“I figured as much,” Mother says. “She’s a fighter, your grandmother. She’ll pull through this, I’m sure.”
But my mother’s words lack the confidence of the promises she would make to me when I was younger, assuring me everything would be all right, when really, nothing would be.To fear fear, is the worst form of fear,is what she would always say. It makes too much sense now.
Mother resettles herself on the pile of blankets we have, and I sit down beside her. I sit, holding my knees against my chest, staring toward the last lit candle in the center of the room.
The quiet enhances the number of us coughing and sniffling. It isn’t just Grandmother who’s sick. There’s no heat in this building. We all quiver through the night, sleeping in our coats and boots.
The front door opens and closes, pulling me out of a daze between being awake and asleep. A hand drops to my shoulder. “Luka, come out here with me, quick.”
Apollo’s back early tonight and with something important to share. I push myself to my feet and carefully avoid stepping on anyone as I follow him back to the door. We’re out in the dark hallway with no light other than a slice of the moon glowing into the cracked window above the stairwell.
“I was down in the sewer tunnel. There’s life down there. There are a lot of people, selling, trading, entertaining. There hasn’t been a German in sight. Not yet at least. I was talking with a few men tonight, taking in information from outside the wall on the advances Germany is making through Poland and then I heard someone calling your name.”
“Me?” I question.
“It was unmistakable, brother. I went through three different tunnels to find where the sound was coming from. I thought I was losing my marbles but then I found the person calling for you.”
“Who was it?” I ask, struggling to catch a breath.
“She didn’t give me a name. I told her I knew you and she shoved a paper into my hand and pleaded that I make sure you get it. I asked what the name was, but she wouldn’t give it to me. She said she’s been looking for you for months, but no one has known your name until tonight.”
Apollo grabs my wrist and shoves the paper into my hand. I unfold it and try to read it within the darkness, unable to see a thing. I move closer to the stairwell and the window, waiting for the cloud to move across the moon to offer more light.
Then I see.
Luka,
I’m searching for you. I’ve been down here…every night, praying someone will help me reach you. My heart is broken into so many pieces I’m not sure I’ll be able to put it back together, not knowing where you are or if you’re well. I love you so very much and I can’t think of anything else but you. I will do whatever I can to find you. If you find this letter, please know I’ll keep looking. I’ll keep waiting. I’m here. I have been and will be.
Yours Truly,
E
I fall backward, landing on the top step of the stairs, and press my hand through my hair, unable to believe what my eyes are reading. She’s down there in the tunnels—the place I’ve been fearful to go because of the risk involved.
“Did she leave, or did she stay?”
“She walked away after handing me the letter,” Apollo says. “Who is she?”
I press the note to my chest and stare out at the moon. “My love, on the other side.”
TWELVE
ELLA
January 1941
Warsaw, Poland
No one can see inside the walls, and they can’t see out here. Our city is divided like black and white colors without an ounce of gray between. The brick layers don’t stop the sounds from escaping—children crying, women and men pleading with others, and ghostly screams that mimic the whistling of wind.
I’ve overheard people in the store saying things like the walls are an enclosure for the burial ground of Jews, which isn’t shocking with what I see in the underground tunnels at night. For months, I’ve done nothing more than work then map my way around the sewers, calling out for Luka with hope of finding him or someone who might know him. I was losing hope until last night someone finally responded to my calls. Whoever that man was, he agreed to take Luka my letter. The odds of this happening seem too slim. Many of the Jewish people I’ve seen underground are in a mentally ill state of mind, talking to themselves, pleading with the air in front of them for help, keeling over, and worse.
I climb down the cold, wet metal ladder to the bottom of the tunnel where three passageways meet. I’ve explored all three but found only one that connects to the passages where the Jewish people wander from within the walls.
From this tunnel and its wading water that rises to my knees, several other tunnels branch away. I keep a note in my pocket with the directions I’ve followed because my fear is that I’ll run out of matches, or my torch will become too damp to light. Without fire, I’ll be blinder than a cloud covered night in an endless field.
The narrow confines are the tunneled walls that breathe a life of their own, exhaling cold air filled with a foul odor of rotting waste from the city streets above, then inhaling the air from my lungs, leaving me unbalanced and dizzy. As the water splashes against me with each step, flickers of light and shadows pass by slight openings to other tunnels, a mystery of who else might be traveling through the dark underground. I try to glide to avoid extra movement within the water, but it’s a strain moving against the current. That and the cold temperatures against my wet stockings and boots leave me numb after a few short minutes of walking.
