“She has been skimming rations for a few weeks, plus...” I understood that a bond of trust between Sara and me existed only by circumstance. She had been forced to trust me the previous night and, as such, I now held her life in my hands. But if things were to progress as I planned, I now needed to demonstrate my trust in return. There was one obvious way to do so. Sara still thought that Truda and Mateusz were my real parents, but I had promised Mateusz that I would not betray that secret, and I intended to keep that promise. Instead, I had to share something else.
“Well, Uncle Piotr occasionally dabbles in the black market,” I said conspiratorially.
“Ah,” she said, but her tone was completely neutral. I scanned her face, expecting to see some kind of reaction, but instead, she pointed toward the gift. “Open it. I’m eager to see what you think.”
I opened the box and drew in a sharp breath as I recognized the objects inside. There was charcoal and oil pastels and pencils and not one but two notebooks—more brand-new art supplies than I’d seen in years. Such a thing would have been impossible to procure in Trzebinia.
“You remembered,” I whispered. I’d mentioned to Sara in passing that I loved to draw but that I hadn’t done so in some time. The truth was I hadn’t been able to bring myself to draw since Tomasz died. Drawing felt like the act of an innocent, childlike version of myself—a girl who had been lost forever with the last remaining member of my real family. But as I opened that gift from Sara, I knew immediately that I would not only use these precious items, I would relish using them. My fingers already itched to pick up the charcoal. “How did you do this?”
Sara gave me a wry smile.
“I, too, occasionally dabble in the black market.”
She set the plate down on her coffee table, and I leaped from my seat to hug her.
“Thank you,” I said, my throat feeling uncomfortably tight. I told myself that I must not cry, that the entire purpose of this visit was to convince Sara that I was adult enough to help her with her secret work. But in this kind gesture, I saw shades of my beloved Alina, who had always encouraged my artistic efforts, and I was almost overcome with relief and gratitude to find that someone in Warsaw finally understood me.
After a moment, though, I pulled myself together to start what I expected was going to be a difficult conversation. I extracted myself from her embrace, moved back to my chair and drew in a deep breath, but as I opened my mouth to ask her if I could help her, I lost my courage at the very last second. My gaze fell upon the half-eaten cake, and my tone was a little manic as I said, “Aren’t you going to finish that?”
Sara laughed and patted her belly.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t possibly. You should eat it for me so it doesn’t spoil.”
It was a lie, and an unconvincing lie at that—Sara was so selfless that she seemed determined to share even this rare treat. However, drawing attention to her lie would mean I would have nothing to talk about other than the thing I needed to talk about, and I was suddenly far too anxious to start that conversation, so I picked up the cake and began to toy with it. Then, recognizing that wasting food was an unforgivable crime in our present circumstances, I stuffed little pieces of cake into my mouth to prolong the silence.
This left me in the absurd position of being full for the first time in months, but still eating regardless. After just a few seconds of this, my conscience would not allow me to let the situation persist, and I thrust the plate back toward Sara as I blurted, “You really must eat it. And you really must let me help you.”
Sara blinked at me.
“I told you, I’m full. Really I am. And do you want to help with the knitting? I would love—”
“Not the knitting.” She avoided my eyes, and I drew a deep breath and prayed desperately to sound adult and confident as I said, “You know what I’m talking about.”
“I’m afraid I really do not.”
We sat there staring at one another in silent battle. For just a moment, I considered the possibility that I imagined the previous night. It had been so late...and it had seemed surreal...
“But...the children?” The words escaped my mouth as a question.
“What children?”
“You...there was a...” I pointed upstairs. “Last night, remember?”
“Last night we unwound this yarn. Then you went home.”
“Yes...but...”
“Elz·bieta, are you well?” Sara’s tone took on a soothing, slightly scolding quality. She went forward and rested the back of her hand against my forehead. “Your cheeks are flushed. You must have had too much sun today. Piotr told me he was taking you to the square. Perhaps it is sunstroke. You really should get home and rest. You’ll feel much better in the morning...less confused.”
She’d almost convinced me, but there was something about her tone that was laden with a hidden depth of warning. My gaze narrowed on Sara’s face as she removed her hand and sat back in her chair. I dropped my voice and spoke again in a rush.
“You had four Jewish children in your bedroom last night. I didn’t dream it and I’m not confused. Sara, I am going to help you.”
Frustration twisted Sara’s features into a scowl. She stood abruptly and caught me by the elbow to drag me up the stairs toward the spare bedroom. Once inside, she slammed the door behind us, and she gripped my upper arms in both of her hands. I had never seen Sara look so fierce, and for a moment I was afraid.
“This isn’t a game! Perhaps you have some fantasy of becoming a heroine here, but that is foolish, childish nonsense. You need to go home, back to your parents, and do exactly as I told you last night and pretend that nothing happened. You’re a child yourself, Elz·bieta. You are too young to get involved in messy business like this.”
I frowned at that.
“How old was the courier? Or was she a guide? The girl I saw in the hallway, I mean,” I said. A raspberry flush stole over Sara’s cheeks.
“Her situation is very different from yours.”
“Was she twelve? Thirteen?” I could see that I was close, if not correct, purely from the guilt on Sara’s face. “Surely you can find some way for me to help?” I looked into her eyes and added bitterly, “I am sitting in that apartment all day, I cannot even go to school. The most interesting thing I’ve done in months has been looking at pictures of bodily organs with you! I am a wasted life, which makes me a wasted opportunity for you and your efforts. I could be doing something...anything. Surely you understand how frustrating that is, given I understand what is at stake?”
“I sympathize with your situation, I really do,” she said sadly, her gaze softening. “But there is no safe way for me to involve you. I hope you understand. I cannot betray your parents’ trust, and I really cannot betray your uncle. He is my friend, and he’s done so much for me over this past year. I know he would never forgive me if I involved you in something like this.”