The world blacks out around me.
I just want to go back to that moment with her…
TEN
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
February 1, 1941
Out in the floral-wallpapered corridor, lined with generations of family portraits, I press my back against the wall, listening in on Rosalie ease Mama’s nightly concerns while growing closer to her delivery day. We’re all impatiently awaiting. What should be excitement for a new baby, a new sibling, our family growing, is terrifying for us all. Mama has been through too much over the years, losing babies, even ones close to their assumed delivery date. Of course, this one last try was a plan before the Reich stormed through our city. The odds are stacked against our family, Mama, and this baby. Rosalie is our only hope.
The moment she quietly steps out of Mama and Papa’s bedroom, I take a hold of her hand and yank her down the hall.
“What in the world are you doing?” she hisses.
“Hush! Don’t you trust me?”
“No!” She cries out with laughter.
“That’s what I thought.”
Seconds whisk by before a cool breeze swipes at my warm cheeks. We continue running until the sky-high trees swallow us up into a glittered moon-lit clearing.
“Hi,” I say, grinning as we both fight to catch our breath.
“Hi,” she replies, biting her cheek. My dress shoes slip and slide over thin layers of ice covered leaves as I yank a rolled-up blanket out from beneath my arm, blousing it into the air before it drapes gently over Rosalie’s shoulders. “What are we doing out here?”
My gaze drops between us as I dig the toe of my shoe into a small pile of stiff leaves. “Did you know it’s been over three months since you arrived here?”
“In fact, it’s been three months, two weeks, six days, ten hours—and when I last looked at the clock, fifteen minutes since I arrived here.”
“You and your numbers,” I counter, loving that her passion for time reflects her father’s.
“Numbers matter,” she replies.
“They do. Very much so. In that time?—”
“One hundred and twelve days,” she interrupts with her accuracy.
“Yes, over those one hundred and twelve days, I’ve encountered every one of your quizzical looks that you know I can’t decipher. I’ve watched for the moments when your eyes somehow smile even when your lips refuse to comply. And most importantly, I’ve counted one hundred and fifty-two of your superfluous insults that each end with an adorable quiet laugh you think I can’t hear.”
“You’ve counted?”
“Every single one.”
“You have nothing better to do with your time?” she quips.
“One hundred and fifty-three,” I lament. “But…there’s only been one time you didn’t stop me from pulling you outside and into the middle of the woods.”
“You’ve only tried this one time,” she says with a mischievous raised brow.
“You know as well as I do, your insults are just an excuse to talk to me.” I couldn’t be surer of my words.
“I don’t need an excuse to talk to you,” she says, matter of fact.
“Is that why you didn’t say a word when I caught you staring at my bare chest when you walked past my bedroom last week? Or maybe it was because I caught you as you walked right into the wall pillar due to your distraction.”
