The man on the other side of the door isn’t German, but anyone not a servant of the SS does not live within this territory unless they survived the Reich’s raid, hid without being caught, and have perfected their German. To fly under the radar of guards here is the only way to remain now.
The door opens a crack, not enough for me to see inside, but enough for the man to peek out and see me.
“Rosalie Kaufman,” I whisper.
The door closes and my head recoils. Any other time I’ve knocked and given him my name, he’s said: No, nothing, then closed the door.
I clench the handlebar of the stroller, feeling an ache in my knuckles. My chest tightens, lungs constrict, and sweat beads on the back of my neck. On edge, I keep a lookout on both ends of the street, ensuring no one is passing down the narrow street. Only pigeons and crows like to gather here. It’s dark, and damp with crumbles of trash littered along the sides of the buildings.
The door opens once more and still only a small crack, just big enough to slide an envelope through. I reach for it, but the man pulls it back inside.
I almost forgot.I retrieve the loose coins I’d stolen from Frau Weyman’s purse and hold it up to the dark opening. The man shoves a folded cap through the crack, and I slip the change inside, hearing the quiet thud against the woven fabric.
The letter returns and this time the man releases it in my grip.
I shove the letter into my sweater pocket and move away from the underground Polish postal service and make my way to another dark narrow alleyway where I can inspect the envelope.
When I pull it back out, my hand trembles as I stare at the words on the envelope.
R.K.
MIDWIFE OF SK.
The R.K. is in script penmanship, but “Midwife of Sk.” is in black block letters. I unfold the top right corner, revealing the matching string of letters I sent Stefan through my letters.
I press my hand to my chest and cup my other over my mouth, smothering the sob quaking through my chest.
My God. He’s alive.
My fingers fumble as I try to quietly open the envelope and slip out the paper.
May 2, 1943
To my beautiful Rosalie,
I wish you could hear me crying out your name with the joy your letters have brought to me. I didn’t find them until this past May. They were locked away, out of sight.
I’m just thankful I finally came across them. I miss you so much it hurts more than any pain I’ve ever felt. I think about you when I’m awake and asleep, desperate to find my way back to you. But as you can imagine, it’s been best to blend into the dark and keep a presence more of a mystery.
I’ve only been able to do so because you made sure I was able to remain in one piece before you left. I’ve been able to hold myself together and stay on my feet. I couldn’t have done that without you.
To know you are alive and holding on has given me more relief and hope than I thought I’d ever feel again.
I confess, your poetic prose had me a bit puzzled at first, but then the beauty of your words leaped off the page, clear as day. Now I hope my response finds you the same way.
Rest assured, I’m surviving, but I won’t rest until I make it to your side. I’m arranging for a way to make that happen, but you must confirm receipt of my letter and reply to me in your loving way with those words that make my heart skip a beat.
Send all your love here…
I’ll wait for you on the nineteenth of January between two and three in the afternoon with eleven roses.
If I miss you that day, I’ll assume you came on the second of January at seven that morning.
Through the fierce beat in my heart and tingles down my spine, I center my focus on the last words I read. These dates aren’t real, nor are the times. They’re markers, like the ones I sent him.
19.1.2.3.11.
I focus, straining my eyes as I stare at the cracks in the stone road.
