soup with a different variety. Didn’t you see any boletus, near the fallen tree trunk?”
“Chana, the soup you make with these will be fine. It’s too dangerous to go back.”
“It would have a richer flavor.”
“I’m sure it will be delicious as it is.”
“Nothing we eat is delicious.”
“It will be fine. Thank you for making it.”
Chana’s food obsession extends to everything. She reminisces about favorite meals and recipes and ingredients—not just eggs. Even when the conversation has nothing to do with food she manages a reference, as if it’s not painful—let alone annoying—to think about delicacies when they’re starving. In response to a distracted stare she asks, “What, are you thinking of blue almonds?” so that for the next hours, all three dream of almonds—whatever color—longing for their crisp, salty crunch.
* * *
On a morning that dawns clear and bright, their walking leads them to a stream. They take long drinks, then splash their faces. They have been sleeping aboveground, enjoying the open air and the restored sense of humanity that comes from not burrowing down like moles.
“Why don’t we wash everything?” Chana asks. “My pants are so stiff I can barely walk in them.”
“And my hair, I’ll do anything to stop itching for a few minutes!” Miri exclaims.
The relief of the cold water on Róża’s sore, blistered feet travels through her whole body as she takes her first tentative steps into the stream. She bends to submerge her arms; she catches water in the cups of her hands to pour on the back of her neck.
They take turns bathing and scrubbing their clothes. They dunk their heads and pick the lice from one another’s scalps. Afterward, they put on the dry things they have: Chana wears the pants she took from the man killed for testing Jewish. Miri and Róża put on the skirts they nabbed from a clothesline during a food raid nearer the perimeter. All three wear damp undershirts, cool against their skin.
Róża hangs her pants on a tree branch and returns to their site. Before she doused them, mud caked and lice infested, into the stream, she unstitched the convent address card and placed it—she’s sure of it—inside her left boot. But now she can’t find it, not inside either of her boots or anywhere nearby. It’s not tucked into the sleeve of her sweater or beneath the cook pot either, and though she knows the address—she made up that story to help her memorize it and she has never forgotten it, not a single detail—the loss of the card feels like the loss of Shira herself, all over again. She rushes, frantic, along the edge of the stream, peering to see if the card is in the water.
Chana watches her, unmoved, mumbling something about how losing an engagement band doesn’t mean the couple is not engaged.
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying, you don’t need the card if you know the address. It’s actually safer that you don’t have it.”
Chana intends this to comfort Róża, but instead it alarms her further. If the card is not in her possession, it’s somewhere in the woods. It could be found by soldiers; it could lead them straight to Shira!
Róża looks through the clothes again, then riffles around near the pot. She doesn’t take care with the noise she’s making. Her hair, wet now with tears, sticks stiffly to her cheeks.
“Róża, here!”
Róża looks up to see Miri holding the card, drenched and muddy, in her extended hand. All this time, Miri had been carefully retracing Róża’s steps, searching under branches, among piles of leaves.
“Oh!” Róża runs toward her, reaching for the card. “How can I ever thank you?”
Something in Miri’s expression reminds Róża of her father. She thinks of the long-ago time she went to him, fearful and guilty, when she accidentally broke her mother’s favorite bowl. Her father reassured her in his steady way. “It’s all right, Różyczka, we’ll gather all the shards and fix it right up.” As if he understood life itself to be the holding together of small broken pieces.
* * *
Róża wakes before dawn to the rumble of tanks, the distant sound of boots tromping the ground. In an instant, she is up on her feet, heart pounding.
“Miri, Chana, wake up!”
The reverberations come from every direction. Róża is sure that soldiers are circling the vicinity. Why did I ever suggest we sleep aboveground? And worse, how could we have let it become our habit?
As the ground shakes, she searches for cover. A thick, fallen tree trunk. Scattered branches. If they can dig out a hollow by the tree’s side, they can all three burrow against it.
Róża digs as quickly as she can. The sisters spring to action, digging alongside her. Their arms work spastically, driven by panic as their breath grows more and more shallow. Never before during their time in the woods have they dug harder or faster. The hole expands, but not quickly enough. It looks big enough to fit two bodies, not three. They hear the soldiers coming closer.
“It’ll do,” Miri says. “Climb in and I’ll get cover.”
Róża and Chana climb in as Miri grabs armfuls of pine branches. She drags them over the hole and spreads them, concealing Róża and Chana.
“What are you doing, Miri? Get in,” Chana whispers.
But only Miri’s hand pokes through to squeeze Chana’s arm.
And then she is sprinting away through the trees. Chana’s eyes, confused at first, now fill with horror. Again and again, she shakes her head no. No! Róża takes Chana’s hands in hers and strains to hear above the pounding boots, the quaking earth.
A single gunshot.
Chana throws off the branches and starts to climb out of the burrow, but Róża pulls her back and thrusts the branches over them once again. She wraps one arm around Chana’s face to muffle her wails and presses hard against her t
orso to immobilize her. They must wait now. Even if Miri led the soldiers in the opposite direction, it’s likely they will be back, hoping for more bounty.
Róża’s mouth fills with the tastes of metal and salt, and it takes her several seconds to realize: she has bitten the inside of her cheek and her tears are coming in through her open mouth. Chana is limp in her arms now.
Pressed against the dug earth, Róża feels a seeping dampness spread across her buttocks, her thighs. The root clippers, stuffed in her pocket, press sharply against her hip bone. Her lips move in Hebrew, the prayers her mother painstakingly taught her.
She strains to see through the branches, to listen for the sound of boots, of dogs. She is desperate to know what’s happening, but she doesn’t dare move. Time stalls. She hears only the hammering of her heart.
Was it possible that the soldiers left the area, satisfied? Róża listens but hears no sound. She thinks of Miri, how they need to get to her. If there is any chance—
Róża untangles an arm and reaches above her, shifting the branches just enough to see out. She extricates herself and tugs on Chana, tries to pull her from the hole. But Chana is dead weight, curled up, crumpled.
“We need to find her. I’m going to cover you and go look for her.”
Róża moves quickly in the direction she thought she heard the shot. Her stomach knots with dread as she traverses the woods, scanning the ground in all directions. The air is damp and misty. The earth sucks at her boots and sticks crackle beneath her weight. Otherwise, it is silent.
She finds Miri facedown in mud, blood mushrooming at the side of her head. Róża drops to her knees. Turning Miri over, Róża finds the trowel she used for digging their hole.
Róża takes hold of Miri’s chilled hand and speaks the kaddish, her voice trembling.
The Yellow Bird Sings Page 11
