CHAPTER 22

Alina

After a few weeks with Tomasz in our house, I started to entertain fantasies that things might go on that way indefinitely. I should have known it wouldn’t last forever. If anything about the war had been consistent, it was that things always got worse.

The morning everything changed, I’d just said goodbye to Tomasz, and Mama was about to shut the latch so he could sleep. I walked from the house into the fields, knowing she wasn’t far behind me, already thinking about the day’s tasks. Father had been in the town delivering the week’s produce, but I heard him shouting as he returned through the gates. He leaped from the cart and started running—something my Father never did because of his rheumatism.

“Alina!” he shouted, as he ran toward the doorway. “Run, Alina! For God’s sake, run!”

He disappeared inside and I sprinted to catch up to him.

“What is it?”

The table was shifted and the hatch had been reopened. Mama and Father were crouched beside it, whispering urgently to Tomasz.

“There is no time. Into the hatch. Now,” Mama said flatly.

“But what is—”

She grabbed my forearm and as she pushed me awkwardly beneath the table, I felt the tremors running through her whole body. That startled me into silence, so I climbed quickly down the ladder, and Tomasz took me into his arms. He pressed his forefinger over my lips and he led me to the mattress, then sat beside me. The cellar was thrown into darkness, then we heard the heavy thump of the hatch and the rug, and the dragging sound as the table was pulled into place.

I’d been into that tiny cellar every day for several weeks by then—but never with the latch closed—and even with the door open I’d still panicked every time. Now, my eyes began adjusting to the dim light, but my brain somehow could not adjust to the stuffiness of the air. Every time I drew in a breath, I was convinced it was my last.

Breathe in. Oh! I found some air!

Breathe out. That will be the last of me. Now I will suffocate.

Breathe in. Oh! There is a little more air after all.

I knew I wouldn’t stand two minutes in there, let alone two hours, so I had to ask Tomasz what was happening.

“Tomasz,” I started to say, but he pressed his hand over my mouth—hard, just as I had done for Emilia once upon a time. I peeled his fingers from my face but sat in silence with him, simmering in my frustration, my confusion and—soon enough—genuine anger.

But I heard the rumble of the truck as it came ever closer—and I knew when it was right at the front door. Until that rumble sounded, I was far more annoyed than I was scared. There was something ominous about that sound from underground—the way it rattled through the earth, as if the cellar would cave in all around us—it reminded me so vividly of those early air strikes and the terror that never seemed to end. I had no idea what the exact danger was this time, because our whole lives were danger by then. I just knew that for Mama and Father to hide me, it must be significant indeed.

There were muffled greetings—but not muffled enough to hide the subtext. I heard the stiffness of the soldiers’ voices, the hopeful politeness of Mama’s.

“Hübsche tochter?”

I was already confused and on edge and terrified, but at the sound of those words, my blood ran cold, because I knew then which soldier was in the house.

Pretty daughter.

It was the young soldier from that day in fall, the last time I wore a dress. He was back, and he was asking about me. I was too terrified to cry out, but equally, I was too terrified to control myself and I couldn’t think rationally enough to be sure of what I might do next.

But Tomasz’s arms tightened around me, and he raised his arm to gently begin to stroke my hair. I closed my eyes and rested against him, and he planted the softest kiss against my temple. I had never understood the phrase “draw strength” from someone until that very moment, because with the entire universe out of my control, the only thing that grounded me into silence then was the strength of his arms around me and the warmth of his body beside me.

“Gone to Warsaw...” I heard my mother say. “...caring for her sick nephew...”

Sick nephew? I didn’t even have a nephew—Mama’s lie was outrageous and ridiculous—and what’s more, it made no sense at all for her to tell it. In all that we’d survived to that point, she’d never done something so crazy before. I started to tense up again—because surely, she’d be caught out, and surely, we’d all pay the price for that. Had she lost her mind?

Then the soldiers’ voices—fiercer now, more determined, and closer, and closer again until...oh my God, they were in the house. They were standing right above us, next to the table that sat right over the hatch.

Tomasz held me so tightly in that moment that the pressure around my reed-thin arms was painful, so I focused on the discomfort. I needed the stimulus to ground me, because other than that mild pain, all I knew was fear. I heard the soldiers stomping through the house. Heard as they walked into my bedroom—heard the way they mocked our simple life—heard as they walked right past the table again on their way to check for me in my brothers’ room.

And then I heard the front door close. Everyone was outside now, and the voices faded again, until the truck started up, and then there was silence.

Tomasz and I waited for a very long time. I thought perhaps Mama and Father would go about their business outside and leave us down there for a while, until they were sure it was safe, but time passed and the door didn’t open, and their voices did not return. Eventually, Tomasz shifted just a little, and he made a sound with his nose that I didn’t initially recognize. I turned to him and waited. I was used to the dark by then, but even so, it took me a moment to realize that his face was shiny.

“Why?” I whispered. I didn’t know what question I was asking. Why are you crying? Why are they not coming back inside? Why the war?

“They told your father at the rations station. They told him to go home and pack a suitcase. They told him they were coming for you.”

“For me? But—”

“No, Alina. The soldiers came for all of you.”

“But is this because of me? Because I...”

I didn’t say it, because I didn’t want to make him feel bad—but was this because I’d helped him?

“It is simply for the fields, Alina. This morning when he went into the rations station, they told Bartuk they are creating an Interessengebiet—an ‘area of interest’ around the big work camps, and he was to come home and pack a bag and prepare to leave immediately. At least we know now why most of your neighbors have gone. There are tens of thousands of prisoners in the camps now, an army of free labor—and your rations are scant, but still vastly more than the workers receive.”