“Me. Rosy,” he slurs, his eyes fluttering open. “What time is it?”
The question would normally make me laugh if I wasn’t concerned by his confusion. “It’s half past five, on the dot.”
“Dinner. I was supposed to make you dinner,” he says, pushing himself away from the table.
“How about I go make dinner and you two spend some time together,” Stefan offers.
“Stefan. Oh, my good man. You’re here, too. Good. Oh, I’ve been tired from this heat wave.”
It does get quite muggy up here on hot days.
“Did you open the back windows?” I ask him.
“No. No. The Nazis are gassing streets.”
“Papa, they’re not gassing—” I can’t be too sure, but I think we would have heard about it if they were. I press the back of my hand to Papa’s head, finding him warm. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m all right. Of course I’m all right. What else could be wrong?” He’s not usually this testy, but there’s very little peace of mind to hold on to right now.
“Did the cobbler’s wife go shopping for you this week?” Stefan calls out from the kitchenette.
“Yes, yes. She does every week. She said there wasn’t much on the shelves for rations this week. Potatoes and some sausage scraps. Something. Maybe cabbage, she might have said.”
The Silbergs would be scrounging for food too if Philip didn’t have quiet exchanges in the early mornings before the Nazi administration arrives at the factory. Still, the quantity dwindles by the week. “I’ll have to use the stove briefly. Is that all right with you? I know you’re warm…”
“Whatever needs to be done,” Papa says, shooing his hand toward Stefan.
Stefan looks at me with wide eyes and a snarl along his lip before turning back for the stove. He digs a pitchfork into the basket of coal beneath the burner and lights a match. I hear the creak of a window cracking open and let out a cough to distract Papa. He’s always been nervous, but his nerves seem to be getting the best of him now.
“Any major incidents this week?” I ask Papa.
“Nothing to write home about,” he says with a shrug. “How’s things with Miriam and the baby? Are Philip and Eloise well, too?”
“Things are fine,” I say.
“No, they aren’t. I can hear it in your voice.” Nervous, he may be, but not much gets past him, especially when it comes to me.
“Nothing has changed. The factory is still under Nazi power and working them to the bone. Miriam worries. Eloise worries more. But Benjamin is a good baby.”
“She—she still needs your help?” Papa asks.
My heart cracks, hearing the question, assuming the reason he’s asking. He must want me to come home.
“She says so.” Not that they can afford help anymore, but I can’t bring myself to leave them.
“Good. Good. Good. That’s good. I’m glad she’s keeping you busy, sweetheart.”
“Papa, if you need me…”
His lips unfurl into a sharp grimace. “Me? I’m your father. You should need me, Rosy. Not the other way around.” He groans while slowly standing from his seat, rolling his shoulders as he makes his way over to Stefan. With his back to me, he wraps his arm around Stefan’s shoulders as he sets a pot of water down on the stove.
I glance at Papa’s desk, finding gears and screws scattered. I begin to the sort them, but not out of habit. Papa never leaves a screw out of place. I peek over at the two of them again. Papa has lost some weight. It could be the rationing. We’ve all lost weight. Both share a laugh at something I can’t hear, but the sight makes me smile.
Papa returns to his seat, groaning against his knees. “That fellow—he’s something, you know that right?”
Stefan isn’t even over here and he’s still making my cheeks red. “He’s a nice man, Papa.”
“He’s not just a nice man, Rosy.” Papa grins. “You love him, don’t you?”
