“Jewish jewels,” Rosalie replies in a matching whisper. There isn’t a speck of shock written along her face. If anything, her expression tells me this is old news. It would be easy to assume the madam of her household has a similar room. She takes in a short breath and nods. “Good thinking. There’s a place where we can trade those down an alleyway in the marketplace. I’ve seen it before while running errands.”
We walk in unison down the rubble roads surrounded by rural pastures with overgrown shrubs and a peppering of old houses scattered in no particular order. Each façade a tan brown, or peach with red beaver-tail tiled shingles. Some of the houses look abandoned, others, occupied or taken over. Posters dangle from sidewalk posts, warning Polish citizens they’re forbidden. In their own country.
The road veers into a wooden clearing between old, scattered trees, grass matted beneath overgrown weeds, and a path lined with rotting wooden fences that flounder with each gust of wind. The carriage wheels grind along, the sizzle whirring around us. “To think I used to love walking along small dirt paths. When I was a little girl my mother would take me berry picking every Sunday. It was my favorite time of the week. Then, when I grew older, I found nature to be a door to serenity. It all seems like it was in a different lifetime now,” Rosalie says.
“Paths through the woods like this have always made me think there’s a source of freedom on the other side. It’s a place to run with hope of finding that place.”
“It’s a great place to hide,” she adds.
“Is that right?” I press. “Washidingpart of the serenity you were seeking?”
“At one time,” she says with a quiet sigh. “Until we became separated.”
“We?” I ask, gently, wondering what memories she’s surviving.
Rosalie flutters her eyes closed for a second and a smile touches her lips but fades just as quickly. “It’s just me here in this horrid place, thankfully, but I’d like to think we’ll find each other again someday.” She shakes away the thought. “I’ve gotten carried away. Goodness. The bridge is just around the next bend. We aren’t far now.”
She’s in pain.There’s nothing worse than being alone and hurt.
The bridge sprawls out into the distance, the far end being swallowed by a patch of fog. The red cement walls scream of Reich territory, and I find myself squeezing the push-bar of the carriage tighter than before.
“We should slow down once we enter the square,” Rosalie says. Her thoughts must match mine. It’s clear by the people passing us how few Poles are left in this area. The distinct sound of German chatter echoes off the walls. The sense of comfort displayed by others, living their life as if there’s nothing to fear or worry about, makes me wonder if they’re in denial, or if they simply don’t care about all the Polish citizens who have been displaced from the only place they’ve ever known as home.
I’ve been to this marketplace before when it was open to the public and not caged inside this restricted zone. It’s been a while since, but Julia used to take us on the weekends to watch street performers. The wide-open square is outlined with rows of pastel-colored buildings, but everything looks different now. Even the signs on storefronts are unfamiliar. The people—they aren’t Poles, made obvious by the volume of their German chatter, the forgotten sound of laughter, and the sight of children weaving their bicycles between the groomed trees. It’s as if there is no war here, but to the Reich, this is just the sight of victory in the making.
“Come this way,” Rosalie utters, taking a casual turn down a narrow cobblestone street. It’s dark and musky, fog lingeringfrom earlier this morning. The crisp sound of our footsteps follows closely behind us as we make our way down a couple blocks before turning onto another narrow street.
“Where we go?” Hilde grabs onto the side of the carriage and looks around the dreary street.
“We’re just making a quick stop, little love,” Rosalie says. “There. That man will take the jewels.” She nudges her head toward a ragged looking man with wooden crates stacked up in front of him.
Despite the damp, cool air between these buildings, I’m growing warmer by the second, fearing this won’t work. My hand shakes as I slip my fingers into my pocket and retrieve the watch and brooch. “How much for these?” I ask in German.
The man with an oily beard, heavy eyelids, and scruffy eyebrows, scoops up the items and brings them to his lap where he inspects them with a magnifying glass, his eyes flickering toward the corner once every few seconds.
A pigeon swoops by us, cooing as its feathers flap against the air.
“Birdy,” Hilde shouts.
“Hush,” Rosalie tells her.
“Fifty Zloty,” he mumbles in Polish rather than German as he continues to stare at the watch. “Or thirty in Reichsmarks. Unless you’re in need of a sack of potatoes and a pack of cigarettes. Your choice.”
German Reichsmarks are worth almost four times more than Polish Zloty, but I’ll be using this money in the pharmacy, likely being run by Germans now. If the collector doesn’t assume I’m German, it could be cause for concern. A Polish woman wouldn’t be walking around with Reichsmarks, and if she is, it could be a sign of theft. But the Zloty isn’t desired here anymore and won’t be enough to get what I need for Gavriel. It’s a risk either way.
“Thirty Reichsmarks,” I tell the man.
His eyebrows rise, a look of surprise before reaching into his deep pocket and carefully pulling out a small wad of Reichsmarks to count in the shadow within his overcoat. The man glances at Flora then back at me. “You didn’t get this from me, you hear?”
“Yes.”
Between a vacant bakery and a cobbler with a line of people standing outside the door, holding pairs of worn shoes, is the pharmacy. There’s no window, just a narrow door, uninviting, and questionably unlocked.
“The carriages won’t fit inside the doorway,” Rosalie says, close to my ear. “I’ll stay out here with the children.”
Before this walk, I might have questioned if I could call this woman a friend, having not known her long. But I see now, we’re the same in many ways. We just took different paths to get here.
I must be taking too long to answer as she reaches out and takes my hand. “I know what you’re thinking, as you should, but you can trust me. We’re both unwelcome in this city.”
