I need to find my handbag. I always manage to put the darn thing in a different spot whenever I walk through the door.
“Out for a bit with a couple of the girls from—” I almost say church but realize lying is already a sin. I don’t need to add to it by using the church in my lie. “My book club.”
“Your book club?” she questions with a raised brow. “Ella, you haven’t finished a book in—so long, I’ve lost track of time. You borrow books from the library, read a chapter and put them down until they’re due to be returned.”
I make my way over to Mama and brush a dusting of flour from her cheek. “That’s not true, Mama. The club decided to readThe Midas Touchby Margaret Kennedy, and I was quite taken by the story.”
“I haven’t seen you pick up a book, Ella,” she says, chiding with a nod of her head.
“I read at night before I go to bed.”
“I see. Who is your favorite character in this book?” Mama has read so many books, she might have read them all. I shouldn’t be tempting my fate by discussing a book with her, but I am at least familiar with this story.
“Mrs. Carter Blake, of course. That’s a silly question, Mama,” I say with laughter. I had to read the book last year for my final paper. “I’ll be home before curfew.” I spot my handbag on the floor next to the sofa, scoop it up and return to the kitchen once more to give Mama a kiss on the cheek.
“What about your supper? Your tata and Miko will be home in a few moments,” she presses.
“Could you save me a plate, perhaps? If it’s too much trouble, I’ll fix myself something when I return.”
“You are the cause of my wrinkles, Ella,” she murmurs with a sigh. “But I love you.”
“I love you too, Mama. And you’re beautiful—not a wrinkle in sight.”
The repeating tick-tocks from the miniature grandfather clock hanging on the wall add another layer of guilt and stress to my racing heart, knowing my father, and overprotective older brother—or a hound dog as I like to call him—will be comingup the stairs within minutes, ready with their interrogation of where I’m going if I haven’t already left.
I make it out of the building, unlock my bicycle chain and flee the block without spotting Tata or Miko. I travel the narrow side streets through two small villages before crossing into the Jewish district, where I find the familiar narrow roads that led me to the square the night I was delivering the bundle of bread for Tata.
When I come to the corner block before the square, I spot the elderly woman who asked me for help, the one I couldn’t do anything for. The sight of her despair has clung to me. She’s only one person out of so many in the same position, but I need to do something. I roll my bicycle up to the side of where she’s sitting and reach forward, slipping my hand into the metal basket. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help you the last time you asked, but I’d like to offer you a little something.” I retrieve the brown bag with bread and canned goods I brought and hand it to her.
“Oh, my dear,” she says. “Oh. I’m—I’m not sure what to say.” She peeks inside the bag and cups her trembling hand over her mouth. “Bless you, sweet girl.”
“It’s not much,” I say. I had to sneak this loaf into a bag when Tata and Miko were out earlier. Food is scant, but so is compassion. The woman smiles, a strain that looks as if she’s stretching unused muscles. A sense of peace warms me. It isn’t much, but it’s more than nothing.
“Are you giving this poor woman a hard time?” The question arises from behind me, followed by a soft laugh.
“Oh, you rascal, you,” the woman replies. “This young lady is a gift from God, and don’t you say anything otherwise.”
An arm wraps around my shoulders, carrying the scent of spring air. “I was wondering if you would be coming here tonight,” Luka says. “I was collecting my coat and hat when I spotted you over here.”
“Are you aware that he writes all of the music himself?” the old lady says with a small smile. “He has more talent than this world will ever be lucky enough to hear.”
“I was unaware of this additional talent,” I reply, stunned.
“It’s nothing but words,” he says shooing away the topic with a blush tinting his cheeks. “Ella, Pan Monowitz lives in my apartment building.”
“But I come down here every afternoon to listen to the beautiful music. For many of us, it’s all we have left.”
I stare to the side, finding Luka’s cheeks burning from pink to red. “I’m sure that’s not true, Pan Monowitz,” he says with a heavy exhale. “After all, we’re still breathing, and the sun is in the sky. We’re resilient, yes?”
“With good people still left in this world, you are right, young man.”
Luka releases his arm from my shoulders and takes hold of my bike’s handlebars so I can slide off the seat. “Have a good night, Pan Monowitz,” Luka says, dipping his head.
“Yes, have a nice night,” I follow.
“Thank you, dear. For everything,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” Luka says as we turn the corner.
