“Anything else?” I ask, my hushed words sticking to my throat.
“There’s a lot more,” he says delicately, “But for now, don’t make eye-contact with Officer Schäfer. And you should know…they don’t give second chances.”
“A second chance for what?”
“Just—just be careful around them.”
He reaches into his pocket then pulls out a scrap of newspaper and presses it into my hand. “Take this.”
“What is?—”
“I’m Gavriel,” he says, just as heavy footsteps clomp downstairs, sharp heels chopping louder and louder against the wooden floors.
I clutch the scrap of paper and hesitate before finding my voice to respond. “Halina,” I reply.
He slips through the door, disappearing into shadows within the construction.
I unfold the newspaper in my hand. A clipped German headline on one side, but on the back, a message is scrawled in pencil:
You can trust me.
I’ve heard these words before.
A nun once told me my parents loved me—something a young child would want to know. But my parents left me without a reason. That isn’t love.
Then, there was once a friend who said she’d keep a secret safe. She didn’t.
Even Julia, who always promised me “God brought us together and together we shall be,” couldn’t stop the evil from taking me away.
Trust is poison laced inside the ripest berry, just within reach…when hunger hurts the most.
I tuck the scrap of newspaper into my apron pocket and press the rule book against my ribs as if it will protect me.
One rule already has already been broken.
For a stranger who seems to have far more to risk than me.
As I make it up to the bedroom floor, another faint sound—a whimper, or a whine circles me before the sound is swallowed up by the low hum of chatter coming from the main floor below. My nerves buzz on alert, but I clench my eyes and push back on the fears sneaking into my mind.
It must be a cat, locked up or stuck somewhere. What else could it be?
SIX
HALINA
Frau Schäfer only gave me a partial tour of the house before sending me up to the eves to drop my suitcase before returning downstairs. She’s left me to seek out the kitchen on my own.
Where the curled and embellished banister tapers at the bottom step, I spot a washroom to the right of the front door. I hadn’t noticed it when I first entered the house. The door is cracked open just enough to see a white porcelain pedestal sink.
Continuing away from the entryway foyer, I spot two closed doors to my left, and the now familiar family room on my right. Then there’s an arched opening to my left which offers a glimpse of their dining room, but the table is covered with stacks of paper. A multi-purpose room, I suppose.
Finally, I come to the kitchen’s arched opening on the right, a larger space than I imagined. A cast iron stove dominates the left wall, copper pans gleaming above, hanging from a rod along white tile that matches the counters. Beside it stands a cream-colored refrigerator on thick metal legs, its rounded edges and chrome trim glistening in the sun. I’ve only ever used an icebox, nothing like this.
Pale green cupboards stretch floor to the ceiling, framing a window above a deep porcelain sink. A floral valance hangslike a lavish final touch. In the center, a rectangular table fills the space with a silent authority. At the far end, Frau Schäfer sits with ridged posture, writing in a journal with intense focus. Behind her, another grand archway frames a smaller room.
Isla and Marlene sit quietly within the glow of sunshine, one with a book, the other with paper and crayons. The baby is in a wooden cradle to the side of Isla.
A woman in a blue and white striped smock steps into the kitchen from behind me and makes her way over to the stove, retrieving a soup pot from the rack above. The clink and clatter send a jolt through my shoulders. Then a floorboard to my far-left creaks, pulling my attention to another woman, standing as if a statue in the corner. She’s also in a blue and white striped smock, but instead of working, she’s staring at the woman cooking.
