After all, if Samuel was right and sooner or later the Germans would correct the hellish existence they had forced us into, there was little point in risking our lives to fight them.

“I keep to myself at work,” I said abruptly. Baby Eleonora was beginning to wriggle, so I shifted her in my arms, lifting her higher and rocking gently, the way I had seen my mother do.

“Perhaps you could ask around,” my mother said. She gave me a slightly pleading look. “Something is coming, Roman. You know Mrs. Grobelny’s second cousin is on the Council, and she said that he hinted things are soon to change. I know that there is not much we can do to protect ourselves, but if we just knew what was coming...” She trailed off, and then she added weakly, “If only we knew what was coming, at least I could sleep at night. Even if it is bad, I’d rather know.”

Straightaway, Pigeon came to mind. My mother’s request was simple and one I really couldn’t decline.

3

Emilia

I never set out to be rebellious. I was curious, naturally, maybe a little stubborn...and I was definitely out of my depth in Warsaw, hundreds of miles away from the village I’d always called home.

But rebellious? No. That trait was not in my nature. If you’d asked me why I was rebelling, I might have given you a blank look, and I’m quite certain I’d have had no clue what you were referring to. My deception was innocent, as much as such a thing is possible. Every single aspect of my life had fallen out of my control, and at not-quite fourteen years old, I was somehow both wise beyond my years and emotionally stunted. Unable to process or to even understand my own confused feelings, I had begun to crave autonomy desperately enough that I was driven to seek even the illusion of it. I made dozens of small decisions each day, but I made each of them under the watchful eye of my adoptive parents, Truda and Mateusz—except for the decisions I made in the glorious hour between five thirty and six thirty each evening. That’s when I would leave Truda cooking our dinner, and I’d ostensibly walk down the flight of stairs to the lobby, where I would open a back door to access the little courtyard that only the residents of our building were allowed to use.

Truda didn’t like me to visit the courtyard at all, and she was adamant that I not go there during the day. It backed onto an alleyway that was a shortcut for people walking to the nearby market, and our apartment was only a few blocks from the walled Jewish district, so German soldiers sometimes wandered by. But by six o’clock the market was closed, and the foot traffic in the alleyway had slowed to a trickle. Truda and Mateusz were determined to keep me safe and had gone to extraordinary lengths to do so, but even Mateusz could see that I couldn’t live locked up inside of a third-floor apartment.

“It’s one thing to keep her safe,” Mateusz had said, “but surely our goal should be to keep her safe and sane. She needs at least a little time outside each day, and she really needs a taste of independence.”

And so it was decided that I could visit the courtyard every single evening. I was pleased with this, even after Mateusz pulled me aside to warn me that it was a privilege, not a right.

“You know how much is at stake, so be careful. Just enjoy the peace and quiet in the courtyard, don’t speak to anyone, and come straight back. Okay?”

“I promise,” I had said, absolutely determined to honor their trust.

Except that...within a week, with only the lonely apple tree and a slightly overgrown boundary garden to amuse me, I was bored silly, so I went looking for something else to entertain me. Ever since, as soon as our apartment door closed behind me, I would turn right to visit with Sara, the woman who shared the third floor of our building with us.

Every now and again I would wonder if Truda wouldn’t mind at all that I was visiting Sara. After all, Sara was a nurse and a social worker, an accomplished woman by any standards. And while I knew almost nothing of her story, I did know that she was alone, and I had a feeling my visits brought her a measure of comfort. Besides, most of the time, she was giving me lessons from her nursing textbooks or allowing me to assist her with her endlessly ambitious cross-stitch or knitting projects. Our time together was entirely innocent, and there was likely no need for me to keep it a secret, except that I liked that hour being hidden from my parents. Sara spoke to me as an adult, not a child, and she very rarely refused to answer my questions, even if they were awkward or uncomfortable. It was Sara who warned me about the likely arrival of my monthly courses just before it happened for the first time, and she who had explained the basic mechanics of sex.

The unlikely bond she and I forged over several months had become far too important to me to risk.

And so, each afternoon, I waited until Truda was busy preparing supper. I’d dress as if I were leaving the building, call out a farewell and then, as quickly as I could, reach into the small drawer in the hall table by the front door. I’d withdraw Sara’s spare key, just in case she was running late from her job, and then I’d slip out into the hallway that joined our apartments, and instead of turning left, I’d turn right.

It was one small thing I could control. One small thing I could be responsible for. One small measure of power. And, it turned out, that was enough.

* * *

There was nothing to suggest that that night was going to be any different from any of the other nights I had spent with Sara. We had worked on unpicking a sweater so that she could reuse the good yarn for another project, and we had discussed the kinds of books she liked to read. She offered to lend me a tattered copy of the first part of Nights and Days, by her favorite author, Maria Da˛browska. I panicked at this generous offer, wondering how I would explain the book’s presence in my hand when I returned home to Truda and Mateusz.

“Or, if you already have plenty to read, you could borrow it some other time,” she had said, when my panicked pause stretched too long.

When the grandfather clock in her sitting room had almost reached six thirty, I carefully set down the yarn, and Sara walked me to the door. I had to leave right on time, because Mateusz ran on a militant schedule and always arrived home between six thirty-five and six forty.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said as I pulled the door open, but to my surprise, I saw my adoptive father standing there, holding a small package in his hand. He looked every bit as startled as I.

“Elz·bieta...” he said, using the false name I adopted when we arrived in Warsaw. Even after all of those months, I still hated that name. My natural mother died during labor, but my father once told me that all throughout her pregnancy, he’d hear her talking to me, calling me Emilia right from the outset. Answering to Elz·bieta now felt like a betrayal, even though I recognized I had no choice. But that was the least of my worries, because Mateusz’s gaze skipped between me and Sara, then narrowed. “I am surprised to see you here.” His frown was as intense as any I’d ever seen.