Chapter 22 Stefan
TWENTY-TWO
STEFAN
SANOK, POLAND
She’s the one. That smile and intense blue eyes lit by the sun steal the breath from my lungs.
The wind catches in her golden-brown hair, slinging it against her confident posture—I could lose myself in just the sight if there wasn’t so much more to Rosalie.
Her soul outshines most, and each day longer I’ve been fortunate to spend by her side, I’ve become enamored by every part of who she is.
I’ve watched her embrace the grief of losing her father and grow stronger from it somehow.
She never wavers with her plans and doesn’t fear what might stop her from accomplishing what she sets her mind to.
She’s a wonder. A beautiful wonder who I call mine, even here, in an occupied country where our mixed-faith love is forbidden. Nothing else matters but her.
Together and side-by-side, we walk through the village square as if life is whole, normal, something other than what it is. It’s as if together, we can overcome the grim shadows unfurling over Poland. We’re both utterly broken, and yet, together, somehow whole.
The pastel blocks of shops and buildings engulf us in the Sanok village square, a small place, untouched by the ongoing war.
At first glance, I could easily be fooled into thinking there’s no war here.
The air is crisp and cool; the sky is a cornflower blue with a feathering of silver clouds that warn of a storm later.
The wind has picked up, but just enough to wrap us in the fresh autumn air.
Dry leaves, and smoke from firewood have never overpowered the aroma of fresh bread and loose tea from nearby cafes, but one-by-one, the shops have been closing.
Fewer people are walking around, and those who are, have a heavy, quick step, rushing from one destination to another. More than just a storm is brewing. It’s been happening for a while. The Nazis are here, but not nearly as many as in the bigger cities.
We walk down a narrow passageway between blocks in the village square, finding it clear and open between both entry points.
The wooden door on the left, halfway down the alley is framed by two large windows, both covered with yellowing newspaper.
I knock in a pattern; the pattern I must know to gain access.
A minute or two passes before a rusty voice behind the door asks, “Code name?”
“Bitter glass,” I speak through a breath at the seam of the door.
The locks unlatch, one by one, and the door squeaks open just enough for us to step inside.
A short candle on a chamberstick wobbles in the darkness as we follow the man down the creaking stairs then push through panels of thick-draped fabric hanging from the low ceiling.
Gas lamps illuminate the space that the village pharmacist protects with all his being.
“Stefan,” Mister Banach says. He’s the former village pharmacist, now working with the Polish resistance to help his community.
The secretive role he’s now enduring seems to have taken a toll on him.
The man who was always well put-together now stands here with his shirt untucked, buttons mismatched down the center, and his salt and pepper curly hair in a disheveled mess.
“How are you, Mister Banach?” I ask, placing my hand on his shoulder.
“Well—or, not well, I suppose. Stefan, I have your medicine, but my connecting source isn’t delivering as frequently, which might affect future refills,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Of course, you know I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you don’t run out, but you ought to know of the challenges…”
The thought of running out of the medicine that manages my seizures is my worst fear and has been for the last two years of my life when Germany occupied Poland, bringing in the Euthanasia program to empower racial purity by preventing the spread of hereditary disorders and diseases.
The program started as a process of sterilization, then became a death sentence for those deemed unworthy of living. I would fall under that category.
According to German newspapers, this program was put to a stop this past August due to public protests, but sources close to the pharmacist say the program is still in effect.
Just secretly and hidden from the public’s eye.
Since I have no choice but to continue working as a laborer in our family’s factory under Nazi supervision, I must ensure I retain power over my seizures, as much power as possible.
“What does that mean? Is there something I can do?” Rosalie asks, her hand squeezing mine.
“I’m afraid not,” Mister Banach says. “Just like food, medicinal shortages are just as bad. There aren’t any legal imports.”
Shortages. Our village experienced shortages of medicine months ago, before anyone knew they needed to be part of an underground connection to buy them time.
A supervisor in our factory—a man with one leg much shorter than his other—was taken by German soldiers, promised “treatment”, then never returned.
The memory leaves me counting pills every morning, knowing exactly how many days I have left until I become visibly imperfect.
“I’ll go to Slovakia. We’re only a couple hours from the border. They haven’t been occupied. Do you have a contact there I can—” She speaks as if she’s already planned the route, the method of apprehending the medicine, and the lies she’ll tell to get to and from.
The thought of her alone on that route blazes through me sharper and harsher than any tremor. I’d rather be killed than live knowing something happened to her because of me.
“Rosalie,” I snap. “You’re not going to Slovakia.”
