‘I don’t know about that. From what I can tell, she is mainly scrubbing. But she has a roof over her head, food and safety. Please God, we’ll be reunited one day.’ Thoughts of her little sister were chipping away dangerously at the wall she had built around her heart.
‘Do you remember the library?’ Dorotha asked, changing the subject.
Ruth shook her head, and laughter lines crinkled at the side of her eyes. ‘Remember it? I travel there every night in my dreams. I wonder if old Mrs Kotwinski is still alive?’
‘If she is, she must have enough books to start her own library by now.’ They both laughed as they recalled the elderly lady, who used to visit the library every day in a fur coat with a cat on a string and smuggle out library books. ‘It didn’t matter how many times we told her she could borrow them for free, she still insisted on smuggling them out,’ Dorotha said.
Ruth smiled weakly at the memory. ‘And do you think the Germans will have allowed children’s story time to keep going?’ she asked.
Dorotha shook her head. ‘After you left, that was the first thing they closed down. They said the books we were reading the children were apparently undesirable to the regime. Soon after, I was ordered from the library. Also undesirable to the regime,’ she added bitterly.
Ruth was silent in response, but Dorotha refused to give in to the mean blues. Being reunited with Ruth was like opening the pages of a much-loved book and refamiliarising yourself with the story.
‘We will get back to our library one day, my friend,’ she said, squeezing Ruth’s hand.
‘You really believe that?’ Ruth asked, her brown eyes wary. ‘The Nazis could have overrun all of Europe by now, including Great Britain.’ Her voice fell to a whisper. ‘Some days, I feel we have been forgotten altogether. Or that maybe...’
‘Go on,’ Dorotha urged.
‘Maybe I’m already dead.’
‘I know how that feels, Ruth,’ she admitted. ‘But you are very much alive, and I promise you, together, we will survive. Don’t you think us finding each other here is a good omen? The tide of war will soon turn. I feel it here.’ She touched her heart and thought of the Secret Society. She thought too about confiding in Ruth aboutLibertatem per Lectio,how she had continued writing her bulletins to the society in private, even though she could never send them. But instinct told her, despite her affection for the younger woman, to keep that to herself.In a place like this, sometimes too much knowledge was a curse.
‘The Allies are out there right now, fighting for us,’ Dorotha continued instead. ‘I feel it in my heart. Our liberation will come.’ She smoothed a hair away from Ruth’s face. ‘Believe me. Now, let’s get this soup back or our mothers will send out a search party.’
Back upstairs, her mother ladled out five bowls and handed them around.
Dorotha took a sip of the tasteless broth. She straightened her back. ‘This is a very fine borscht, Mama.’
Her father nodded. ‘One of your better ones, my dear. Could someone please pass me a slice of that lovely, soft white challah to mop it up?’
‘By all means,’ she grinned, handing him a heel of dark, lumpy bread. ‘But make sure you save some space for my Lokshen kugel.’
Ruth and her mother looked at them both askance.
‘We try to trick our tummies,’ explained her mama, as hers growled loudly. ‘Some days, it works better than others.’
‘It sounds crazy,’ Dorotha admitted. ‘The Nazis can rob us of everything but our imaginations.’
Mrs Mordkowicz’s face softened. ‘In that case, tomorrow I shall spoil you all with my pickled herring and rye bread.’
And that is how, in the space of an hour, Dorotha found that her family and her capacity for love could expand.
As the light bleached from the sky, Dorotha fixed the blackout blinds while her mother lit an old oil lamp that stained the ceiling grey. In the gloaming, the room looked even smaller.
For the past two years and four months, since their incarceration in the ghetto, her mother had waged war against the blowflies in summer and vermin and damp in the freezing Polish winters. What meagre possessions they had were stored in a small orange crate in the corner.
‘Mrs Mordkowicz, you take the sofa, and Ruth and I can have the floor,’ she said, stifling a yawn.
‘I couldn’t . . .’ Mrs Mordkowicz started to protest.
‘If the situation was reversed, I know you’d be proud of your daughter if she made that offer,’ Dorotha’s mother insisted. ‘Please allow us to afford you this small dignity. You have had a long and dolorous journey, I’m sure.’
The women locked eyes, and a current of understanding flowed between them.
‘Good. The matter is settled, then,’ her father said.
Outside, they heard the sound of a man’s voice pleading, followed by a single gunshot. Mrs Mordkowicz started, her hand flying to her chest. Everyone in the tiny room stared at each other, as still as waxworks. Such noises were the backdrop to daily life, but it did little to dilute the horror. The smells of the street drifted in. Mouldy cabbages, piss, and now gun smoke.
