Пэм Дженофф – The Winter Guest (страница 16)

Piotr had begun courting the liveryman’s daughter, beautiful and unencumbered by anyone, just three weeks later, confirming Ruth’s suspicions. Her cheeks burned now as she relived the rejection. It wasn’t so much Piotr she missed, Ruth reflected. She hadn’t really wanted to go live in his big cold house on the other side of town, and there was a roughness to his touch that had made her dread what lay ahead. No, it was the idea of him, the now-gone promise of having a place secured, which filled her with a sense of loss.

Worst of all that day, she’d had to return to the house to face Helena. Though she had not said a word, her sister’s expression indicated that she’d known it would end poorly all along. She did not want to accept Helena’s sympathy—or acknowledge the fact that they were the same again, alone without anyone.

There was a knock at the door. Ruth started, setting down her coffee cup so quickly that a bit splashed high over the edge onto the table. No one came calling unannounced, or at all these days. For a fleeting second she thought that it might be Piotr, conjured from her thoughts. Perhaps he had come to beg her forgiveness and tell her that he had made a mistake. She would take him back, if his apology was sincere, although not right away. She had given things too easily before, a mistake she did not intend to repeat. But of course, Piotr was off fighting somewhere. Helena, she decided. She must have come back for something and forgotten her key—again.

Ruth opened the door, then stepped back at the sight of an unfamiliar woman whose dark hair was streaked with silver. Though she did not wear the yellow star, something about her shawl suggested that she was a Jew, from a neighboring village, perhaps. “Tak?”

The woman did not speak, but looked over Ruth’s shoulder, assessing the house, which despite its modest size and furnishings must have seemed luxurious. Ruth cringed, wondering if for a moment the woman would ask for food or money, or worse yet, shelter. They had nothing extra to spare and letting the woman in would surely invite trouble. She noticed that the woman wore no gloves or hat, but seemed oblivious to the cold. “Can I help you?” Ruth asked more softly. Karolina toddled up behind her, tugging at the hem of her dress. Ruth lifted her protectively.

“My child,” the woman croaked, her voice younger than her careworn face might have suggested. Was the woman deluded and thinking that Karolina was hers? Ruth hugged the child tighter to her breast. “I have a little girl.” The woman held her hand up to just below her waist. “Wearing a red plaid scarf with an eagle on it. Have you seen her?”

For a moment, Ruth thought she must have misunderstood, for who misplaced a child? But the woman’s eyes, ringed with circles from her not having slept or rested in her search, were sincere. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.” She eyed the woman. She had only seen Jews from afar, dark, mysterious creatures that seemed to confirm Father Dominik’s admonitions in his sermons that they were shrewd and cunning and drank the blood of Christian infants. But the woman before her just looked like any mother, tired and bedraggled and desperate.

“They said a camp...” the woman began feebly, and before Ruth could ask, the woman turned and started off across the hill.

“I’m sorry,” Ruth said again into the empty space before her, with more feeling than she had expected. Though the woman might look different, a child was a child, and Ruth could not help but pity her. Still, Ruth had her own family to think about and could not afford to become involved.

She closed the door and sat down with Karolina on her lap, shaken by the lingering image of the woman’s face. They knew families that had lost children in the traditional sense, born too small or taken by influenza or some other illness—not the odd way this woman had just described. She had seen the grieving mothers at market with their hollow eyes, disbelieving, despite the odds, that it had happened to them. The merchants seemed to speak softly and cut more generously for those women, but other villagers stepped back, as if the loss might somehow be contagious. Ruth’s throat tightened. She would take the squabbling and competition and hardships of a large family if it meant that they were safe—and together.

Suddenly anxious, Ruth rapped on the window, gesturing for Michal and Dorie to come inside. “Take your boots off,” she instructed, closing the door quickly behind them. “I’ll warm some milk.” As she set Karolina in her high chair, she hoped they would not ask about the woman.

