“I must find him. I understand the risks involved.”
She shakes her head, seemingly holding back thoughts of disappointment she would like to share.
“My village is east. I can take you there but I’m not sure how much good that will do you. I’m afraid you won’t find the men you’re searching for. From what I’ve heard around town, they’ve likely made it to the open freight wagons by now. That’s where they were supposedly heading.”
Freight wagons. Her words are like thrown stones hitting my chest. I hadn’t considered their long march being a path toward a train. Or the fact that he could be much farther away than I imagined.
I can’t stop the single tear from falling, the cold air like a rusty nail against my cheek. “Thank you for the information.”
“You’re not going to find him if you freeze to death,” she says, her gaze softening as she tilts her head to the side. “Come. Let’s get you warmed up. And put something in your stomach. Then you can think more clearly.”
My gaze drifts from hers to the trail she’s made in the snow, knowing how many bodies are sinking into the ground.
I’m not giving up, Stefan. I’m going to find you. I promise.
I clutch the winding key against my chest then climb up onto the wagon, knowing I might become one of those bodies if I don’t. I can’t let that happen.
I’m not ready to let time pass me by.
FORTY-TWO
ROSALIE
Present Day: January 18, 1945
A spattering of stars above the small village comes and goes with the passing of dark clouds. Cottages lit by oil lamps on front porches with small barns fenced in between remind me of Sanok. Villagers peer from their lit windows as we pass by, and I can’t help but feel like an intruder.
“Don’t mind them. Curiosity only gets people in trouble around here,” Maja, the kind elderly lady saving me from the hungry night, says.
“I grew up in a village like this. Neighbors were family, protecting each other as their own. I’ve forgotten the feeling.”
The woman steers her horse into a small, covered barn and eases herself down from the wagon. Every bone in my body is stiff and sore from sitting after walking so long, but she hobbles right along to retrieve a bucket of food to feed her horse. She limps as if one leg is shorter than the other but moves quickly between the barn and her dark cottage.
“I should be looking for him.” The words spill out of my mouth—passing thoughts stumbling through my weary mind.
“Not at night. You won’t find him at night, Rosalie,” she says sternly with emphasis on my name, which she’s only just learned. “You know, you remind me of my daughter—stubborn but with good intentions. She got that from her father; God rest his soul.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Where is your daughter? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not far from here but chose a more modern lifestyle in a bigger village where she could teach a classroom that could hold more than a few children. She comes by every weekend, though.”
We step into the cottage, dry air, cool but not as cold as outside. No drafts. A heavy scent of firewood mixes with something sweet—a mixture of old baked spices. She moves along the wall, fingers brushing rough surfaces until finding a lamp.
A faint glow unfurls, revealing in one corner, a bed covered with a quilt thick enough to swallow me whole, a lace-draped table with baskets and chipped dishes—signs of meals shared with loved ones, a common life. Two wooden chairs rest angled toward a wood-burning stove with stacked firewood promising heat, and pots and pans dangling from a rack overhead. If Stefan is alive…he’s starving and cold. I don’t deserve this.
“Sit, sit,” she says, shooing her hand at me.
Within minutes, a fire is lit and a tea kettle with water is gently swinging over the flames. The blanket draped over the wooden chair is like a cloud against my back.Stefan might be sleeping on frozen mud. If lucky.
“The railroad with the freight cars you mentioned—how far is that from here?” I ask as she’s slicing something on the table.
“By foot, eight hours to ten hours or so,” she says with a sigh. “Those freight cars aren’t meant for passengers, as I’m sure you know.”
“I know,” I whisper. Stefan might already be in one.
“And most likely guarded by the Reich.”
“How can you be so sure?” Questioning her won’t help me. I know next to nothing and will be traveling blindly.
