Chapter 8 Rosalie
EIGHT
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
I’ve been living at the Silberg estate for just over two months now, and I still can’t believe this place is real.
Gilded trim lines the corridors, leading to bedrooms draped in velvet canopies, a dining room grand enough to host dozens, and a library with more books than I could ever hope to read in a lifetime.
Outside, horses graze beside chickens along the red-brick barn, acres of land and trees with endless views of the frost-covered beauty.
It’s like another world, untouched, for now.
I fold the blanket down over Miriam’s swollen waist and slide her cup of tea a bit closer to the edge of her nightstand. She still has about four or five weeks left of her pregnancy, but she’s doing well so far. Better than Mister Silberg made her out to be when he first approached me.
It’s clear to me that everything he’s done and said is out of pure love and concern, which I understand and can appreciate more than most. She’s lost several pregnancies so it’s easy to feel like this one will end the same way. Though I’m confident everything will go according to plan this time.
“The swelling is less,” I tell Miriam. She insisted on tidying up the new nursery earlier while I was preparing dinner for everyone. I didn’t know she was out of bed until she backed into a small tower of wooden blocks she didn’t see behind her. The clatter gave her whereabouts away.
“Well, of course. It’s because you’ve restricted me to this bed for the last few weeks,” she complains. “I can’t even tidy up. Or prepare meals for my family. Hang clothes to dry. Or dust—”
“But your ankles—you can see them, or…at least I can see them, and they’re not swollen. That’s what matters.”
Miriam told me they used to have a small staff to help maintain the estate, but with the German laws in effect, help isn’t much of an option, so I’ve been doing what I can to assist since she doesn’t need too much from me as she waits for her body to do what God intends for it do.
“You know, I think this is the longest I’ve been pregnant since Stefan,” she says, her words a nostalgic coo. “Eloise, that feisty little girl, she was in such a rush to be seen and heard that she arrived over a month early.”
“The more time the baby has in your belly, the better you’ll both be, even if you’re restless while you wait.”
Miriam takes my hand and holds it up to her cheek. “You’re a little angel, you know that? You’ve brought me so much relief. I’m not sure how I’ll ever be able to thank you enough.”
“A thank you isn’t necessary,” I tell her, “I’m going to go to town and check on my father, but I’ll be back soon. You are to stay put. No excuses.” I point a finger at her and squint an eye, trying not to laugh. In return, she rolls her eyes. A typical playful exchange between us.
The moment I turn to leave her bedroom, Miriam stops me.
“Rosalie…” she inquires.
“Yes? Can I get something for you before I leave?”
“No, no, don’t be silly. That’s what my little bell is for,” she says with a smirk. “It’s dark out and cold. I don’t want you to travel to town alone. Stefan can take Philip’s car and bring you to and from.”
“I don’t want to be a bother. I’m perfectly content on the bicycle you’ve lent me. There’s nothing for you to worry about,” I assure her.
“Are you truly going to make me use my motherly tone on you?” she presses. “If you don’t allow Stefan to take you, I’ll—well—I won’t promise to stay put while you’re gone.” She folds her arms across her chest as a checkmate.
“You’re vicious,” I hiss at her.
“Darling, I’m a woman living in a man’s world. There’s no other word I’d prefer to be called.” She takes her small gold bell from behind her teacup and rings it tersely. “Stefan!” Her shout is nearly as loud as the bell, perhaps louder.
A stampede travels up the stairs running to Miriam’s side. “Yes, Mama. Are you all right?” Stefan asks, a bit breathless as he grips his fingers along the door’s threshold. He spots me next and raises a brow—our most common form of communication.
“I need you take the car and take Rosalie home to visit her father. Wait there for her and bring her back when she’s through.”
“You want me to sit in an enclosed vehicle with this girl?” Stefan replies, his expression as serious as an owl’s stare.
“Stefan Jacob, how in God’s name can you be so—”
“It’s just a joke, Mama,” he says, grinning.
“Miriam, it’s all right. I’ve become used to Stefan’s lack of wit.”
She stares between the two of us as if trying to solve a puzzle with no pieces left to place. “It seems you’re quite vicious too,” Miriam says to me with a proud smile.
“Do you even know how to drive?” I ask Stefan, settling into the toffee-brown leather seat of his father’s car.
