Chapter 16 Rosalie
SIXTEEN
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
Hanging “soiled” linens from clotheslines in the side yard was my idea. The linens aren’t truly soiled, just heavily tea stained. I pinch the last clothespin before releasing the damp linen.
“This is just vile,” Miriam sighs.
“At least it doesn’t smell the way it looks,” I remind her.
“You have a good point.”
German soldiers and Aryanized police are poaching Jewish homes.
Stefan and Philip overhear far more than anyone could wish while working alongside Nazi administration, the rats who oversee the daily labor output at Silbergs Textiles.
Every one of those vermin want to live somewhere nice while they’re “stuck” here in Sanok during the occupation.
Nice.
That’s the word that got me thinking. Not one of them would be trying to move into the clock tower to share space with Papa.
It’s cold, damp, and tight on space. Their first stop would be the high-end estates, villas, homes of the wealthy.
The Silberg home. From passing rumors between factory workers and locals in the marketplace, the Nazis have either been pushing people right out of their homes or forcing them to share the space.
We needed to stop them somehow, before they came barging through the door.
“I don’t understand the purpose if they’re going to take our home at some point. Maybe it’s not now, but Papa said it will happen. It’s just a matter of when,” Eloise pipes up, plucking a wildflower from the unruly grass.
“We must hold on for as long as possible, darling. That’s why we pray for the war to end, yes?”
“It’s not ending,” Eloise grumbles, a dark strand of hair spilling over her eye as she furrows her brows and snarls her lips. “All we’ve done is made the house smell like rotten food, soot, and spring rain. We can’t even use the stove or the icebox. It isn’t fair!”
And here we are, adding icing to the trash pile. “It sounds like we’ve done a good job at making our home seem undesirable,” Miriam utters to Eloise. “That was the point.”
“We could just post signs on wooden pickets that say: Go away you stupid Nazis!”
“Shh,” I hush her at the very same time Miriam does.
“Lower your voice,” Miriam scolds her.
Just as I wrap my arm around the wicker basket, now empty of linen, Stefan and Philip rumble up the hill with two wheelbarrows full of firewood. They’ve been preparing for winter for over a month, and it won’t get cold for another two.
Stefan’s cheeks are red, sweat soaked through his white shirt.
He must be exhausted. Yet he winks at me—a subtly timed gesture that Miriam likely didn’t see as she’s rushing to Philip’s side.
My pulse flutters in my stomach, his gaze making me forget about the world around us, even if just for a moment.
“You’re going to drop dead. You’re too old for this,” she scolds her husband. “Look how red you are.”
“It needs to be done, Miriam. I’m not going to drop dead. I’m forty-three, not eighty.”
The quiet argument disturbs baby Benjamin who’s been cooing in a second wicker basket, full of clean linen, which also ends the argument. I follow Stefan to the cellar doors where they’ve been unloading the firewood and place the basket down next to the wagon.
“I’ll help. Why don’t you take a rest,” I offer.
He doesn’t respond, just ignores me and lifts twice as many chopped logs as I do, then follows me down the steep stone stairs.
I place the logs in the growing pile, and he tosses the ones he’s holding.
I brush my hands against my dress and turn back to the cellar opening.
Or Stefan’s chest as he steps into my path.
He slips his arms around my waist and lifts me off my feet, just enough to bring my lips closer to his. He smells of sweat and firewood, his arms and chest are warm and wet against my dress. “You’re going to exhaust yourself,” I mutter against his lips.
“That’s all right,” he croaks.
He pulls me around the corner, behind a brick beam, and kisses me harder, his fingertips pressing into the flesh of my lower back. His body is flush to mine, every part of his body. Even the part he’s unashamed to have lost control over…
Everything inside of me aches with desire, wishing we had privacy and time, but that seems impossible.
These moments are our blackouts—our way of forgetting that the evil is closing in on us more each day.
Forgetting we don’t have a plan for what we’ll do when…
when that day comes. Stefan’s lips are on my neck, trailing over my collarbone—stealing my every breath.
“Stefan?” Philip calls into the cellar as footsteps clap over the stone.
Stefan peels himself off me, adjusts his pants and shirt, takes a short walk to the farthest wall then runs his fingers through his damp hair. “Yes?”
“Are you all right?
“No,” he whispers in my ear before rushing back to the stairs.
“A pile started to fall. I was cleaning up the stack.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Rosalie?” Philip calls out next.
I didn’t think this through. “Yes? I’m helping Stefan.” I quietly tiptoe over to the farthest stack of firewood, hoping he can’t see me from the angle of the steps.
“Uh-huh,” he says again. “Don’t be late for dinner with your papa. It’s almost five.”
“They know,” I tell Stefan as we scuff our feet along the dirt path, sticking to the outskirts of town to avoid any Nazi sightings.
“Know what?” Stefan asks, a smirk poking at his cheek.
“About us.” I nudge my elbow into his.
“Huh,” he says.
“What does that mean?” I grab his hand and hold it between mine. “Huh?”
“They’ve known about us for months.”
“No, they most certainly have not. I’ve made sure of that.”
“How have you done that?” He toys with me.
“I’ve told them how rude and despicable you are, and obnoxious, and petty, and—”
“That’s why they know. You say that with this adorable little smile on your face. Everyone can see it.”
My cheeks burn, not because of the truth but because I thought I was being more inconspicuous.
“Well, my father doesn’t know. And he doesn’t need to know. It’ll just cause him unnecessary stress. So, don’t do anything to make me blush tonight. Promise me.”
