Chapter 24 Rosalie
TWENTY-FOUR
ROSALIE
SANOK, POLAND
The kitchen sometimes feels like a train station in the early hours of the morning.
Miriam is boiling water for a bottle to feed Benjamin, and tea for the rest of us.
I’m stirring a bowl of batter vigorously, hoping to thicken the batter before pouring it into the iron pan.
Eloise is squeezing the life out of the one lemon we have left, for a splash of taste to add to the carafe of water.
Stefan makes a racket shuffling in through the back door, stomping his boots against the grizzly mat to kick off the snow, then drops a load of firewood into the log basket next to the oven.
“I haven’t seen Mister Silberg this morning. He hasn’t already left, has he?” I ask, wondering how many pancakes to try and stretch from the watery batter.
“No, no. He’s—he just seems a bit more tired than usual today. He should be downstairs momentarily.”
Stefan leans over my shoulder, taking a whiff of the batter. “Mmm,” he hums, the vibration of his voice tickling my ear.
He smells like firewood and brisk winter air. I much prefer that scent over this batter.
The tea kettle whistles, and Stefan reaches over me for it, bare-handed. I swat his arm away. “That’s hot. You’ll burn yourself.”
“He doesn’t learn,” Eloise says with a sing-song sigh. “Boys.”
Miriam doesn’t react as she normally would to Eloise’s quiet jabs at her brother. She’s staring through the dark window, a tired, glazed look.
“Is everything all right?” I ask, setting the wooden spoon to the side of the bowl.
She shakes her head as if breaking free from her stare, and smiles too quickly in response. “Oh, of course. I’m fine. I was just thinking we’ll need more flour and milk before the weekend.” Her voice is laced with unease.
Philip’s quick steps make it down the main stairwell and up to the entrance of the kitchen. I expected to see him dressed for the factory, but he’s in an undershirt, slacks, and a knit scarf wrapped around his neck. His hair is in disarray. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it uncombed.
“We aren’t going to the factory this morning?” Stefan asks Philip.
Philip clutches his hand to his forehead, pressing against his temples. “Headache. Chills.”
“Oh dear,” Miriam says, rushing to his side, lifting the back of her hand to his head. “You are warm. Back to bed you go.”
“I’ll be all right after some tea.”
Miriam clears her throat and spins around as if searching for the teapot.
“Rosalie,” she says, scooping her hand beneath her apron to take the kettle.
“Would you mind stopping by the ration line this morning? Just for some milk and flour if they still have any left? The queue has been growing longer and longer each week, and I don’t want to keep Benjamin out in this damp cold for too long. ”
“I can take care of him,” Eloise offers.
“You have schoolwork, dear,” she says, right away.
“Is that—” Stefan says, shaking his head, ready to say no on my behalf.
“Rosalie will be just fine. She’s quite capable. Always is,” Philip says, his voice a bit gravelly now. “I’ll need you to take care of the ledgers this morning. You can do that on your own, yes?”
“Of course,” Stefan says. “I do it all the time.” His tone questions his father’s intentions. I’m questioning his father’s intentions. They’re both acting odd, or maybe I’m imagining it all.
The kitchen is too quiet as the pancakes gurgle on the griddle, the only sound coming from the spatula tapping the plate. We eat in the same silence, Stefan and I exchanging glances that seem to mirror the others. He’s the first to take his plate to the sink and I follow.
“Thank you both for helping us out this morning,” Miriam says, bouncing Benjamin on her knee.
“Of course. No need to thank us,” I say.
Stefan gives his mother a kiss on the cheek, and she cups her hand around the back of his head, her fingers red, dry from the cold. “I love you.”
Philip pats him on the back and squeezes his shoulder.
“I’ll take care of the dishes when I return,” I tell Miriam, running my fingers through Benjamin’s scattered curls. “And listen to your wife. She knows best. Go back to bed.” I point a finger at Philip.
“This is why I love this girl,” Miriam says, grabbing my hand and squeezing it as I leave the kitchen.
Stefan is waiting at the front door with my scarf tangled around his hands. “Try not to cause trouble at the market,” he says, a brow raised, and a lopsided grin.
“You say it like I’m known for such a thing,” I say, turning my back to him so he can loop my scarf around my neck.
“You’re right,” he says taking my coat into his hands to help me slip it over my shoulders. He leans to my side and kisses my cheek. “Be careful, all right?”
“I will. You, as well.”
The ration line is growing endlessly today at an earlier hour than usual.
I check Papa’s watch over and over, realizing for each glance, the time slows more.
If the line doesn’t move along, we’ll all be sent away since the posted collection times keep shrinking.
The clouds are unforgiving and lock in the dampness.
Not even a narrow passageway between two town blocks does much to keep out of the cold wind.
The gas lamps flicker as if they’re unsure whether we need light.
With more Nazis moving into Sanok, order has become tighter and so have their watchful eyes.