“I’m resourceful,” he says with a shrug. “Shall I crank the top down?”
“Yes, in fact. I prefer frostbite with a nice view,” I say, my voice laced in sarcasm. And still, Stefan looks amused.
“You know, most girls would shriek at such a suggestion, not come back at me with this sarcasm.”
“Do you know most girls?” I ask, tilting my head to the side.
“Enough to know they don’t usually get into a car with a man who can’t drive,” he says with a chuckle.
“You said—”
“I’m resourceful,” he repeats.
“I dated a ‘resourceful’ boy once,” I say, glancing out the window. “Turned out to be a common thief.”
“I had a girlfriend like that once too,” he says, easing the gearshift forward. “She stole my favorite hat, and most of my patience.”
“I’m not most girls,” I reply, meeting his gaze again.
“You don’t need to tell me that.”
“There are only two hours until the Reich’s curfew. We should get on with it.”
Through my periphery, I see Stefan still staring at my profile despite the car’s engine roaring to life.
“You don’t like me much, do you?” he asks, smoothly rolling away from the estate, proving his ease of driving.
“I don’t recall saying such a thing.”
“Then, you do like me?”
“I don’t recall saying that either.”
Stefan spends most evenings trying to get a rise out of me. He does. And I enjoy firing quips right back at him, trying my best to keep a straight face while doing so. It’s becoming more difficult by the day.
“Do you think your father will like me?”
I keep my gaze out the window, watching as we pass the blur of dark trees.
My cheeks fill with warmth at the thought of what Papa might think of Stefan.
I want to tell him he’s not coming inside the clock tower with me, but I also wouldn’t want him sitting on the street, waiting for trouble to knock on his window.
The Silbergs have immunity to some of the Jewish laws because of the factory’s compliance, but no one is safe enough to trust any word from the Reich, whether on paper or not.
“Most likely not,” I reply.
“Well, he must like my father enough to let you come live in our home. And people say I’m a chip off the old block, so…”
Financial security is what Papa agreed to. He said the Silbergs’ offer was something I’d be foolish to turn down, and he’d be foolish to keep me from taking it. Papa and Philip Silberg shook on it, along with a promise that he would make sure I return home to visit Papa weekly.
“Yes. That may be true, but your father doesn’t smile at me with a twinkle in his eyes, or stare at my lips when he thinks I’m not looking.”
I can’t believe I just said that out loud. I’ve become too quick at responding to his nonsense that I’ve lost my common sense.
“That’s a good thing,” Stefan says, unashamedly. “And thankfully, for all of us, you only look at me in that sinister way too.”
“I do not,” I argue, falling right into his trap. An endless, bottomless trap.
Then, there’s silence.
Silence I wish to fill, but won’t.
Silence that makes me wonder why he didn’t respond to my disagreement.
Silence that gives me the chills in a car fogging up from our heavy breaths.
My heart’s racing when we arrive along the side street of the village hall. “I’ll wait here,” he says.
“As if you’re my driver, you mean?”
“Precisely.”
A quiet grumble rattles in my throat. “My God, you’re impossible. Let’s go. You’re not sitting in the car.”
He doesn’t hesitate to step out and rush around the front of the black Mercedes gleaming an orange glow from the streetlight. I’m too busy feeling around for a door handle along the panel of puckered leather when he gets to it first. “Miss,” he says, holding his hand out for me to take.
I release a held breath and place my hand in his, conceding to the game he plays. Is this a game? We’re part of two very different worlds and he’ll see that clearly just as soon as we make our way up the spiral stairwell.
His hand is warm, encompassing, comforting. Nice. He doesn’t release my hand even after closing the car door and locking it up. I don’t fight to pull away.
“It’s the black metal door right over there,” I say, nodding toward the nook in the brick edifice. I slip my free hand into my pocket and pull out the key.
The night lights are dimly lit, providing a clear path up the eighty-nine stairs that I’ve counted thousands of times over the years. Sometimes racing home from school. Other times, dragging my feet after a long day.
Stefan has no trouble keeping up with my speed as I spindle around each curve. I unlock the door to the clock-tower room, finding Papa sitting at his desk, staring through a magnifying glass at a rusty gear.
He startles when I step in, the legs of his chair scraping against the wood floor. He removes his glasses, letting them dangle against his chest, and runs toward me as if he hasn’t seen me in a month. It’s been a week since Philip Silberg escorted me home for a visit.
