“I know the notice is short.” Dima looks at me with saucer eyes, and I bite my tongue. It’s my home, but I wouldn’t be here yet if it weren’t for Dima’s help, I remind myself.
The nothing-girls were only half right. They thought it was lucky that Dima rescued me and then grew to like me. But really it was that Dima grew to care for me because he rescued me. Because I was helpless and he could help me. Because he was lonely and I needed him. This entire time, he’s been nothing but a friend; he’s asked for nothing in return for his kindness. And I haven’t offered anything.
It can’t stay that way, though. Sooner or later, my frailty won’t be appealing, my gratitude enough to make him happy. He’ll want an actual partner.
“Your brother—” Dima pauses and looks down at his plate, keeps his eyes there while he finishes the question. “He is not here today?”
Three potatoes in a row on damp newsprint. Dima bought three potatoes, just in case.
I swallow my disappointment. “No.”
“He was here before?”
“I don’t think so.”
He reached out to stroke my cheek. “We will find him, I’m sure.”
“Yes,” I say, setting my metal plate down on the bare wood floor. Smiling. I’m trying, I’m trying so hard.
Here I am, back in my family’s home, but instead of china, I’m eating on camping tin, and instead of my family, I’m with a Russian soldier. And he wants me to talk about dinner parties. Eight months ago I slapped a girl across the face because she tried to take my holey shoes.
“Zofia?” He says my name kindly but not quite right; the Z is too firm. “Zofia, you’re not talking. I upset you.”
“I think we should have bread with lunch.” Abruptly, I rise to my feet.
He’s stricken. “It is not needed,” he insists, nodding to where he’s split Abek’s potato between his and my plates.
“But, it’s a celebration,” I invent. “My first day back in this house.”
“I will come, too.” He sets the knife down, starts to rise awkwardly himself.
“No! No. I’ll go to the bakery around the corner and be back in a few minutes.”
Still, he’s concerned; he thinks I shouldn’t be wandering. “I can see if there are cakes to serve your commander tonight,” I continue to improvise, waving him back to the floor. “And it will be good for my health. To do things on my own in a familiar place. The nurse said.”
The nurse didn’t say, but this is what convinces him, this mention of a cake and this appeal to my healing. He hands me some money and softly kisses my forehead.
Outside, the midday heat washes over my face. But once I’ve successfully left the building, I don’t know where to go. I don’t know if a bakery is still around the corner; the ones we visited when I was a child in this neighborhood had signs appear overnight, JUDEN VERBOTEN, in the early months after the occupation.
The Skolmoskis. The name flashes through my mind. The Skolmoskis were Catholic. Though they were forced to hang that “Jews forbidden” sign in their window like everyone else, I know Mr. Skolmoski felt bad about it. A few times before we were forced to the ghetto, he stopped by with leftovers. Leftovers, he claimed. But when was the last time any of us had leftovers of anything? I’ll go to the Skolmoskis’ old shop.
The street is busier than it was a few hours ago. It’s noon, lunchtime, with people hurrying to or from their workplaces. Two blocks down, when I arrive at the bakery, one of Skolmoskis’ windows has been boarded up, but over the plywood someone has written, Still open. The words are in Polish and not German, which I take as a positive sign.
The bell rings when I push open the door. The man behind the counter isn’t Mr. Skolmoski; he’s younger and unfamiliar. I hesitate at the entry.
“Can I help you?” the clerk asks.
“Just bread,” I mumble, edging toward the shelves lining the wall and reaching for the nearest loaf, dark seeded caraway, so I won’t have to speak more. But the selection is meager, and as my hand closes around the loaf, so does an older man’s, one of only two other customers in the store.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “You were here first.”
He snatches his hand away, gesturing that I should take the bread at the same time I’m telling him to take it, and now I’m not sure whether he’s trying to be polite, as I am, or he doesn’t want the bread because I’ve touched it. What must I look like—the threadbare dress, the uneven gait, my gaunt frame?
My face grows hot. Maybe I should just leave, find another bakery, or tell Dima they were all closed.
“Zofia?”
The hand on my arm makes me yelp in fright.
“It’s okay.” The voice is reassuring as I turn. The woman standing in front of me is a few years older than I am. She’s paler than she used to be, and one of her eyes is bloodshot. But she still has the same throaty voice that I used to admire and traces of the same dimples on her cheeks even though there’s no longer enough fat to properly crease.
“Gosia?”
Before I can say anything else, Aunt Maja’s best friend drops the bag in her hands and throws her arms around me.
I throw my arms around her, and the laughter that comes out of my body is as much from relief as delight.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” Gosia says at the same time I’m stroking her hair, wondering whether I can trust my own eyes.
“I can’t believe it’s really you, either!”
The clerk at the counter has taken a sudden interest in our movements. “Could you lower your voices? You’re disrupting the store,” he says.
“We’re the only customers left,” Gosia protests. She’s right; the store is empty. The older man must have slipped out while I wasn’t looking.
“This is a place of business, not a party.”
Gosia sighs. “We’ll go.”
“I haven’t bought my bread yet,” I begin, but Gosia shakes her head and takes my arm. Outside, in front of the store, she pulls her own loaf from her yarn shopping bag, ripping it in two and handing me half.
“Start from the beginning,” she instructs. “Why haven’t I seen you before now? You’re just back?”
“Just this morning.”
“Where were you?”
“Birkenau first, Gross-Rosen in the end.” She winces when I say these names; she knows by now what they mean. “Where were you?”
Gosia’s color darkens, and she looks down at her shoes. “I had a dispensation. Because I worked in the hospital, I was an essential employee. When the dispensations stopped, one of the doctors let me hide in his cellar. It was safe for all but the last few months. Then, Flossenbürg. But only for a few months.” Her mouth twists uncomfortably; she’s embarrassed by this good fortune.
“A few months is long enough. I’m glad for you,” I reassure her. “I’m glad you stayed safe as long as you could.”
“I’m living with my sister and her husband now. Their hiding place was never raided.” She hesitates, finding the words. “Is Maja—”
“No.”