Several minutes later I entered the stairwell, a scarf over my hair and one of Paulina’s raggedy old knit hats over the top. Instead of one of my father’s coats, she gave me one of hers.
“Nothing that says money,” she’d said, and gave me a pair of mittens that had seen better days.
Gasping at the cold just beyond our lobby, I hurried down the stairs, careful to keep one hand on the banister in case I slipped, my footsteps echoing throughout the enclosed space. At the landing I paused, listening for anyone coming down behind me, and then opening the door into the grand lobby that used to be filled with the excitement of people coming and going, packages arriving, beautiful women in expensive clothing, men smoking and laughing loudly, the elevator steward smiling politely as he held the door and pressed the buttons, winking at me a moment before he disappeared.
It was odd how quiet it was now. Besides my mother, Paulina had told me only three other families had stayed. A family of four on the second, a couple on the sixth, and a family of three on the tenth.
“All moved in after you left,” Paulina had told me. “So if you happen to run into them, they won’t recognize you.”
It was a small comfort.
A brisk wind whipped against my face as soon as I stepped outside. Ducking my head, I stayed close to the buildings to try and block it as I hurried to the address I’d been given.
The line out front was long, and though Paulina had told me I didn’t have to wait, that I could in fact go straight to the counter, I would have felt guilty walking past all the others to the front of the line.
It took at least an hour to get to the front of the line. An expanse of time that would’ve been almost pleasant in springtime, but was miserable in winter, the wind cutting through my layers, my stomach grumbling at the smell of fresh-baked bread.
As I stepped forward, a small loaf of bread that had barely risen was placed before me. It looked dry. Old. And smelled of nothing. I slid Paulina’s list across the counter and waited patiently as the old man on the other side scanned it, stared at me, and then turned away and disappeared behind a door.
My heart raced. Where was he going? Had I done it wrong? Was I in trouble? Who was he going to tell?
But a moment later he reappeared, a paper sack in his hands, a fresh loaf of bread peeking out the top, the scent of it nearly making me swoon.
“Here you are,” he said, giving me a small, confused smile. “Didn’t Paulina tell you to come straight to the front?”
“She did but...” I glanced behind me. “The line was so long and I felt bad.”
“She pays extra for the fast service. Next time you don’t wait. I don’t want to make Paulina mad. It wouldn’t do to anger my most generous customer.”
“Of course. I’m so sorry. I’ll be sure to tell her it was my fault.”
He nodded then and turned his attention to the next person in line as I hurried to get out of the way.
“Gisela?” a woman’s voice said.
I almost stopped, my step hesitating for half a second. I recovered by pretending to check the contents of the bag and kept going.
“Excuse me.”
She was behind me. Following me. Her hand on my elbow.
I jumped, pretending to be surprised.
“Yes?” I said, my gaze moving across her face, trying to recognize her from my past. She looked familiar, but it had been ten years since I’d seen any of my old classmates. “Can I help you?”
“Are you...” She was staring at me, trying to see the young girl I’d once been in the womanly face looking back at her. “I’m sorry. It’s silly. You look a little like a girl I used to know but...” She glanced at the people still waiting in line, watching our exchange curiously, and then at the soldier by the door.
“But what?” I asked.
“You can’t be,” she said, her shoulders sagging. “She died. A long time ago. I’m sorry.”
Johanna. That was her name. She’d sat two seats back from me in the last mathematics class I’d ever taken in a German school. She’d been a sweet girl. Smart. Bookish. And friendly. One of the only girls to reach out, to touch my hand the day Ruthie didn’t come to school. But I couldn’t know her now.
Life and war had aged her, etching deep lines into her young face, hollowing beneath her eyes, and drying her lips. I gave her a smile and reached out, touching her paper-dry hand with my own.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” I said, and she nodded.
It wasn’t a rare story. It was, unfortunately, an oft-told one these days.
