“Halina!” My name weaves between the trees. How could she have known I left? I didn’t make a sound. She’s been asleep for hours. I’ve been walking for what feels like half the night. “Halina Wojic, I know you are out here, young lady.”
Despite Julia calling my name, I press forward. How can I tell her she’s wrong about my parents when she says she has all the information available? I force my legs to move faster, gritting against the struggle and heaviness of each stride along the sinking snow.
Her hand grasps my arm, stopping me from making it to the exit of the woods. She’s breathing so hard, I could pull away. But I wouldn’t do that to her. I would’ve come back tomorrow, hopefully before she noticed I was gone…
“Halina, what on earth has gotten into you?” she asks, gasping for more air. “This is the fourth time this month. I’m not a spring chicken. I can’t keep chasing you.” I should apologize, but words don’t find my tongue. “Is this about that foolish library again?”
“It isn’t foolish,” I reply. “Sister Mary was talking about a person finding a long-lost family member with the records located there. That means there’s a chance I might find mine.”
Julia groans. “Sister Mary believes every thread of gossip she hears in the market square and usually misses the first half of the conversation.”
“Please. If I don’t try to find them, I’ll always be wondering. I’ll never give up trying to find something.”
“This age is going to be the death of me,” she grumbles. “Twelve and we know everything known to man.” Julia loosens her grip and slides her hand down to mine. “I will take you to the library myself tomorrow.” She pulls me into her side and wraps me in her warmth, an instant relief. “I told you I will always do whatever possible to help you find your parents…” She isn’t finished with her statement, and I know what comes next. “Sweetheart.” Julia takes my cold hand into hers and wraps her other hand around them as we walk back toward the church. “People aren’t always who we wish them to be, and that doesn’t mean your parents don’t love you or didn’t love you. It means they knew you would have a better life without them, and that’s what they wanted for you.”
“How could you know that if you don’t know anything about them?” Maybe she does know something. Maybe she doesn’t want me to know what that is. Maybe my parents are horrid people and knowing that would steal every bit of my hope.
“I’ve been doing this a very long time—my whole life, really. I didn’t ask for you to be placed on my doorstep as an infant, but I took one look at you and knew we were meant to be together. I would give you what someone else couldn’t. I would keep you warm, fed, and clothed. I’d take care of you for however long you need. You ended up with me for a reason and I don’t question fate.”
“I would never leave you,” I tell her. “I just?—”
“I know, sweet girl. I know. I have written to the registry offices in every city of our country, requested help from the Parish Priest, and have repeated the process once a year sinceyou arrived, but nothing with your surname has ever come back. All I’ve ever had is the scrap of paper that was pinned to your blanket with your name and birthday. That’s all there has ever been.”
“I’m sorry for upsetting you.” It’s my parents who I’m truly upset with. How could they just leave me with no trace of information about who I am or where I came from?
I set the folktale book on the worn square nightstand next to the small table clock then tuck the bear into my chest and press my nose to the side of its head for another inhale of faint lavender—the faint scent of Julia’s hugs.
I close my eyes, pleading for sleep, imagining Julia’s soft fingers stroking the side of my cheek. She always made me feel better. Always. I wish she could help me forget about this horrific week, but the sound of footsteps against the stairs holds me stiff. The wooden boards on the other side of the wall creak several times, leaving me to wonder if Frau Schäfer or Officer Schäfer have come up here for something.
Stillness follows the last creak.
Is it him? Her? Or someone worse?
NINE
HALINA
July 20, 1943
With a sharp gasp, I jerk upright in bed, the thin quilt tangled around my legs. A rumble of thunder stutters in the distance. Maybe that’s what woke me up. My chest heaves. Sweat sticks to my back in the stale, humid air. The attic walls blur in the dim dawn light—faded yellow stripes turned gray. The air is thicker now, laced with must and the leftover stench of Officer Schäfer’s cigarette smoke from last night. My fingers clutch the worn stitching of my stuffed bear, my nails poking through the small holes as if it might protect me.
Each morning before I open my eyes, I pray the prior days have been a nightmare. That I’ll wake up in my tiny bedroom at the orphanage.
But I don’t.
I’m still in their attic.
Trapped.
The sound comes again—masculine shouts, rough and berating, ripping through the walls. A shriek follows, the sound I’ve become familiar with in the past day, Flora’s painful cry.Rushed and panicked footsteps pound against the floors below as frantic squeals from the two older girls join the commotion. I can’t make out what’s happening.
My breath shudders as I kick my legs off the side of the bed. Did I sleep too late? It’s still dark. I scramble for the old clock on the nightstand, my fingers fumbling against the scratched brass. 4:45 a.m. Too early for everyone in the house to be awake. It’s too early for what I’m listening to. The wave of relief that I’m not late is short-lived as another shout rumbles through the house.
I reach for the doorknob but a crash of wood startles me backward. A chair splitting? A table falling to its side? My throat is dry, each breath burning as if I’ve swallowed fire. The girls are screaming. They need help. I force my feet forward, gripping the railing tightly to navigate the old stairs. My heart thuds against my ribcage as the shouts and screams grow louder—they’re not coming from the bedrooms. They’re from down below. I press myself against the wall as I near the bottom of the stairs, then peek around the corner, just enough to see.
Officer Schäfer stands barefoot in the hallway, his uniform disheveled, his shirt untucked, belt loose, and hair matted to his head. More unsettling is his face—beet red, veins bulging at his temples. His fists flex and curl at his sides as if he’s trying to contain his rage but clearly failing.
“What do I have to do to make you understand, Ada?” he snarls, his voice full of venom.
