She leans down and pulls out a radio from beneath her table. “The sheep farmer’s boy knows a thing or two about radios. He helped us tune into a frequency the Germans don’t bother with. That way, we hear things before they reach our village.”
My hand tightens around my throat. “Then you’re sure about the prisoner men being taken to the railway,” I state rather than ask.
“Yes,” she says, scooping up a pile of potatoes and onion for the boiling water. She gives the broth a stir. “Where are you from? You haven’t mentioned a family, sisters or brothers.”
“Sanok. I have no family. My parents and baby sister are all gone.”
“I see,” she says, pinning her hands to her hips, the ladle dribbling broth. “This man you’re looking for—he’s the one person you have left from home?”
I nod, feeling the familiar lump form in my throat. “He’s my one. The only one, and yes, also from Sanok.”
Maja hangs up her ladle and covers the boiling pot. “You’re a grown woman, Rosalie. It’s apparent you’ve done a fine job at carrying on as you have, but if I may, I’d like to offer you my personal advice…I’d sleep better tonight.”
“Of course.” I’m not sure what she might suggest but I could use a more noble thought than my own now.
“Go back to Sanok. I heard on the radio that the Soviets are on the way, which means there’s a chance the war could come to an end. If that happens, you’ll have more resources to find this man. More than you will by searching for him in the freezing cold woods here.”
Her advice sounds like she’s suggesting I give up and go wait. Waiting for things to turn out right has never served me well.
“I—I’m not sure I can just go wait…”
Maja takes a seat in the chair beside me. “My husband was ill for about a year before he passed. The doctor said there was nothing that could be done, except wait. Make him comfortable. Stay by his side.” She clenches the fabric of her dress within her fists. “I wasn’t going to watch and wait while the love of my life dies in front of me.” She pauses and sniffles. “I collected every herb, spice, and oil I could get my hands on. I spent hours every day making concoctions of ancient remedies promised to heal. I was determined to find a way to make him better. But I didn’t. He passed within the year, just as the doctor said he would. I was angry at myself for wasting time trying to find a cure rather than sitting by his side, which is the only thing he truly needed.”
“I’m sure he knows your only intention was to make him better,” I tell her.
“Of course. But what I failed to accept is that time unfolds whether we fight or not. Sometimes…waiting is the only right thing to do.”
“What if I end up waiting for…forever?” I ask, my heart lodged in my throat. How can I just—wait?
“That’s what the past is for—holding your memories, keeping them close so they can serve you now and every day for the rest of your life.”
I nod, swallowing hard as her words coil inside me. Memories of Stefan won’t keep him alive. If I wait and lose him, I’ll never forgive myself. It’s better to act—and possibly fail—than do nothing, the way I did with Mama.
FORTY-THREE
STEFAN
Present Day: January 29, 1945
The leaves rustle above, dancing with the wind beneath the full moon that could light up a field. Rosalie’s hand cups beneath mine as I slip the key into her palm, then curl her fingers around it. “This will remind you,” I say. “Remember what you told me about this type of key?”
Her eyes sparkle beneath the moonlight as she peers up at me from beneath her thick lashes. “A winding key is a promise to time. One won’t work without the other,” she whispers, her breath like a cool summer breeze against my lips.
Nothing else matters. Nothing in the world. Just her and me. “That’s what you are to me,” I tell her. “Like time—for as long as you hold this key, time will find us. Together and always.”
Rosalie’s lips part?—
A sound pulses through the dream.
A hand presses into my shoulder.
Her lips part again—she’s trying to say something.
“Wake up.”
No, No, not yet.
The leaves fall from the trees, all at once. The branches and trunks disintegrate into ash, mixing with snow. Cold walls rise from tombs, imprisoning me. A demon’s laughter echoes; a white coat billows by my side. Black hair. Dark eyes. An evil stare. A knife. Blood. More laughter. He’s coming toward me, his tongue clamped between the sides of his teeth.
