Chapter 6 Stefan
SIX
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
Print shop, supplier, bank, and deliver the note. Don’t forget.
“Stefan, your arm band,” Mama calls out from the kitchen. “And don’t forget to take the tins of pastries for the factory staff.”
I did almost forget the tins. And I peer at my right sleeve, swearing I had already slipped that awful thing on, but I didn’t. I pivot, my shoes clicking along the black-and-cream porcelain tiles between the sitting room and the kitchen hallway. Then the door knocker clacks—brass against brass.
Print shop, supplier, bank, and deliver message.
I’m going to forget. The twitch in my left eye says so.
Before any of us open this door now, we panic.
Two weeks ago, the Levitz family, our longtime friends outside Krakow, vanished after a knock at their door.
No goodbyes, no time to clean up the dishes from their dinner.
The Levitz’s neighbor sent us a warning about the German laws moving closer to us.
A week later, my father received a letter from the German Reich regarding our factory, granting us an exception to their imposing anti-Jewish laws, so long as we supply them with requested textile goods.
One letter from a man we don’t know within the Reich’s administration doesn’t offer much peace of mind, but it’s all we can go by.
Our family name is temporarily marked as “protected.” Though Father clarified that things can change at a moment’s notice.
The second someone of authority changes their mind about our protection, we’ll lose everything and have to live in a ghetto.
I stop at the window to the left of the door and pull the drapes back far enough to peek at who’s outside. I’ve never seen the woman before, but she’s not in uniform, and that’s what matters.
My fingers fumble over the chain-link lock.
When the latch releases, a rush of cool air hits my face.
A girl stands on the front step, sun-kissed auburn braid draped over her shoulder, startling sapphire-blue eyes locked on mine.
She straightens her shoulders and clenches her black bag within her gloved fists.
She must have been expecting someone else to open the front door.
Though by the sight of a worn, brown leather suitcase resting next to her feet, she must know more about my family than I know about her.
“May—may—” I clear my throat. “I help you?” I ask, unable to look away from her doe-like stare.
She taps her fingers against the side of her leg. “Yes, I’m Rosalie Kaufman, the midwife Mister Silberg hired,” she says. “This is the Silberg residence, yes?”
Midwife? For Mama, of course.
Rosalie—beautiful name.
Though this woman—girl—can’t possibly be older than me, and Mama has made it clear that I won’t be seen as a “grown” man until I turn eighteen—despite the Jewish law stating I’ve been one since I was thirteen when I read from the Torah, declared my promise of doing good for others as well as accepting responsibility for forthcoming lifelong actions.
And well, I’ve done that. Yet…still not considered a man.
So, how can this young lady be a midwife?
She’s not dressed like one. At least not from what I assume one might look like.
A maroon pleated coat that brushes her calves.
Scuffed black lace-up boots hint at long, hurried walks.
Her hair, redder than brown, frays by her ears while the rest trails back into a loose braid—a touch of disarray, and a hint of passion.
Her gaze slips past me as she peers into the foyer. “Is Mister Silberg around?”
“I am Mister Silberg,” I tell her.
She presses her lips together, amused. “I’ve met Mister Silberg, and he’s a bit older than you.”
A bit? He’s twenty-six years older than me.
“Rosalie, come in. Come in,” Father’s voice booms from behind me. “Stefan, why do you have the poor young woman standing at the door with her belongings. Take her things, invite her in. Dear God. Have you no manners?”
I pay no attention to Father has he tries his best to embarrass me in front of a beautiful young woman. Instead, I continue to watch her expressions change. Her cheeks flush pink, her gaze drops as her teeth catch her bottom lip.
“Stefan, her bags,” Father repeats.
I step back and open the door wider, allowing her to walk inside as I skirt past her to take her suitcase, then spin around to take the black bag she’s holding on to so tightly too. “Your home is lovely,” she says.
“So are you,” I reply, the words a slip of the tongue as I meant to say, “Thank you, I mean.”
“You have somewhere to be, Stefan,” Father says. “Yes?”
Print shop, supplier, bank, and—and…
“He does, but he can help Rosalie find her room first,” Mama says, turning the corner into the foyer, her hands resting over her swollen belly.
“Or I can help,” my sister’s eager voice echoes as she flees down the stairwell.
