But last year, my brother, Tomasz, had come to our house in the middle of the night, unannounced, and by lunchtime the next day, everything had changed. Tomasz had been aiding Jews in hiding, and the penalty for that was execution—both for him, and his immediate family. My brave, brilliant brother was stuck. He had been exposed, and to save his fiancée, he knew he had to turn himself in, but that would mean certain death, and as the last remaining member of his family, I was at risk, too. We had no idea if the Germans knew I existed, if they knew who my new family was or whether they were looking for me at all. But Mateusz and Truda chose to flee as though my life were in immediate danger. They willingly gave up everything just to ensure my safety. But for Uncle Piotr’s kindness, we would be destitute, having left behind everything in Trzebinia.

By the time a soft knock sounded at my door and Mateusz entered, I was sobbing tears of shame. When he sat on the edge of my bed, I sat up and threw myself into his arms. He embraced me and murmured softly, “Emilia, I know this is all so hard on you, but it really is so important that you do not lie to us. You understand the need for secrecy. I know you do.”

“But it has been months,” I said, weeping softly. “Can we not relax just a little now?”

“The minute we relax is the minute we will regret our complacency.” I tensed, and Mateusz contracted his arms around me. “I am telling you this because I want you to be paranoid—that is the best way for us to keep you safe. Truda and I love you more than I can explain. When you came into our family, you completed it. If we are protective of you, we are only being protective of our own hearts. I understand that you and Sara have become friends, and Piotr assures me that she is a safe and trustworthy person...that perhaps you have been bringing her some comfort, too.”

“I think she is lonely,” I said, blinking tears from my eyes. “And...maybe I am lonely, too.”

“Then, you may continue spending time with her, but you must promise that you will respect our rules. I only want what’s best for you. I thought... I had hoped that, by now, we would have shown you that.”

“You really have. And I am grateful. It’s just that sometimes...”

“You miss Alina.”

I felt a pang of sadness in my chest at the mention of her name. Alina was Truda’s little sister, but I thought of her as my sister, too, because she and Tomasz were engaged. Just before he turned himself in to the Germans, Tomasz had helped Alina to flee Poland, smuggled from our village in the back of a supply truck. God willing, she was safe in England now. I was glad for that. But I also wished that she’d stayed because I had no idea how to navigate this upheaval without her.

“Alina always let me talk,” I said, my throat tightening. “She listened to me, even when I asked her questions she couldn’t answer. She let me get them out, and I felt better when they were out.”

“And Sara does this for you?”

“Well, no. Because I can’t tell her who I really am or why we are here. And we don’t even talk about the Germans, I promise you. We just talk about books and crafts and music, and she has been teaching me a little about...science.”

I finished school at the end of grade four, and Truda tried to homeschool me, but we had mixed success: her own schooling was limited because her family had been unable to afford to send her to high school. Mateusz, who had completed high school and had even been to university, was sympathetic to my desire to learn, and I saw understanding dawn in his eyes.

“Okay, Elz·bieta,” he murmured. “We will allow you to continue to visit with Sara each night, but you must promise that you will never lie to me again. And you must promise you will never tell her the truth about our family.”

“I promise.”

I truly meant that promise. I was lucky to be allowed to continue to spend time with her, and I had no intention of taking any more risks. My friendship with Sara was one bright spark in an otherwise gray existence.

4

Roman

“Hello,” I said. Across the desk from me, at a machine identical to mine, Pigeon blinked as he returned from his trip to the restroom. It had taken me several hours to figure out how exactly I could initiate a conversation. I was well out of practice with small talk.

“Me?” he asked, pointing to his chest.

I scowled at him.

“Who else would I be talking to?”

He gave me a wry smile.

“Roman, we have worked opposite one another for over a year, and you’ve never spoken to me before. Not once. Do you even know my name?”

“Pigeon.”

“It may surprise you to learn that Pigeon is not actually my name,” he said and chuckled. I cleared my throat and glanced down at my machine again, adjusting the tension of the thread to tighten it, then loosen it, just to appear busy. I was embarrassed to have already made a meal of the conversation. My workmate laughed again, freely and lightly. “I’m Chaim, and it’s nice to properly meet you at last.”

I nodded curtly, then turned my attention to my machine. All day long, Sala’s factory turned out Stiefelriemen, simple leather bootstraps German soldiers used to tighten their shoes around their ankles. With high-quality boot leather harder and harder to come by, soldiers were forced to make do with whatever boots were on hand, regardless of sizing. Our boot straps enabled a soldier to wear a pair of shoes several sizes too large if that was all he could access. They allowed a soldier to march extra miles without blisters. They meant a soldier’s shoe didn’t fly off when he kicked an innocent Jew in the stomach.

With every strap I sewed, I wished ill upon the wearer. I knew the other men in the factory felt the same, even if we didn’t dare say so aloud. There were two dozen of us in Sala’s factory, all young men, split roughly into three teams. The men at the tables behind us cut the leather into shape, then Chaim and I and a half a dozen other young men sewed the ends of one of the pieces into loops. Farther down the line, a team of eight punched holes and attached buckles and pins. Sala checked every single piece for quality before it shipped out.

Several hours passed as Chaim and I worked in silence. After more than a year in the factory, I no longer felt an ache in my back as I bent over the machine, and my hands were rough with calluses in all of the right places, so I could fall into a comfortable numbness and let my thoughts wander as I worked. It seemed like too much of a jump to move from finally learning Chaim’s real name to asking if he had heard any reliable intelligence about what might be coming for the ghetto’s residents, and so I decided I would leave it at the greeting for that day. Even so, when I shuffled into the cafeteria room at lunchtime, Chaim followed me and sat beside me. I nodded once to acknowledge him and then went back to my oatmeal.

When I left the factory that day, I checked my pocket for the soap, then began to walk toward the street vendor on Zamenhofa Street. I was so lost in thought it took me some time to notice the footsteps falling in time with my own. I glanced down at the worn boots beside me and realized it was Chaim. He seemed amused that I finally noticed him.