Пэм Дженофф – The Other Girl (страница 2)

That she was pregnant was not surprising. Piotr had come at her nightly without fail. Sometimes in the pale gray of early morning she had found him lifting her nightgown a second time or even awakened groggily with him already inside her, his movements building to a rough, repetitive thump that had made her cringe and hope that his parents would not hear. It had not been his desire for her, she suspected; sex had been a new toy to him and he simply could not get enough of it. Maria had found it mildly interesting—perhaps she might even like it one day if he would slow down.

Was it supposed to be more? Maria’s mind reeled back to a day many years ago when she had accompanied her father on an errand to Krakow. As they’d passed through a busy commercial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, she had glimpsed an older boy with dark eyes leaning out a second-story window. Their eyes had locked and he had taken her in with a long soulful look that had seemed to pull at her insides beyond anything her twelve-year-old mind could comprehend. With Piotr, she had felt nothing like that tug.

Her mother had sensed her uneasiness the night before the wedding. “Love grows,” she’d offered unbidden as Maria had packed for her new home. But with whom? she had wanted to ask, thinking of the stack of letters she had found years earlier buried deep in her mother’s cedar chest. They had been written in a flowing script that was not her father’s and they had spoken words of love to her mother, painting a picture of a vibrant and adored woman Maria did not quite know. The letters, signed only with the initial “J,” had seemed surreal. Maria had gone back a second time weeks later to reread them and try to understand. But when she’d looked in the chest, they were gone.

She wished that she had asked Mama about them before leaving. Her eyes traveled across the village, which sloped at a crooked angle below. She glimpsed her childhood home on the far edge, the familiar yellow light burning behind the curtains in the window. It was smaller than the Adamczyk house, but it had been cozy, with something delicious usually cooking in the oven and Papa’s violin music enlivening the long winter nights. A wave of yearning washed over her. Despite the sadness that had seemed to swallow her mother over the years, Maria had been happy at home. She had not wanted to accept Piotr’s proposal or leave at all.

But that had all changed a few months earlier, before the wedding. One evening when she had been out tending to the livestock, Maria had noticed something odd at their neighbors’ house: the front door was ajar and no lights were on, even though the sun had set. “Something must be wrong at the Bukowskis,” she had told her father breathlessly when she had gone back inside.

“Oh?”

Maria had described to him what she had seen. An unusual expression had appeared on her father’s face and she’d wondered if it had been a mistake to say anything.

The next morning, she had awakened to a clatter and run to the window. Police were at the Bukowskis’ house. She had heard glass shattering inside, then a piece of a chair had sailed through a broken window. Maria had begun dressing to go find her father. As she’d reached the top button of her blouse, her hand had frozen in midair. She’d suddenly recalled a day weeks earlier when she had been passing through the village and had seen her father talking to a policeman in an alleyway, heads close.

Alarmed, she had hurried to him. “Papa, is something wrong?”

He had waved her off. “Everything is fine. I’ll be home shortly.” She had turned and started to walk away. Then she had stopped again and looked back slowly over her shoulder with a sense of unavoidable dread. The policeman had been handing money to her father.

Remembering the exchange as she’d watched the police raid the Bukowskis’ house, Maria’s heart had raced. They had appeared too quickly after Maria had told her father about the house for it simply to have been a coincidence.

She had waited until the police had gone, then stormed to the yard where her father stood. His fingers, which had always seemed magical for the music they could make, had been jamming money into his pocket. “How could you?” she had demanded.

He’d looked at her levelly. “We must protect ourselves in these times.” He had not tried to deny what he had done.

“By staying out of things,” she’d countered. “Not by bringing trouble for others.”

“Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.” He’d turned back to chopping wood.

The next day she had agreed to marry Piotr. There weren’t so many options for young women, especially with all of the men called up to the front. And knowing about Papa’s betrayal, she could no longer have remained at home. Within the week, she had left her parents’ house for good. They had not come to the wedding, nor spoken to her since. Though her mother seldom left the house anymore, Maria had hoped that she might bump into her father in town. It would be worth the awkwardness to see him once more. More recently others in the village had disappeared, though, and she wondered if her father had something to do with that. Her anger and betrayal rose once more as she remembered. Perhaps it was for the best that they did not meet again.

From behind the woodpile came a shuffling sound, jarring Maria from her thoughts. She jumped and, recalling stories of wild animals, lifted the ax that leaned against the side of the barn.

A child, no older than ten, appeared in the moonlight. Maria lowered the ax. “Hello,” she said softly. Though the child’s hair was hidden beneath a cap and the scrawny figure was nondescript, her delicate features marked her as female. “Are you lost?” Maria did not recognize her from the school where she had once taught. “It’s all right,” she said when the child did not answer. The girl’s eyes darted back and forth, as though seeking an escape. “What’s your name?”

“Hannah.” The girl faltered, seemingly waiting to be told she was wrong. “Hannah Stein.”

“You’re a Jew?” The girl nodded. There were no Jews in Biekowice, but Maria had seen them on the trips to Nowy Sacz with her father. Nothing about the girl’s appearance, though, would have given her away. “You’re not from these parts.”

“I’m from Lipnik.”

Maria recognized the name of the village to the east, no bigger than her own. “That’s nearly forty kilometers from here.” She noticed then the girl’s tattered shoes, little more than remnants of leather.

Maria pulled the child into the shadow of the barn. Hannah winced, retracting as though Maria’s hands were fire against her skin. How long had she been there? Her face was a ghostly white. Maria looked over her shoulder toward the house. She could not bring the child inside.

“Wait here,” Maria instructed, guiding Hannah back into the shadow of the woodpile. She slipped into the house, strode quickly to the kitchen and looked around for something warm to feed the child. Finding nothing, she grabbed some leftover bread and milk, and a few of the now-cold potatoes, hoping her mother-in-law would not notice and ask questions. She started to reach for some ham, too, then hesitated. She had heard that Jews do not eat pork, but it was the only meat they had. She tore off a piece.

She returned outside and handed the food to Hannah, who gobbled down the bread, potatoes and ham indiscriminately, too famished to notice or care. “What are you doing here?” Maria asked as the girl ate like a ravenous stray.

Hannah swallowed the milk in a single gulp. “The Germans. They said they were sending us girls and boys to a camp.” Maria shuddered. She had heard about the Germans relocating Jews to central areas, but the idea of taking children without their parents seemed unthinkable. “The train cars were awful, though, like the kind they use for cattle. When I saw those, I knew they were lying.”

“So you ran.”

Hannah nodded. Maria marveled at her bravery. “Why didn’t you go home?”

“I didn’t want to get my family in trouble,” Hannah replied. “I can manage on my own. I was told that there are people who help the Jews.” Her eyes met Maria’s. “There are, aren’t there?”

Maria tried to formulate an answer. Most villagers were just trying to survive. They were not complicit with the Germans like her own traitorous father, but it was hard to imagine them risking their own lives for a person they didn’t know, let alone taking in a child. “I don’t know about that,” she replied evenly. “In any event, we need to find you somewhere to stay for the night. Then first thing in the morning we can take you home.”

“I’m not going back,” Hannah blurted. “Ever.” Her voice was flat yet resolute.

“What about your parents? Surely they are worried...”

“Not my father,” Hannah said, her eyes clouding. She winced, reliving something unspeakable, and in that moment Maria saw all the suffering the child had faced. “He’s the reason I had to go.” Hannah’s face seemed to close and she wrapped her arms around herself protectively, as if imploring Maria not to ask further questions.