Father catches Eloise by the arm before she crowds our guest. “This is Eloise, our daughter,” Father introduces her with a chuckle.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Rosalie says, pinching her cheeks into a smile.
“I’m happy to show Rosalie to her room,” Eloise repeats. “That way Stefan won’t be late for work.”
Eloise is always excited for visitors, hopeful to make new friends, especially since we no longer go to school. Maybe she senses the youthfulness in this young woman too. “That’s kind of you, my dear little sister, but I’m happy to help her upstairs with her bags.”
“I’m ten. I’m sure I can help her find her room.”
“Children, please don’t squabble,” Mama says, pinching her fingers around her forehead. Children. Of course. Perfect. “Stefan can show her to her room before he leaves.”
I catch the quick sight of Father rolling his eyes as he lifts his coat from the corner rack, then takes his hat.
“I’ll see you at the factory, son,” he says to me just as he resets his focus on Rosalie.
Pinning his hat to his chest, he gives her a quick nod.
“I’m grateful for you, and your father. My wife, Miriam, will make sure you’re taken care of while I’m at work. ”
Rosalie flaps her hand at him with a charmed smile. “That won’t be necessary, Mister Silberg. I’m here to take care of your wife. I’ll be just fine.”
“A gift from God,” Father says, patting me on the back before making his way over to Mama and Eloise for a goodbye.
I’ve never met a woman so startlingly confident. Not in my father’s factory, the markets, or even in the back row in the synagogue where girls quietly steal glances during services. She probably doesn’t sneak glances. I bet she takes a good hard look then turns away when she’s seen enough.
As if I’m no more than a doorman holding bags, I head for the stairwell. “I’ll show you to your room,” I tell her.
Her heels offset the click of mine as I tread up the curving steps into the living quarters. Our silence speaks over the echo of our footsteps as we make our way down the hallway to the third door on the right. “When your father mentioned a son and daughter, I imagined you were—”
“Eloise’s age?” I reply before she can finish her statement.
“I suppose,” she says, a small grin toying at her mouth. “You’re a bit tall for ten, though.”
“I’m seventeen—for the record.” The words come out as if I’m in a competition with her, one where I’m showing off my age like a spoiled child.
“I guess since we’re sharing ages, I’m sixteen,” she says. “So, I understand your position here because my papa still treats me like a young girl sometimes too.”
“Sixteen? And you’re a midwife…How—”
“When babies are coming, they don’t ask how old I am,” she says, shrugging past me into the room, grabbing her suitcase from my hand.
She lowers it onto the bed then removes her shawl, folding it with purpose as I place the black bag beside her belongings.
My hands clench and unclench, unsure what to do next while she moves around the room to set her shawl down on the foot bench.
And I can’t seem to look away long enough to act as though I’m not watching her every move.
“What about the mothers? Do they ask?” I poke at her, not to get a reaction but to find out more.
“I’ve delivered thirteen babies on my own,” she says, taking the black bag off the bed and moving it to the floor in the corner of the room. “The first was my neighbor’s daughter. I was fourteen. The baby was still and blue, not breathing. But he lived.”
Age suddenly seems insignificant. “How did you know what to do?”
“Books, mostly.”
“Your parents must be very proud of you,” I reply.
She shakes her head and curls a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Avoids eye contact. “It isn’t about pride. It’s about saving lives. Everyone deserves a chance to live before they die. Don’t you agree?”
“Without a question,” I answer, as if she pulled those words right out of me. There’s nothing else to say. “Well, I’ll let you settle in.”
She glances at me—the moment so brief I might have missed it if I had turned away too soon. Another small smile—no, this one’s a smirk. “And I’m sure you don’t want to be late for work, Stefan.”
Work, yes. My father will be waiting, knowing exactly why I’m later than he’s expecting.
I still need to go to the print shop, supplier, and—God, I’m hopeless.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” I say, gripping the threshold of the bedroom door. “If you need anything…” I step out of the room and close the door. I don’t think she’ll be asking for much.
Everyone deserves a chance to live before they die. Those words…those words—I might never forget.
I press my palm against the stair rail, feeling the cool touch of the polished wood. Breathe. Walk. Breathe. Walk.
And then I forget all the places I’m supposed to go.