The children darted beneath the table and around the chairs, as though the colder weather had made them unusually restless. “Where’s Helena?” Dorie asked, seeming to notice her sister’s absence for the first time.

“She’s gone to the city,” Ruth replied absently.

“Nooo!” the child wailed, her face seeming to crumple. She swung her braids from side to side, tears streaming down her cheeks.

Ruth stopped in surprise, milk pitcher suspended midair. The children seldom noticed, much less minded, Helena’s absences. She set the pitcher down and knelt. “There, there,” she soothed, stroking Dorie’s hair. The child’s breath was improbably sweet like cinnamon. “She’ll be back by tonight. You’ll see. She’s only gone to visit Mama.” She usually refrained from mentioning their mother, not wanting to remind the children and cause them distress or answer their many questions. But now she added the information, hoping it would bring further plausibility to her explanation of Helena’s absence.

“You know Christmas is coming,” Ruth offered, trying to change the subject.

“Are we having a tree?” Michal asked.

“I don’t think so, darling,” Ruth said, a knife going through her as she watched his face fall. It seemed frivolous, cutting down a pine tree when there was so much else to worry about. “But we’ll have a lovely meal and all of the songs and stories.”

“And Mama?” Dorie looked up hopefully, eyes brightening. “Will she be back for Christmas, too? Did Helena go to get her?” Ruth understood then that for some reason today, Dorie had equated Helena’s going to the city with Mama’s disappearance, a trip was taken in one direction only. She imagined that Helena, too, wasn’t coming back.

“Mama,” Karolina repeated absently, asking for the mother she surely could not remember.

Inwardly, Ruth crumbled. This was the conversation she had been avoiding. “No,” she said gently, knowing that there was no way to avoid breaking Dorie’s heart again. She pushed a cup of milk toward her sister. “Mama needs to stay in the hospital where there are doctors and medicine that can make her feel better.”

“Just like we were playing outside, Dor,” Michal offered. Ruth braced herself for further questions about their mother’s recovery, tried to anticipate and come up with answers that were not quite lies but spared the child from the truth. But Dorie turned away and began playing with her rag doll on the floor.

“What were you playing outside?” Ruth asked, grateful to Michal for redirecting the conversation. When she and Helena were little, theirs were simple pretend games, like house and school. Ruth was always the mother or the teacher, taking charge in a way that now seemed prophetic.

“Hospital,” Michal replied. “Dorie’s the nurse. I was the patient and Dorie cured me.” She wondered what the unseen hospital life must look like in his mind.

“Doctor,” his little sister corrected quickly. “I’m going to become a doctor for real.”

Ruth started to tell Dorie that to be a doctor you need to go to school and then college, which would take money they did not have. That even under better circumstances, it would be nearly impossible for a woman. But Dorie’s eyes shone at the idea, a childlike dream not yet deterred by the war or realities of their situation, and Ruth would not take that from her. “That sounds wonderful.”

Dorie’s expression dampened. “Ruti, what are Nazis?” she asked, shifting topics without warning.

“Why do you ask?”

“I heard you talking to Helena about them.” Inwardly, Ruth sighed. She already knew better than to speak in front of Michal about matters from which she wanted to shield the children. But Dorie was getting older now, and speaking guardedly or spelling out words did not work anymore.

“They’re Germans, darling—German soldiers.” The last word—too good for them, really—stuck in her throat.

“Why have they come?” Dorie had a need to know why things were a certain way, how they worked, to scratch beneath the surface. It was a fierce intellect that in another time and place might have been nurtured to greatness. But Ruth did not know how to channel it, and after taking care of their basic survival needs, she seldom had the energy.

Ruth stopped, stymied by the impossibility of explaining war to children. Why indeed? “They want to be in charge. It’s all about politics and government. But they haven’t come to Biekowice so they won’t bother us.”

“But what about the Garzels?” Dorie had been outside playing when she and Helena had spoken of their neighbors’ disappearance. Had Helena told her about it? “Did the Germans make them leave the village?” Dorie persisted.