“My darling girl, you’ve come home to see your old papa. I’ve missed you so,” he says, gathering me into his burly arms.
My arms don’t fit all the way around him, but I squeeze, nonetheless. “I’ve missed you too, Papa.”
His arms loosen when I feel Stefan’s presence behind me. “Sir, I’m Stefan Silberg, Philip’s son. He was a bit tied up tonight, so I offered to bring your daughter home.”
No, he didn’t. He was told to.
“Ah yes, he mentioned you might bring her home if he was busy. Thank you for doing so. She would have walked in the dark, alone, without a worry in the world, had you not.”
“I’ve come to see that for myself, sir.”
They’re ganging up on me. I should have seen this coming. But no, I thought my father would treat him the way he’s treated any boy I’ve ever been friendly enough with to bring home. Insignificant and unimportant.
“I hope my girl hasn’t been too much of a burden on you and your family,” Papa says, laughter following.
Stefan relents with an exhausted sigh. “We’re managing, sir.”
Papa laughs again. “I like you. Come on in. I’ve been saving a pie.”
“Pie?” I ask, wondering where he would have gotten a pie. He buys the necessities with ration cards and doesn’t go looking for more than what’s available. Pie is certainly not readily available.
“The cobbler’s wife has been bringing me pies. She knows you’ve moved out. It’s a kind gesture I won’t complain about.”
Papa leads us toward the back living space where we have a small wood stove, a water basin, an ice box, and a standalone cupboard.
I open the cupboard to retrieve three plates, but Stefan reaches to my side and takes them first. He spots the tins of silverware and pulls out three forks.
“How’s Miriam feeling?” Papa asks, pulling the pie off the shelf above the ice box. “Is the swelling better?”
“She’s restless, but yes, there is less swelling. She’s doing well,” I tell Papa.
“She’s happy,” Stefan adds. “Your daughter brings her joy and laughter. It’s quite nice.”
Papa’s lips sink at the corners before lifting into a small smile. “That’s my girl.”
He takes the pie to the dark corner of the room and pulls the light chain to illuminate the quaint wooden table with two too many chairs, or one, tonight.
It’s only ever been the two of us eating up here.
Stefan takes a seat just after I do, and passes around the plates and forks.
Papa places the pie in the center of the table and removes the paper covering.
“Any catastrophes this week?” I ask Papa. Catastrophes as in gears lodging, chains weighed down by too much grease.
“A chink link broke on one of the pendulums. I was able to replace it before anything was offset, but it was a close call.”
Stefan is smiling at Papa, and I don’t know why. He can’t possibly find the topic of clocks as fascinating as he does, or me for that matter.
“What made you want to become a clock engineer?” Stefan asks.
Papa glances at me just as he takes a fork to a corner of the pie.
“I wasn’t always an engineer. When Rosalie was young, I was just the man guarding the clock.
But, then one day, the clock stopped running for a few minutes.
I didn’t notice, and it cost me half of my heart.
I decided right then and there that I needed to know how to fix time and keep it running as God intended. ”
Half his heart.
Half my heart.
Stefan holds his fork above the pie, his hand trembling slightly as he stares past me.
“I assume Rosalie has already told you about her mother,” Papa says.
I try to look away from Stefan’s long unbreaking stare to reply to Papa, but I find myself studying Stefan’s eyes, the dilation in his pupils.
Then he blinks. “No, sir, she didn’t mention…her mother,” he says, blinking again before shifting his focus to me.
I shove the prongs of my fork into the pie and take a giant chunk to fill my mouth.
“She died, giving birth to my youngest daughter. Rosalie was only eight. I should have been home. Should have. Would have if the clock—”
“Hadn’t stopped,” Stefan finishes his sentence.
“Exactly.”
My throat tightens around the bite of pie, not going down as smoothly as it should.
“The people in this city should be grateful for all that you do,” Stefan tells Papa.
It’s a thankless job that Papa can’t live without.
“The clock, the time, it isn’t about me. It’s about the people.”
“How so?” Stefan presses.
“Time can stop if no one knows how easy it is to run out of…” Papa takes a forkful of pie and holds it up to his mouth. “That’s why I keep it running—for those fighting for the chance to live.”