And what about this boy’s mother? She would be begging for someone, anyone to help save her baby. But the whites of his eyes are yellow, and his skin—also tinted yellow. He frees a hand to scratch at his neck, a sign of a rash—typhus—something he doesn’t have. No. No. No.
The doctor turns his focus to us and tilts his head to the side, tsk-ing his tongue. “Oh, so young.”
He’s someone’s baby. There is no doubt he’s “unfit”—that his life will be seen as unworthy here per any German guard or officer. But he isn’t sick with typhus. It’s jaundice—not contagious, but severe. “Listen to me,” I whisper, “find water. However you can—warm water is even better.” Just before the doctor begins his stroll toward us, I spray him down with the disinfectant, marking him as “fit.” “Go on, quickly.”
TWELVE
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
February 10, 1941
The rare aroma of savory smoked beef brings about a stomach growl I try to cough over. It’s as if I’m sitting at a royal table.
“This is so lovely, being allowed to sit at the dinner table with my family,” Miriam coos. The hint of sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, by me, at least. I released her from bed rest as she moved past her assumed due date. She’s nearly a week late now. “And the luxury of salted beef. I must be dreaming.” That part wasn’t sarcastic. Philip managed to barter for some salted beef yesterday and asked if I could help make a stew tonight.
The Silbergs sit contently at their dining room table, with me occupying a seat between Stefan and Eloise. They spoil me, which causes me some guilt, knowing Papa is eating canned food alone in the clock tower while I’m here eating out of a porcelain bowl. But if given the option, Papa would choose canned food and the clock tower over this. I don’t know why, but he would.
“This is magnificent,” Philip says before dabbing his napkin to his lips.
“You can thank Stefan,” I say, biting at my unfurling smile. “All I did was walk him through the steps.”
Miriam chokes on a small cough and presses her hand to her chest. “Stefan…cooked?”
“Why is that so surprising?” he asks her, brow raised, a twisted grin.
“Well, you don’t know how to make a pot of tea, and that’s just a matter of boiling water,” Eloise adds, taking a swipe at her big brother.
Stefan ignores Eloise as he often does and clears his throat before stating, “Rosalie taught me.”
“Did she now?” Miriam asks, smirking in my direction. “You know what they say, Rosalie…Teach a man to cook, and?—”
“He’ll realize how hard us ladies work in the kitchen to prepare a meal?” I counter.
Everyone laughs. Even Stefan, who did admit to not knowing how much time and effort was put into preparing a hot meal for a family.
I’ve eaten all the meat out of my broth and half of the carrots when a spoon clashes against a porcelain bowl, the ting echoes between the flourish-lined walls. Miriam grabs the edge of the table, her knuckles white, teeth gritted.
Philip pushes his chair out from the table and tosses his napkin next to the stew bowl. “It’s time,” he says, panicked. “Stefan, let’s get her upstairs.”
As they’re helping her out of her seat, I charge up the stairwell to prepare her bed, a wave of nerves fizzling through me like they haven’t in longer than I can recall. I’m confident in my abilities, but something is gnawing at my stomach.
An hour of steady, evenly paced contractions has passed. Stefan is standing by the door, chewing on his thumbnail. Eloise is sitting in the corner on the floor, a sight that tugs at my heart. But Philip is smiling, holding her hand, speaking calmly, and guiding her breaths through each wave of pain.
I slip the small beige ear-tips of the stethoscope in place and gently press the metal bell-shaped diaphragm to Miriam’s belly, listening for the baby’s heartbeat, which accelerates upon a growing contraction. “Good,” I say. “Baby sounds good.”
I remove the earpieces and press my hands around Miriam’s belly, checking the fetal position once again, making sure the baby is still in the proper position, which he or she is.
“Stefan, could you boil water and grab the clothes set aside in the washroom? I’ll also need a separate metal basin too. That’s in the washroom as well.” Eloise’s joke that Stefan doesn’t know how to boil water festers in my mind, but she was just teasing him. He did make dinner and did it well.
“Oh—yes, I—can—I can do that,” Stefan stutters through his response before booking it out of the bedroom.
“We’re all nervous, and I’m scared,” Miriam whimpers. “I’m so scared.”
I take her hand and press my other one to her cheek. “You’ve come so far. Your body knows what it’s doing, and so do I.”
Thirty minutes merely passes before the contractions are coming and going every two minutes, lasting longer, and growing more intense. Miriam is dripping with sweat, and hergroans have become heavy moans. “I’m going to—I’m going to be ill,” she utters.
