“I’m familiar with that pain.” I rest my cheek against his chest, memorizing the rhythm of his beating heart. I slide my fingers between his and squeeze gently as a heaviness presses against my shoulders. He lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Tomorrow, my love.”
He steps away but doesn’t take the satchel. “Wait,” I call out.
He turns back and I hold out the bag. “Take it.”
His chin trembles as he takes it from my hand. “Thank you,” he says with a faint breath. We part ways through opposite tunnels, not knowing if tomorrow will come.
THIRTEEN
ELLA
August 1941
Since Luka was banished to Warsaw’s ghetto last October, I searched for nearly four months until fate finally reunited us. Now, ten months into his imprisonment between the walls, night after night—through February’s frozen waters to August’s stale heat—nothing has stopped me, and nothing will, from making my way to him in the dark world beneath our city.
His grandmother is better and they have more food. His cheekbones were less defined, making me think I’ve done something to help them at least. It will never be enough. I want to take them all away from the ghetto and keep them somewhere safe, but with each day that passes, more German soldiers are flooding the street. There’s no end in sight and there’s no saying how long anyone can continue surviving within those walls.
The German soldiers are preparing for something, another something we’re all in the dark about. All we can do is speculate and fear the worst. I want to block it all out and pretend these horrors don’t exist and our forbidden exchanges aren’t anythingmore than a little secret, but even if I could, it would be impossible for Luka to imagine this is all a nightmare.
Then I’m left wondering how long this luck will last—how long will Luka and I get away with our rendezvous? Each night the walls of the tunnel squeeze tighter, as if they’re closing in on me, threatening to close completely and never set me free.
“Papers!” another German shouts at me from down the block. It’s rare to go a day without having to prove my identity now. It makes me wonder how many Jewish people have managed to escape relocation to the ghetto, and if they have, whether they dare step foot on the street.
I retrieve my identification out of my pocket, staring at my hand as if I could summon it to hold still. The soldier glares at me, his eyes narrow and beady as if I’m vermin he’s forced to share the same air with. To think I’ve spent my life looking for friendship, ensuring I show kindness to all, and still question myself if someone doesn’t take a liking to me, makes me realize my attempt to please everyone is impossible. I will never be able to get everyone to like me and it’s something I must live with. Still, I wonder who could hate a person they’ve never met. I tell myself it shows their true character, not mine.
Regardless, the nerve and fear hasn’t diminished in the face of these German soldiers parading through our city as if they’re royalty. Despite how many times I’ve shown my papers and been sent along on my way, my conscience gets the best of me just knowing I appear innocent when really I’m elbow-to-elbow with many of the resistance members of our city every night. Do they see the guilt in my eyes?
“Papers!” the soldier shouts to someone behind me as he hands mine back. I hurry around the next corner where trees line the center of the street so I can move more freely, until reaching the street connected to the sewer entrance.
“Good evening, Miss Ella,” Arte greets me from his usual guard spot behind the open sewer cover.
“Arte,” I reply, before handing him a loaf of bread and a paper bag filled with flour for his mother. It’s an agreement we’ve made. He won’t tell my father what I’m doing or where I am, and I’ll give him extra rations in return.
My family’s routine is rigid, Mama tends to her embroidery while Tata and Miko venture out into the night with an unusual amount of understanding from Mama who rarely questions what they’re doing, especially with the threatening ten o’clock curfew hanging over all non-Jewish citizens’ heads. I suppose she lives by her infamous motto of “A secret is a burden of the truth.” If someone is gossiping, she’ll remind us of how she feels. It’s understandable, being forced to live with information we’d rather go without.
As for me, I climb out my bedroom window each night, thankful we live just above the awning of the grocery store with a trellis on the side. Unlike Tata and Miko, I make sure to be home before the instituted curfew.
“Thank you,” Arte says.
“Thank you,” I reply.
I wade through sewer water, holding my dress up above my knees, moving quicker and quicker each night so as not to waste a single moment of our time together. With every encounter, a renewed sense of relief fills my heart, knowing he’s still holding on to hope as much as I am.
His hands always find me before I spot him, stealing my breath once again when he claims my lips. Tonight, his muscles are tense, neck stiff, palms are hot and clammy, at least much more than usual.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, grasping at the loose fabric on his sleeves.
“I’m just delighted to see you,” he says.
“Something’s wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”
Our torches both flicker and crackle as we stare at each other and I’m trying to understand why he isn’t responding, why his eyes look more lethargic than they did yesterday and the day before, why his lips won’t hint at even a small smile.
“I want these moments to be the light in my day,” he says.
“Tell me,” I plead, my heart racing as questions flash through my mind like wind-blown pages of a book.