“You need your medicine. I can get over the border—”
“And risk your life for a bottle of pills?” I cut her off. “No. I need you.” I won’t give up on Mister Banach. “Everything will be fine.”
Mister Banach’s eyes tell us otherwise, a sign that won’t be unnoticed by Rosalie. Still, there’s no way I can let her leave this country, not for me. Not for anything. Nowhere is safe.
“Perhaps I can seek out connections in Slovakia. You’re a smart woman to think the way you do,” Mister Banach says. “But I must agree with Stefan. It’s no place you should be traveling to alone right now, and you likely won’t make it over the border.”
If it was brighter down here, I would see the red hue blossoming along Rosalie’s heated cheeks, but it’s best I don’t see that. I can hear her grinding her teeth, and that’s enough.
“When should we come back to check in with you?” Rosalie says, an urgent demand filling her question.
“Next week at this time, but I have enough to last him a few months now. We have time.”
The one statement Rosalie won’t listen to.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate everything you do, truly,” I say.
“Anything for your family, son. Your father has always done so much for me—such a giving man. A mensch.” He smiles and steps away. “I’ll be right back with your pills.” He makes his way around a dark corner of his cellar.
Rosalie is quiet and I can feel every bit of her worry and anger. Also, her reckless ideas that get in the way of self-preservation.
By the time we make our way back to the village square, Rosalie seems to have settled down or found something else to focus on.
“Do you see that?” she whispers, but doesn’t point in any direction.
I scan the square, spotting a group of German soldiers. Horses’ hooves clomp against stone and German voices echo between the walls as the rotten smell of hide and manure presses in along the village borders, suffocating us.
“The Nazis?” I whisper.
“No, the time is wrong,” she says, staring at her Papa’s watch around her wrist. “No one is keeping the time…”
I glance at the clock then down at my watch too. For me, either my watch is fast, or the clock is slow.
Rosalie yanks me toward the center of the village square and reaches into her dress pocket for her father’s sundial, a small brass disk. The needle warbles until it lands on north. She tilts the triangular brass plate until the shadow hits the hour line.
Muttering a mess of numbers under her breath, she closes her eyes for a quick second then exhales. “It’s thirty-two minutes past eleven. The clock says it’s fifteen minutes past the hour.”
I know better than to ask her if anyone would notice. Even if no one else would notice, she would. She always does. “What can we do?”
“It’ll only take me a few minutes to fix,” she says.
“Maybe the wrong time is best suited for that group of soldiers over there…” I suggest.
We’ve been in the clock tower several times since her father passed away, tweaking gears, cranking levers, and altering the pendulum rods. I’m not even sure when I learned what all these mechanisms do, but I have, just from watching her.
“Yes, of course. I didn’t see them…” she says. “And they’ve more than multiplied from the one or two we’ve spotted from time to time.”
We both know what that means. It’s another step closer to Sanok following in the footsteps of every other city, town, and village in our country.
The walk back to the house was quieter than usual. Sometimes, we find ourselves talking over each other with how much we both have to say, but not today.
“I worry about you,” she says as we trudge up the final hill toward the house. “So much, it hurts.”
I take her hand and stop her from forging ahead.
“You don’t have to worry so much. I’m not frail or dying.
Even if I ran out of medicine, I’m sure I’d manage.
I was born with this condition and didn’t have medicine for a long time.
” I’m not truly sure how I would manage, but she doesn’t need to add my health to her growing list of concerns.
I’ve also never mentioned my fears of the Euthanasia program to her so I’m not sure if she thinks about it the way I do. For her sake, I hope not.
She’s quiet, doesn’t respond for a moment. Just gazes into my eyes, saying enough without saying anything. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be making you feel like you’re a patient I’m looking after. That wasn’t my intention. I just—”
“You love me,” I tell her, pulling her into me.
“With all my heart,” she says.
“With love, comes worry. But why waste time worrying when we can just love, love?”
Her smile returns like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. “What else comes with love?” Her words, an undeniable tease.
Somehow, we end up in the empty barn.
The one place we can be alone. Just us, together, where we belong.
The straw beneath us turns to silk. The layers of fabric and buttons on our clothes just prolong the answer to her question.
My lips glide along warm satin skin, my fingers tangling in her hair—it’s never enough.
Her hands skate across my back, holding me like she might never let go.
Our hearts beat against each other’s, fierce and unfaltering.
Her lips part, eyes close, and her breaths quicken.
The world disappears, leaving just the two of us in a moment that’s never long enough.
“Can we stay like this—just like this, forever?” she murmurs against my ear.
“No one can take this away from us,” I tell her, drawing her into me as if she’s the last breath I’ll ever take.