And with an incomplete promise, Stefan opens the side door to the village hall and ushers me inside.
I smooth my hands down the pleats of my dress and straighten my shoulders before walking into the cathedral framed space I still call home. “I’m home, Papa,” I say closing the door behind Stefan.
Peering around to see why he isn’t responding, I find him asleep at his desk. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, gently, to avoid startling him awake. “Humf uh,” he grumbles.
“Papa, it’s me.”
“Me. Rosy,” he slurs, his eyes fluttering open. “What time is it?”
The question would normally make me laugh if I wasn’t concerned by his confusion. “It’s half past five, on the dot.”
“Dinner. I was supposed to make you dinner,” he says, pushing himself away from the table.
“How about I go make dinner and you two spend some time together,” Stefan offers.
“Stefan. Oh, my good man. You’re here, too. Good. Oh, I’ve been tired from this heat wave.”
It does get quite muggy up here on hot days.
“Did you open the back windows?” I ask him.
“No. No. The Nazis are gassing streets.”
“Papa, they’re not gassing—” I can’t be too sure, but I think we would have heard about it if they were. I press the back of my hand to Papa’s head, finding him warm. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m all right. Of course I’m all right. What else could be wrong?” He’s not usually this testy, but there’s very little peace of mind to hold on to right now.
“Did the cobbler’s wife go shopping for you this week?” Stefan calls out from the kitchenette.
“Yes, yes. She does every week. She said there wasn’t much on the shelves for rations this week. Potatoes and some sausage scraps. Something. Maybe cabbage, she might have said.”
The Silbergs would be scrounging for food too if Philip didn’t have quiet exchanges in the early mornings before the Nazi administration arrives at the factory. Still, the quantity dwindles by the week. “I’ll have to use the stove briefly. Is that all right with you? I know you’re warm…”
“Whatever needs to be done,” Papa says, shooing his hand toward Stefan.
Stefan looks at me with wide eyes and a snarl along his lip before turning back for the stove.
He digs a pitchfork into the basket of coal beneath the burner and lights a match.
I hear the creak of a window cracking open and let out a cough to distract Papa.
He’s always been nervous, but his nerves seem to be getting the best of him now.
“Any major incidents this week?” I ask Papa.
“Nothing to write home about,” he says with a shrug. “How’s things with Miriam and the baby? Are Philip and Eloise well, too?”
“Things are fine,” I say.
“No, they aren’t. I can hear it in your voice.” Nervous, he may be, but not much gets past him, especially when it comes to me.
“Nothing has changed. The factory is still under Nazi power and working them to the bone. Miriam worries. Eloise worries more. But Benjamin is a good baby.”
“She—she still needs your help?” Papa asks.
My heart cracks, hearing the question, assuming the reason he’s asking. He must want me to come home.
“She says so.” Not that they can afford help anymore, but I can’t bring myself to leave them.
“Good. Good. Good. That’s good. I’m glad she’s keeping you busy, sweetheart.”
“Papa, if you need me…”
His lips unfurl into a sharp grimace. “Me? I’m your father.
You should need me, Rosy. Not the other way around.
” He groans while slowly standing from his seat, rolling his shoulders as he makes his way over to Stefan.
With his back to me, he wraps his arm around Stefan’s shoulders as he sets a pot of water down on the stove.
I glance at Papa’s desk, finding gears and screws scattered.
I begin to the sort them, but not out of habit.
Papa never leaves a screw out of place. I peek over at the two of them again.
Papa has lost some weight. It could be the rationing.
We’ve all lost weight. Both share a laugh at something I can’t hear, but the sight makes me smile.
Papa returns to his seat, groaning against his knees. “That fellow—he’s something, you know that right?”
Stefan isn’t even over here and he’s still making my cheeks red. “He’s a nice man, Papa.”
“He’s not just a nice man, Rosy.” Papa grins. “You love him, don’t you?”
“Papa…” My neck burns forcing me to pull my hair to my shoulder for air.
“He loves you,” he whispers. “I can see it.” Papa’s eyes fill with a sheen of tears. “He looks at you the way I used to look at your mama.” His words are like hands grappling around my heart. “She could make time feel like it was still.”
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” I ask him. I know something’s wrong. I can feel it through every limb of my body.
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetheart. It makes my heart happy to see you happy, even if you don’t want to admit the truth.”
“I should take you to a doctor,” I tell him, my voice catching in my throat.
“All the good ones are gone. And I don’t need a doctor.”
Stefan brings over a plate for Papa. Just one plate. I used my ration card while shopping with Miriam this week. Stefan and I have both eaten today. There are no extras for anyone.
“That sure smells good,” Papa says. “Where are your plates?”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ll eat,” Stefan says.
“The rations,” he says, shaking his head.
“The damn rations. How long do you plan on taking care of my sweetheart, here?” Papa asks.
His question steals my breath. The direct question without any hidden meaning—it shocks me.
I haven’t blinked and can’t as my eyes remain wide open, staring at Stefan, wondering what the two of them were talking about at the stove.
“For as long as she’ll let me, sir.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes,” Stefan says without batting a lash.
“Stefan…” I utter.
A blush blossoms across Stefan’s cheeks. A confession. One I wasn’t expecting. One that makes my heart swell. I take his hand in mine and circle the pad of my thumb over his knuckles to ease his nerves or embarrassment. He won’t look at me. His eyes are glued to the ground between his feet.
“Just as I thought,” Papa says.