“We need to go back to the orphanage. We can’t be out here. Let’s go back so we can talk about what’s upsetting you.” I lower to my knees to get a better grip on her, taking her small hands within mine. “Come along—there’s no sense in calling attention to ourselves here. We don’t want any trouble with those soldiers. You know they’re always over here, looking for more Polish people to kick out of their homes.”
“Well, I want to go back to my home,” she says, stomping her foot and crossing her arms over her chest. Her short blonde hair swishes along her pink cheeks.
She’s been at the orphanage a few years, brought here not long after her parents were killed, along with thousands of civilians in Warsaw during the invasion.
She was too young to understand what she survived, or the meaning of death. So now she carries hope that her parents are still at home waiting for her.
No matter how many times we explain that they’re gone, she doesn’t listen. She’s just a child, protected by her imagination.
We could all learn a thing or two from her.
“The church we live in is your home, Eva,” I remind her.
“You’re not Mama or Papa.”
“I know, but I still love you very much and want you to be safe.” I release one of her hands and poke the tip of her nose with my finger.
Her big hazelnut eyes widen as she stares back at me, and I’m not sure what has spooked her. A low rumble of an engine simmers in the near distance, followed by the crunching of rocks beneath tires. The squeal of brakes follows. With a cautious glance over my right shoulder, I spot an expensive black vehicle pulling over to the side of the road.
“Eva, look at me,” I say, squeezing her hands. “Go back now. Don’t stop running until you are back inside. Do you understand?”
With just one nod, she turns away from me and takes off, back in the right direction this time. Her ragged shoes slap heavily against the dirt as she becomes a blur between the trees. I should go after her, but I don’t like the look of this car, and I don’t want this person following us.
I drop my hands into the pockets of my skirt and stare across the road, waiting for the car to pass. But it doesn’t. A door creaks open. My pulse thuds in my ears, so loud I can hear each beat. A man steps out, his uniform crisp, the lightning-bolt runes sharp on his collar tab, and a red band tainted by a swastika.
He walks slowly, never taking his eyes off me. What could he want? I’m outside the “restricted zone” and I haven’t done anything.
He stops before me, his silence speaking for him as he rests his hand on his belt. “What are you doing this close to the checkpoint?” He stares down at me from beneath the rim of his peaked visor cap.
I take a breath and swallow the lump rising in my throat. We speak Polish, but when the German Reich stormed in, they demanded we speak their language. At first, I refused. I wouldn’t follow their bullish commands. Then I realized they were speaking German because they can’t speak Polish.
That’s when I realized that if I wanted to survive this war, I needed to know their language better than they knew mine. After three years of just me and a worn-out textbook, I’m nearly confident in my practice. Though I’ve never had to use it. Not like this.
For a moment, the foreign words stick to my tongue. “I—I’m taking care of a little girl. She wandered off. I was just bringing her back.”
He peers past me through the trees, and I follow his stare, finding no sight of Eva. I hope she made it back inside.
“You’re out here begging?”
“No, that—that’s…not true. I wasn’t begging.”
“You’re loitering like a street rat. Waiting for someone to toss you money or food, yes?” He steps in toward me, coming too close for comfort. “Unless, perhaps, you’re a simple thief?”
“No, never—” I curl my fingers into fists, pressing them into the sides of my legs. “I was helping the little girl. That’s all.”
The officer breathes heavily through his nose and recoils as if he’s gotten a whiff of something rancid. “You look like a Jew.”
A shiver runs down my spine, colliding with the droplets of sweat, now fearing this awful man more than before. I’m stronger than his fear tactics. I’m stronger than him.
“I’m not Jewish,” I say, my words shooting out of me like a protective shield. Anyone who isn’t Jewish has seen how the SS treat them, and we fear for them more than ourselves.
He tilts his head to the side as if inspecting me from a different angle. “Where are your papers?”
“Back at the house I work at. Like I said, I was trying to stop the little girl I care for from running off.”
He rolls back onto his heels and eyes me up and down, not in the way men sometimes do, but as if I’m being evaluated—like produce in a store.
“You take care of children?” he asks.
