“Well, yes,” he says, holding his hands behind his back, his posture stiff.
Luka’s mother places her hands on her heart, peering between the two of us. “Why would you do this to yourselves? It’s impossible to marry if that were to be your desire at some point.”
The thought has crossed my mind but in a time of so much ambiguity, it’s hard to think ahead and worry about what might or might not happen. There’s little happiness left for anyone and if there’s an opportunity to escape the misery we’re all living in, why wouldn’t we grasp at what we can?
“I love her,” Luka says, his face lined with despair as he stares at his mother. His response is so simple but defines the reason we’re here together. We don’t want to be apart.
“If you’re caught—” She lifts her hand to her mouth.
“Lie,” Luka’s grandmother utters. “Just lie to the bastards, lie like they do about that godforsaken wall they’re building downtown. They’ve already taken so much from us and they’re about to take a whole lot more. But I’ll tell you one thing they can’t take away, is love. Marriage is nothing more than a binding piece of paper, and nowhere on it do the words speak to the true meaning of love.”
I’m not sure if it’s shock or enlightenment that has my pulse racing, but his grandmother has said what I haven’t been able to put into words.
Luka’s mother drops her head, quiet with the thoughts going through her head. After a moment, she shakes her head and straightens her shoulders then turns to face me. “Do you love my son?” she asks.
“Very much so,” I answer. My simple words aren’t proof, but I hope she realizes I wouldn’t be here in her home if I didn’t.
She opens her arms back up and steps toward me for another embrace. “I’m sorry for my reaction. If you love my son and he loves you, then I love you, as well. It’s lovely to finally meet the person who has put a smile on my boy’s face.”
“I have something for you. I was going to give it to Luka before he told me he wanted to bring me here to meet you, but he mentioned you have a passion for horticulture.”
“Oh, I do, very much. Though it’s been close to impossible to grow much of anything with our windows covered and so few resources.”
I lower my satchel from my shoulder and reach inside for the brown-paper wrapped package I prepared at the store earlier. “This is for you,” I say. “They’ll flourish without much light.”
Luka’s mother’s eyes are wide, unblinking, as her trembling hands reach out to take the package from my hand and she unwraps the paper.
“Chamomile, mint, and calendula bulbs.”
Her hands tremble as she stares at the roots. “How—how were you able to find?—”
“Her family owns a grocery store,” Luka says.
“No one would notice these were missing.”Because I keep track of the inventory.
“How can I repay you?” she asks, holding the package back out to me.
“I already have more than I could ask for,” I tell her. “I only wish I could do more.”
“I’m going to plant this right away. Come,” she says, placing her arm around my back. She guides me through their apartment into the narrow kitchen where she has empty ceramic pots of soil lined up on the darkened windowsill. Above the stovetop, she has a variety of decorative tea tins.
She gently digs through the soil to create space for the bulbs. The smile on her face wavers and I find myself wondering what she’s thinking about. I would be terrified, living on the edge of not knowing what will happen next to this quarter. People keep leaving and not returning, and we can only wonder why.
As I continue to look around, I notice two small, rotting potatoes on an old cutting board next to two meager slices of bread.
“I should get home. I don’t want to keep you from supper,” I say.
“Oh, my dear, please, stay.”
I look at the potatoes again, fearing that is all they have for dinner. Luka never complains about hunger, though I’ve noticed he’s lost weight during the time we’ve known each other. Jewish people are given much less than non-Jewish when it comes to rations.
Luka steps into the kitchen, making it crowded with three of us. He peers over at the potatoes and slices of bread and his cheeks burn pink. “I was just telling your mother I should get home. I’m sure you’re hungry for supper.” I shouldn’t have said that. I hope he’s not hungry. There doesn’t look to be enough to fill one person. “I—I didn’t?—”
“She should stay,” Luka’s mother says, still fumbling with the bulbs and soil.
Luka weaves his fingers through mine and leads me between the living room and kitchen. “Are you all right?” he asks.
“Is that all you have for supper?”
