SANOK, POLAND
October 12, 1940
Print shop, supplier, bank, and deliver the note. Don’t forget.
“Stefan, your arm band,” Mama calls out from the kitchen. “And don’t forget to take the tins of pastries for the factory staff.”
I did almost forget the tins. And I peer at my right sleeve, swearing I had already slipped that awful thing on, but I didn’t. I pivot, my shoes clicking along the black-and-cream porcelain tiles between the sitting room and the kitchen hallway. Then the door knocker clacks—brass against brass.
Print shop, supplier, bank, and deliver message.
I’m going to forget. The twitch in my left eye says so.
Before any of us open this door now, we panic. Two weeks ago, the Levitz family, our longtime friends outside Krakow, vanished after a knock at their door. No goodbyes, no time to clean up the dishes from their dinner. The Levitz’s neighbor sent us a warning about the German laws moving closer to us.
A week later, my father received a letter from the German Reich regarding our factory, granting us an exception to their imposing anti-Jewish laws, so long as we supply them withrequested textile goods. One letter from a man we don’t know within the Reich’s administration doesn’t offer much peace of mind, but it’s all we can go by. Our family name is temporarily marked as “protected.” Though Father clarified that things can change at a moment’s notice. The second someone of authority changes their mind about our protection, we’ll lose everything and have to live in a ghetto.
I stop at the window to the left of the door and pull the drapes back far enough to peek at who’s outside. I’ve never seen the woman before, but she’s not in uniform, and that’s what matters.
My fingers fumble over the chain-link lock. When the latch releases, a rush of cool air hits my face. A girl stands on the front step, sun-kissed auburn braid draped over her shoulder, startling sapphire-blue eyes locked on mine. She straightens her shoulders and clenches her black bag within her gloved fists. She must have been expecting someone else to open the front door. Though by the sight of a worn, brown leather suitcase resting next to her feet, she must know more about my family than I know about her.
“May—may—” I clear my throat. “I help you?” I ask, unable to look away from her doe-like stare.
She taps her fingers against the side of her leg. “Yes, I’m Rosalie Kaufman, the midwife Mister Silberg hired,” she says. “This is the Silberg residence, yes?”
Midwife? For Mama, of course.
Rosalie—beautiful name.
Though this woman—girl—can’t possibly be older than me, and Mama has made it clear that I won’t be seen as a “grown” man until I turn eighteen—despite the Jewish law stating I’ve been one since I was thirteen when I read from the Torah, declared my promise of doing good for others as well as accepting responsibility for forthcoming lifelong actions. Andwell, I’ve done that. Yet…still not considered a man. So, how can this young lady be a midwife?
She’s not dressed like one. At least not from what I assume one might look like. A maroon pleated coat that brushes her calves. Scuffed black lace-up boots hint at long, hurried walks. Her hair, redder than brown, frays by her ears while the rest trails back into a loose braid—a touch of disarray, and a hint of passion.
Her gaze slips past me as she peers into the foyer. “Is Mister Silberg around?”
“I am Mister Silberg,” I tell her.
She presses her lips together, amused. “I’ve met Mister Silberg, and he’s a bit older than you.”
A bit? He’s twenty-six years older than me.
“Rosalie, come in. Come in,” Father’s voice booms from behind me. “Stefan, why do you have the poor young woman standing at the door with her belongings. Take her things, invite her in. Dear God. Have you no manners?”
I pay no attention to Father has he tries his best to embarrass me in front of a beautiful young woman. Instead, I continue to watch her expressions change. Her cheeks flush pink, her gaze drops as her teeth catch her bottom lip.
“Stefan, her bags,” Father repeats.
I step back and open the door wider, allowing her to walk inside as I skirt past her to take her suitcase, then spin around to take the black bag she’s holding on to so tightly too. “Your home is lovely,” she says.
“So are you,” I reply, the words a slip of the tongue as I meant to say, “Thank you, I mean.”
“You have somewhere to be, Stefan,” Father says. “Yes?”
Print shop, supplier, bank, and—and…
“He does, but he can help Rosalie find her room first,” Mama says, turning the corner into the foyer, her hands resting over her swollen belly.
“Or I can help,” my sister’s eager voice echoes as she flees down the stairwell.
