She handed it to Gabriele. ‘Thank you,’ she said, hugging it tight to her chest. ‘You are ashlingen bikher... a bookworm.’
Dorotha smiled at the sweet saying and tapped the little girl’s nose. ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’
It was then that Dorotha noticed Ava was shaking, tears streaming down her face.
‘I’m sorry if I sounded rude,’ she wept. ‘Only I haven’t spoken to another soul apart from Gabriele in three months. I-I’m just so scared.’
‘Oh, Ava,’ Dorotha cried, closing her hands over the woman’s. ‘We all are. But you’re not alone any more. I’ll do everything in my power to help you. I’ll come back as soon as I’m able and, if you like, I’d love to read to Gabriele. I used to host children’s story time at Lódz library before the war.’
‘Oh please, Mama, can she?’ Gabriele begged.
Ava nodded, her body sagging.
‘I’m trusting you, Miss Berkowicz.’
Dorotha nodded gravely. ‘And I willnotbetray that trust.’
The woman extended her hand, her fingers as thin as pencils, and Dorotha took it.
‘Don’t wait too long to visit.’
Dorotha left the way she had come in. Heaving the briefcase through the small basement window and then pulling herself up after it. Many people would have thought twice about returning. Aiding and abetting anyone who was wanted by the Germans for escaping the round-ups equalled certain death. Only last week,a family had been found hiding in an attic. The Gestapo had rounded up everyone in the same block and made a spectacle of their hanging in the middle of Hanukkah. They hadn’t just slung the rope around the escapees’ necks, buteveryonewho lived in the same apartment block, regardless of whether they’d known or not. Their bodies had been left hanging for days as a ‘deterrent’.
Dorotha ran the rest of the way home, the book-filled briefcase bashing against her shins, and was close to collapse when she stepped inside their room with minutes to spare before curfew.
‘You’re home!’ Mrs Mordkowicz gasped, her voice trailing off when she spotted Dorotha’s face.
‘What’s happened? Don’t even think about lying. Speak the truth and shame the devil.’
Ruth, sitting on the floor, darning her socks, lifted one eyebrow and said dryly, ‘The Schupo have nothing on Mama’s interrogation. Do yourself a favour, Dorotha, and answer her.’
Dorotha dropped her briefcase and spilled the whole story.
She expected anger, condemnation, and she wouldn’t have blamed her either. She had put them all in danger, but instead, Mrs Mordkowicz slumped into her chair.
‘That poor woman. We must do whatever we can to help her. Now I have this new job, I can sneak them the odd potato.’
After theSperre, Mrs Mordkowicz had managed to get work in a potato distribution centre. Second only to working in a bakery, it was one of the best jobs in the ghetto and, from time to time, a precious potato found their way into their evening soup.
‘But we’ll need more than that,’ she mused. ‘Leave it with me.’
Then she turned to Dorotha. ‘Come, child. You’re frozen.’
Mrs Mordkowicz wrapped a coat around her and led her to the table, where a bowl of soup and some bread awaited her.
‘Eat, eat,’ she ordered.
Without any fanfare, Ruth’s mother had taken over the matriarchal role in their home. She was equally lavish to both Dorotha and Ruth in her affections. Dorotha had to hand it to her: she was fairness itself, dividing their meagre meals up equally between ‘her girls’. It had never been spoken, but she divided her love as equally as their precious rations.
Every evening, she would comb the lice from their hair and rub an ointment, which she had managed to swap for a brooch, into their sores.
‘Come, come, let me see to those feet,’ she said, patting her lap. ‘The last thing any of us needs are infections.’
She rubbed the powerful herbal tincture into Dorotha’s feet. Within seconds, her head started to loll and her eyes flickered closed.
‘By the way. You have your first patrons. I’ve been speaking to some of the women at work and you’d have thought I offered them sugar, not books. Ruth, fetch that list from my bag.’
Dorotha’s eyes snapped open.
