Philip’s quick steps make it down the main stairwell and up to the entrance of the kitchen. I expected to see him dressed for the factory, but he’s in an undershirt, slacks, and a knit scarf wrapped around his neck. His hair is in disarray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it uncombed.
“We aren’t going to the factory this morning?” Stefan asks Philip.
Philip clutches his hand to his forehead, pressing against his temples. “Headache. Chills.”
“Oh dear,” Miriam says, rushing to his side, lifting the back of her hand to his head. “You are warm. Back to bed you go.”
“I’ll be all right after some tea.”
Miriam clears her throat and spins around as if searching for the teapot. “Rosalie,” she says, scooping her hand beneath her apron to take the kettle. “Would you mind stopping by the ration line this morning? Just for some milk and flour if they still have any left? The queue has been growing longer and longer each week, and I don’t want to keep Benjamin out in this damp cold for too long.”
“I can take care of him,” Eloise offers.
“You have schoolwork, dear,” she says, right away.
“Is that—” Stefan says, shaking his head, ready to say no on my behalf.
“Rosalie will be just fine. She’s quite capable. Always is,” Philip says, his voice a bit gravelly now. “I’ll need you to take care of the ledgers this morning. You can do that on your own, yes?”
“Of course,” Stefan says. “I do it all the time.” His tone questions his father’s intentions. I’m questioning his father’s intentions. They’re both acting odd, or maybe I’m imagining it all.
The kitchen is too quiet as the pancakes gurgle on the griddle, the only sound coming from the spatula tapping the plate. We eat in the same silence, Stefan and I exchanging glances that seem to mirror the others. He’s the first to take his plate to the sink and I follow.
“Thank you both for helping us out this morning,” Miriam says, bouncing Benjamin on her knee.
“Of course. No need to thank us,” I say.
Stefan gives his mother a kiss on the cheek, and she cups her hand around the back of his head, her fingers red, dry from the cold. “I love you.”
Philip pats him on the back and squeezes his shoulder.
“I’ll take care of the dishes when I return,” I tell Miriam, running my fingers through Benjamin’s scattered curls. “And listen to your wife. She knows best. Go back to bed.” I point a finger at Philip.
“This is why I love this girl,” Miriam says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it as I leave the kitchen.
Stefan is waiting at the front door with my scarf tangled around his hands. “Try not to cause trouble at the market,” he says, a brow raised, and a lopsided grin.
“You say it like I’m known for such a thing,” I say, turning my back to him so he can loop my scarf around my neck.
“You’re right,” he says taking my coat into his hands to help me slip it over my shoulders. He leans to my side and kisses my cheek. “Be careful, all right?”
“I will. You, as well.”
The ration line is growing endlessly today at an earlier hour than usual. I check Papa’s watch over and over, realizing for each glance, the time slows more. If the line doesn’t move along, we’ll all be sent away since the posted collection times keep shrinking. The clouds are unforgiving and lock in the dampness. Not even a narrow passageway between two town blocks does much to keep out of the cold wind. The gas lamps flicker as if they’re unsure whether we need light. With more Nazis moving into Sanok, order has become tighter and so have their watchful eyes.
The townspeople and I shuffle forward a few footsteps every couple of minutes, and I’ve made it to the last corner before reaching the opening to the small grocery shop. The only location in town that allows people—non-Jewish people—to collect both bread and sugar at the same location.
From here, the gated barriers of the sealed ghetto are in view—like another world. Dilapidated housing, mounds of snow-covered dirt, and people standing around as if they’re waiting for this to end.
To see them…to know how unfair it is…
The guilt haunts me. It haunts anyone on this side.
I’m collecting what little food I can while they look like they’re surviving off next to nothing. The hardest sight are the young children who gather behind the gates, their little fingers curled around the black iron while they stare at the ration line.Any attempt to help them would result in death, per posted bulletins.
The clock tower strikes seven just as I step out of the shop with my bread and sugar. I wish I could tell myself it’s a sign from Papa, but I’m not sure if it truly is seven. Soldiers are always posted by the side door of the village hall now so I can’t check on the clock like I had been doing.
I take the long roads that circle the ghetto and lead toward the hills to the Silberg home. The quiet feels like suffocation, a deprivation of the living. Not even a gust of wind ruffles the dry leaves. I think about the Sundays I once spent in the tower, wrapped in a blanket, watching the people of our village move around from one destination to the other in peace. Sundays are no longer a day for rest. While I queue for rations, Stefan works at the factory, logging weekly ledgers along with Philip, and Miriam fights to maintain the illusion of an inhabitable home—a never-ending effort.
