My self-control fails me, and I slide my hand across her damp cheek. My heart quakes and my breath hitches as I gently lean in closer until our lips meet. Warmth consumes me as a frenzy of nerves flicker in my chest…she’s a song, my favorite song, a song I might want to sing over and over just to feel like this.
She pulls back to take a breath, staring into my eyes helplessly before surging forward to kiss me again.
If only we could stay in this tree forever…
EIGHT
ELLA
September 1940
Warsaw, Poland
The city is being chipped away, little by little every day. It’s been six weeks since Luka and I sat in that single most perfect tree, relishing the moments of joy between measures of fear as a Nazi demonstration unfolded in the street. Since then, there have been larger and more frequent demonstrations, escalating the destruction of our city.
The empty shelves in my family’s store amplify the truth of how many people are going hungry. Amid every person who circles around our small grocery store, disappointment weighs on me. There must be something more I could be doing for them, but it would likely be against the law. We ran out of full loaves of bread hours ago, much earlier than we usually do, but some still come inside to see what’s left.
“Do you think you’ll have more flour tomorrow?” Madame Adamski asks. She’s one of our most loyal customers who has been shopping in our store since before I stepped foot in this world. Her question bears weight on my heart and her forlorneyes and hollow cheeks plead for a good answer when I can’t give one. Sprigs of gray curls dangle by her ears beneath her maroon scarf that she clings to beneath her chin with a white-knuckled fist.
“I should hope so, but?—”
“I understand, dear. No promises expected.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell her, reaching across the narrow wooden counter for her free hand. All I can offer is comfort.
“This isn’t your fault,” she says, taking my hand and giving it a quick squeeze. “Has your tata returned with tomorrow’s inventory?”
I give a small shake of my head. “Not yet. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”
“Take care, dear,” she says, her hand slipping out of mine. “Oh, and Ella…” her words become a whisper. “I saw you in the Jewish quarter just the other day. You were walking around with a young man—a Jewish man.” She swallows hard and lifts her hand to her throat. “Dear, you should be more careful where you go and with whom you’re seen.”
“Thank you for your concern, madame.”
I hold back the frustration rippling through my veins and take the clipboard from beneath the counter and a pencil from the tin can beside the register, then walk across the creaking wooden floor to the nearest shelves. I straighten the last of the jars of jam and pickled vegetables, counting the remnants to mark down on the inventory list. The baskets by the front counter have only a few potatoes, stalks of carrots, turnips, and beets. Most of them are already turning brown. The store rarely smells like fresh bread or fresh produce anymore.
A commotion from the storage room pulls me toward the back door, curious to see what Tata and my brother, Miko were able to collect while restocking supplies. I rest my ear against the door before walking into the back room, hearing themmid conversation about setting aside a stack of paper for their underground meeting tonight. Whenever I ask where they’re going after supper, the answer is “nowhere.” Except, I know where they’re going. They just don’t want me there because it’s dangerous to be in the Polish resistance. It also feels dangerous tonotbe among the Polish resistance. I’d rather be a component of the solution than waiting for someone else to save us all.
I push the door open into the dimly-lit small space, finding Tata and Miko ushering in crates from the truck parked out back. The two of them are tall, broad-shouldered, with hands rougher than sandpaper from all the heavy lifting of daily inventory. The only difference between them is the stark bald circle on the center of Tata’s head that he makes up for with his thick, wide, strawberry-blonde mustache, and Miko, no mustache, still has all his light hair, but keeps it short and cropped. I share the same eye color and hair color with them, but I look more like Mama. “Do you need help?” I ask Miko after he drops the load in his arms.
“No, of course not. I wouldn’t want you to break a sweat,” he says mocking my higher-pitched voice. I’ve never said such a thing about sweating. He just needs to entertain himself by being a pest to me. Miko wipes his arm against his sweat-covered forehead, then his arm against my sleeve.
I jerk away from him, disgusted by his behavior. “You’re vile,” I say, holding myself back from shoving him.
“Sweetheart, could you tally up the items left on the shelves for me?” Tata asks as he carries in a load of crates.
“I already have,” I say, removing my apron. “I have some books to return to the library, so I was hoping I could leave when you returned.”
“The library?” he repeats. He doesn’t believe me. I can’t say I blame him as my excuses for disappearing somewhere between here and home every day are becoming repetitive. However,since he and Miko aren’t honest with me about where they go at night, I won’t let the guilt get to me.
“Yes.”
“Very well. Your brother and I will restock the shelves. Be home before curfew.”
“Willyoube home before curfew?” I reply with a raised brow.
“Ella, please. You’re beginning to sound like your mother.”
I take my satchel from the corner between the metal storage shelves and give Tata a kiss on the cheek before leaving.
