“Missing. It’s raining.”
“Ah, he’d melt. Of course,” Bruno adds.
The factory floor is dark and quiet, just a hum of electricity running through wires. As we do most nights, we go from office to office, rummaging through drawers for scraps of food left behind. Only a few of the Nazi officials who “manage” the factory lock their doors when leaving for the night.
“The big office is unlocked,” Bruno hisses.
The big office—the one Father used as a living room type of setting for workers to come in and feel at home when talking with him. Now it looks like the Reichstag vomited blood all overthe room. The desk is made of mahogany, shined with a frosted glass top, and fitted with a forest-green leather chair. The door may be unlocked, but the desk drawers are what matters.
I pull my sleeve down below my palm and tug on the drawer, finding it gives way. Tins of food line the drawer and my mouth waters, imagining what might be inside. We must be careful of what we take so they never suspect our evening raids. Mama used to bake sweets and send them to the factory in tins just like these, always ensuring there was enough to go around.
Bruno is on the other side of the desk and Eryk is behind him pulling open sliding doors on a hutch while I’m compiling small amounts of food from the tins. A plop and shuffle pull my attention toward Eryk as he’s trying to catch a load of addressed envelopes spilling out of the hutch.
“Shi—argh—sorry, I didn’t know?—”
I drop the food onto a piece of notepaper on the desk and spin around to help get the envelopes cleaned up.
“What is all of this?” I say more to myself than to the other two. Father never got behind with his correspondence or bills.
I see his name scrolled across several envelopes with old company accounts, and some letters with unfamiliar handwriting. Then…some with my initials.
That handwriting is different. Smaller, deliberate loops. My heart skips a beat before pounding against my ribcage.
There is no return address—onlySilberg Textileswritten in heavy pen, the strokes jagged and bleeding with inkpots. Intercepted mail? Is that what this is? The German-run administration in the factory must have kept them for their records…or forgotten about them during changes of leadership.
I don’t understand why they would end up here without an address—how just my name could point to Silberg Textiles, even after my family was taken and my father reported me as living abroad. My chest tightens. Could it be? Could she have beenwriting to me all this time? For months, I’ve been desperately searching for a way to find her, and all this time, the answer might be here in ink, hidden by the enemy. My hands shake as I scramble through the other envelopes, searching for anything that has my name or Father’s.
“What is it?” Eryk asks.
“Letters addressed to my father and me.” I don’t want to say any more. Not until I know for sure. The food matters very little at this moment, but I know we need to eat.
I shove the envelopes into my coat pocket then scoop the food up in the paper.
“There isn’t any other food over here,” Bruno says.
“We should have enough for tomorrow and the day after now,” I say, my words rushed, urgent. I need to get back downstairs so I can open these letters.
What if someone else writes the way Rosalie does? My heart might not be able to take that type of tease. I don’t know who sends Father mail, but maybe whoever it is could be a link to finding him and the others. My heart is full of far too much hope to be let down. This must be something. We’ve searched every part of this factory for supplies and food, finding little to survive on, but we haven’t found access to notable papers or documents, especially ones with a possible outside source until now.
Back in the cellar, I hand over two-thirds of the food to Bruno and Eryk before dropping onto my knees in my small nook in the wall. I slide the letters out of my pocket and shield them in front of me. They’re postmarked, the oldest from a year ago last May. The newest is from just a couple of weeks ago. My heart thunders and I can’t keep a steady grip on the envelope. Please God. Let this be her. Please.
I slip my finger beneath the flap then pull the note out, the paper torn off the top and bottom.
May 12, 1942
Dear Stefan,
I’m sorry I haven’t been able to write to you sooner. Going to the post wasn’t an option. I’m not sure if this letter will even find you, but I’ve been pleading with all the stars in heaven that it does. I’m desperate to know if you’re all right and safe.
If someone is kind enough to deliver this to you, remember the letters on the front. Write back, using them exactly how you see them, and a courier will know where to deliver it.
I want to tell you everything, where I am, but I know nothing I write on paper will be safe. I’ll try my best to explain.
The one who took me knew where to find me. I’m in their personal territory, but it could be much worse. I’m able to remain safe for the time being, but I can’t leave. It isn’t an option.
I’m still in the country. Same hour, but too far away to walk.
The wife is with child and requires aid. I’m not sure what will happen after delivery.
