I rock her from side to side, moving around in a circle that reveals Sylvia has left. Kasia is alone in the kitchen. I continue rocking Flora gently, taking long strides toward Kasia.
“Kasia,” I call out in a breath.
Her head turns sharply, her eyes finding mine as mine find bruises and cuts all over her face that I couldn’t see when she had her back turned toward us. She looks as if she’s been beaten multiple times, with some of the bruises yellowing. “Are you all right?” It’s not the first question I want to ask her but it’s the first one I must ask.
She shakes her head and sniffles.
“Can I do anything for you?”
She shakes her head again, more fervently this time, her fear palpable.
“Kasia, who was killed that last night you were here?” The question sounds like a puff of steam exhausting from a tired iron.
She swallows hard, as if it’s a struggle then presses her hand to her throat. Her eyes close then clench shut. She swipes her hand at her nose and sniffles again. “We were all punished,” she utters, “but?—”
“Halina,” Ada calls from the stairwell. In response, I step away from Kasia, terrified of getting either of us into trouble for speaking, which would be my fault, just as whoever got killed two weeks ago was likely because of something I did too. “I need you to handle Marlene’s hair. Now.”
“Yes, Frau Schäfer,” I call out. “Coming now.”
Her heavy heels ascend the staircase, leaving me with another moment to extract the answer from Kasia.
“Please tell me,” I whisper.
Kasia stares out the arched opening of the kitchen, her eyes unfocused as if she’s replaying the scene in her head. Her bottom lip falls then she directs her focus on me, staring for a long second—one I don’t have. One, she doesn’t have either.
“It was the man who works?—”
The servant door swings back open, Sylvia returning with a storm brewing on her face. I hold Flora close to my chest and bounce her gently. “Come on, sweetheart,” I say, making it sound as though I was only handling Flora rather than pleading with Kasia for one simple answer.
“Snap to it. You have laundry to do,” Sylvia shouts at Kasia.
THIRTY-NINE
GAVRIEL
A muffled shout ending with “X3742,” rings in my ears. X3742. X3742…
A bolt clinks; too much clinking. Metal grinding against rusty metal, a high-pitched screech drilling into my head. A hand grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me forward, a reminder of the first night I was blindly thrown in here for a crime still unknown.
I stare through the darkness, making out less than an outline of a figure in front of me. “Jozek? Is that you? My brother…you’re here? Is Natan here too?” My voice is cracked and phlegmy, but he must know it’s me. Am I really here?
“Shh, just a little longer,” Jozek whispers. “Silly baby Natan will never find us here. He’s a-a-afraid of the cellar.” Even as the oldest of us three at nearly thirteen, I don’t like it down here very much either. No one should. The creaks from upstairs sound like ghouls dragging their feet across the woodenboards, and it smells like sweat. I think I might be the one sweating though.
Jozek laughs, the sneaky laugh he makes when we’re doing something we shouldn’t be. He and Natan begged me to play hide-and-seek. I should have known better. It always ends with someone getting into trouble.
“Maybe we should spare him from this place. He’s only eight. I know a spot outside where we can hide. It’s a great hiding place,” I say, trying to convince Jozek to play fairly.
“Come on, Gav, you’re not talking about Pa’s toolshed that hardly any of us can fit inside, are you?” Yes. There aren’t many places to hide when we’ve spent entire summers doing nothing but hiding and seeking.
“Jozek,” I say, using the deeper voice I’ve suddenly developed. “Let’s be fair.”
“Your fairness will rub off on me someday I suppose. But it’s lame. It is. Come on, quick before he counts to a hundred.”
The memory of the cellar in my childhood home fades. The tender nostalgia of my brothers pales. I’m left with only the ripe stench of rot and sewage and the clatter of metal slabs.
“Shut up,” a man barks, his syllables spewing spit on my face. “Or I’ll put you back in there.” A gloved hand tightens around my wrist and a handheld light blinds me despite the stark darkness surrounding me. “Move it, trash.” A fist jabs between my shoulder bones, shoving me forward, forcing me to stumble, then jerks backward. The fist drops but another grasp of my wrist follows, pulling me until my feet hit a barrier. “Up!” The shouting continues, right in my ear. With every bit of strength I can muster, I lift my left foot, my toe hitting the barrier twicemore before finding a flat surface of the stairs. I try to look behind me from over my shoulder, wondering if it really was Jozek I thought I saw. There’s no one behind me though. The others are still in the cell, the door now closed again.
My limbs cramp with each movement and nerves tremor through me, a warning I might collapse before I reach the top of the uneven steps I’m navigating. A light much brighter than the one that just assaulted my eyes, bears over me so heavily I can’t keep my eyes open as I move closer.
