soon for me and you.
If his voice were a record, I might think it was scratched—the struggle in the lyrics, the gravel lining every other word…something’s wrong.
Keep me in your dreams,
and I’ll co?—
A blunt crack slices through the air. The song halts mid-word, choked by Luka’s sudden gut-wrenching howl of pain. Then there is only silence…
I can’t blink, breathe, or move. My body stiffens like ice as I wait for what comes next. Or is this…
The end?
ONE
ELLA
May 1940
Warsaw, Poland
My fingers tighten around the handlebars of my bicycle as I pass through the quiet, narrow and winding roads along the desolate outskirts of Leszno Street in Warsaw’s Jewish quarter. The vacant shops, shattered windows, and scattered rubbish cry of an abandoned district, but that isn’t the case. German soldiers lurk everywhere in Poland now, and have done since last September when the Wehrmacht, Germany’s unified armed forces invaded our country. However, their presence is much greater in the Jewish districts as their demand for relentless control grows by the day.
It’s hard to tell if the residents are locked inside, hiding, or if they’ve left Warsaw altogether. I try not to fear the soldiers, but they lurk in inconspicuous places just to stir up paranoia, then emerge like dark creatures from a nightmare to demand proof of identification.
Being nineteen and the daughter of a Polish Catholic grocer, I spend most of my time working at our family store. Thelittle free time I have hasn’t allowed me to visit this district since segregation laws, ration cuts, and curfews closed in on our city. However, working in the grocery as endless lines of customers come and go, I overhear whispered accounts of life there…the public beatings and arrests for something as minor as questioning a German soldier. Still, nothing compares to seeing it up close. These streets were once bustling with life—horse-drawn wagons, bookshops, and street vendors selling newspapers and fresh produce. Now, the streets are nearly vacant.
Even the air is stale, not a hint of baked goods or fresh flowers, scents that once cloaked the district with a friendly warm welcoming. It’s a different city within our city.These people—they are us. We’re all Poles. Yet, in the eyes of the Wehrmacht, it’s the Jewish people they despise most of all.
I came down here at my father’s request, delivering a wrapped bundle of bread to a Jewish woman—a former neighbor and friend of my parents. He said she’s been unwell, but when she opened the door, her gaunt figure and drooping eyes spoke more of hunger than illness. All of Warsaw is suffering from food shortages, but the Jewish population survives on half of the rations we do.
The surrounding desolation yanks at my heart as I veer toward the main road, but a nearby spark of commotion distracts me from my direction. I clutch the handbrake of my bicycle and lower my feet to the ground, listening for where the noise is coming from.
A melody floats around the corner, carried by a soulful voice singing an uplifting tune. I haven’t heard anyone singing on the streets anywhere in Warsaw in a very long time. Curiosity gets the best of me as I take a turn down a side street, the squeaky gears of my bicycle echoing between building walls. Ipeek around the corner before entering the square, finding a gathering of people.
“Please, do you have any food to spare?” The question breaks through the music, startling me. I hadn’t noticed the old woman before, her black scarf draped over her head and knotted beneath her chin. She’s sitting on the ground with her back against the building, studying me carefully. Her eyes beg louder than her words, and my heart breaks when I realize I have nothing left to give her.
“I’m so sorry,” I utter, my throat tightening as I continue forward into the square.I should do something. There must be something.The swift change between the sight of what must be someone’s starving grandmother, and a slew of whistles zinging through the air makes me dizzy.
I move toward the crowd of people and settle within a nook alongside a building. An elderly couple pass, the husband in something of a tizzy. “That boy is asking for trouble. All the folks listening, too. The last thing we need around here is a gathering.”
“It’s just a song,” the wife argues.
“Well, it won’t be long before we’ll be forbidden from singing, too,” the husband states, ending the argument.
I haven’t heard of public gatherings being a crime, but the rules are different in the Jewish district.
For a short moment, a flicker of disappointment sets in, assuming I’ve missed the beautiful performance, but when the cheers fade into silence, a beautiful harmony ascends and spirals around me, sending a chill down my spine.
How can I not start to sigh?
I’m wondering, wondering why
the world is feeling unkind.
but soon I know we will find
Our way back to smiles and love.
