“I’m not sure I’m much of a good reason.” I peer over my shoulder, making sure we’re not being followed. He’s out of sight, thankfully.
“I came to see if you were singing last night and the night before,” she says, making her statement sound more like an embarrassing confession. “I got to thinking you’ll probably become famous someday and I’d have to wait until then to learn your name.”
“That would be a very long time,” I reply, trying not to let my own smile betray me.
“You never know,” she adds. Her optimism makes me wonder if she’s aware of the type of life we’re living in the Jewish neighborhoods. It’s become a stark contrast to any other district in Warsaw.
We pass by closed shops owned by Jewish people with propaganda posters depicting us as hideous creatures. Ella’s pace slows and her face contorts with disgust as we move past each demoralizing display. As if she can’t take much more, she comes to a sudden stop as we approach a storefront window with crude remarks etched in shaving cream. Ella’s forehead crinkles and her bottom lip falls with what must be shock.
“It’s a lot. Are you sure you want to be here?”
Her blonde eyebrows furrow over her small, freckled nose and she nods insistently. “Yes, I want to understand what you, all of you, are living through here. Everyone should be aware.”
My heart swells with appreciation and sorrow. It’s easy to avoid this reality, but this girl—this beautiful girl wants to understand more, despite the danger surrounding us.
With a stiff breath, I take her hand in mine. In a normal world that doesn’t run out of free minutes, I wouldn’t be so forward, but there’s something about her that I need to hold on to.
“I’m not going to run off,” she says, glancing down at our hands.
I let go, worried I’ve moved too fast too soon, but she reaches back for my hand. “I didn’t mean you should let go. I meant I wouldn’t run, in case that’s why you were holding on.”
“You’re something else,” I tell her, peering over at her confident smile.
“And you—you and your voice have brought the only semblance of beauty left in this desolate city…but?—”
“But?” I echo.
“You sounded different tonight. It was like someone broke your heart, maybe.” Her words spark a pain in my chest. I didn’t realize my grief was so obvious. “I’m being far too nosy. I should—I should try harder to keep some thoughts to myself.” She shakes her head and presses her hand to her lips.
“I’m impressed by your ability to hear emotions within music.”
“I’ve never been able to before I don’t think, not before listening to you.”
I want to tell her I’m unsure how much longer I can keep this up—performing here—or anywhere. Any day now, I’ll be told to pack my belongings and report to a factory for forced labor.
“That means the world to me,” I say, peering down to catch a faint smile growing across her lips.
No sooner than the words slip off my tongue, the clomping of horses trotting in sync acts as a countdown for the seconds left before we need to be away from the square.
“The German soldiers,” Ella says, glancing over her shoulder.
“I should get home. You should, too,” I say, hating the thought of her walking home alone with soldiers on the prowl. My curfew ends three hours earlier than hers though, and I can’t take any chances with Father and Grandfather being gone. “Will you be all right?”
“Of course,” she says without hesitation.
“Be careful,” I say as she begins to walk away. “I don’t want you in danger because of me.”
Ella turns around and steps back in toward me. “Well, I happen to humbly disagree.” She takes a hold of my wrists, presses up on her toes and kisses my cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow, earlier so I can listen to you for longer,” she says before disappearing into the growing darkness of the night.
“Papers!” a soldier shouts from the around the corner.Please get home safely.
SIX
ELLA
I rush through my apartment, the wooden framed family portraits rumbling against the hallway walls as I charge into my bedroom. I don’t have much time to change out of my work clothes in exchange for a dress with a bit more color. The drawers of my bureau clap and swoosh over and over until I find what I’m looking for. Then it’s the clomp of my work boots hitting the ground one at a time. I sweep my fingers over the disarray of cosmetic items sitting in the silver tray on my vanity table then add some rouge to my cheeks and a smudge of lipstick to my dry lips. It’s enough to mask the look of exhaustion from the day. There are only a couple of hours before Luka’s curfew, and I refuse to waste a minute of that time.
“Ella, where are you rushing off to again? This is the third time this week and it’s almost supper time,” Mama says, poking her head out of the kitchen, and wiping her hands on her buttercup yellow apron.