The townspeople and I shuffle forward a few footsteps every couple of minutes, and I’ve made it to the last corner before reaching the opening to the small grocery shop. The only location in town that allows people—non-Jewish people—to collect both bread and sugar at the same location.
From here, the gated barriers of the sealed ghetto are in view—like another world. Dilapidated housing, mounds of snow-covered dirt, and people standing around as if they’re waiting for this to end.
To see them…to know how unfair it is…
The guilt haunts me. It haunts anyone on this side.
I’m collecting what little food I can while they look like they’re surviving off next to nothing.
The hardest sight are the young children who gather behind the gates, their little fingers curled around the black iron while they stare at the ration line.
Any attempt to help them would result in death, per posted bulletins.
The clock tower strikes seven just as I step out of the shop with my bread and sugar. I wish I could tell myself it’s a sign from Papa, but I’m not sure if it truly is seven. Soldiers are always posted by the side door of the village hall now so I can’t check on the clock like I had been doing.
I take the long roads that circle the ghetto and lead toward the hills to the Silberg home.
The quiet feels like suffocation, a deprivation of the living.
Not even a gust of wind ruffles the dry leaves.
I think about the Sundays I once spent in the tower, wrapped in a blanket, watching the people of our village move around from one destination to the other in peace.
Sundays are no longer a day for rest. While I queue for rations, Stefan works at the factory, logging weekly ledgers along with Philip, and Miriam fights to maintain the illusion of an inhabitable home—a never-ending effort.
Just before winter settled in, Philip had done everything to make the house uninviting.
He tore up the grass, dug a manure trench along the perimeter, hung soiled linens on clotheslines, and even shattered the outer panes of their windows to disguise the glass still intact beneath.
It was smart. We promised ourselves it would keep the Nazis from billeting the house.
Halfway up the steep hill, I glance over my shoulder, wondering if Stefan has already made it home or if he’s still at the factory, just a short distance behind me.
I hope he’s already returned. Philip hadn’t gone with him this morning because he wasn’t feeling well.
Stefan is traveling alone, with nothing but a stamped exemption note clipped to his identification papers.
It’s the only thing keeping him from being taken by Nazis.
There are very few Jewish people who can still lawfully move around town.
My breaths catch on thick clouds of fog, and the soles of my boots are like metal against the icy patches of grass. At the top, the world unfurls before me.
And the world freezes.
A forest-green canvas tarp, frayed at the edges, covers the back of a truck idling in front of the Silbergs’ house, its exhaust forming coiled spurts of exhaust into the cold.
Next to the truck is a polished Mercedes gleaming like a knight in armor, sword drawn.
On the concrete stoop, Philip stands rigid, his arms around Eloise and Miriam, Benjamin wrapped in a blanket against Miriam’s chest, only his pink nose visible. Three suitcases rest by their feet.
I blink, as if I’m looking through a fog distorted window, unsure what I’m looking at. No one moves, just the puffs of gray air. My breaths overwhelm the silence, and I press my hand to my mouth and hold on to my last breath.
This can’t be happening.
This is what I see in my nightmares.
Realization snakes up my spine and coils around my stomach before my mind comes to terms with what I’m watching. The suitcases. Soldiers in uniform. The truck. This is the end of the hope we held on to.
Officers move to block my view of Miriam. All I can do is focus on Philip. His eyes find mine across the distance at the mouth of the woods. He shakes his head ever so slightly and closes his eyes, a silent plea.
For what? To run, or stay hidden?
I must help them. Somehow.
I take a step forward, and his eyes flash wide. He shakes his head again, sharper this time.
My throat tightens and my heart wallops as I sidestep behind a large tree, bringing me a bit closer to the front of the house, but more hidden too.
“Our son is in the United States, studying at a university. He’s been there a few years now,” Philip says, speaking German, his voice carrying louder than anything else exchanged.
“Does anyone else live with you?” the officer asks.
“No,” Philip says without a second’s hesitation.
“Are you sure about that?” the officer follows.
“Yes. Quite. It’s just the four of us and our son overseas.”
I press my fingernails into the bark so hard the wood splinters against my flesh. They have records. They can find out that Stefan works at the factory. Philip’s lie can only protect him temporarily. If they found out—find Stefan…
The officers seize their arms and push them toward the truck.
I back away, until the peak of the hill blocks my sight of the estate.
I drop the bundle of bread and sugar beneath a thick mulberry bush and take off running down the hill, trying to keep my wits, and footing along the slick ground.
The cold air burns my lungs like knives slicing down my core.
Did Philip know the Nazis were coming from them?
Is this why he didn’t go with Stefan to the factory? Why they were both acting so unnatural before he left, saying goodbye as if we weren’t just running errands or going to the factory? They knew. They must have.
Tears prick my eyes, blurring my vision as I continue to run down the hill, back to the center of town.
Where are they taking them? To the ghetto?
What about all their belongings? They had just one suitcase for each of them.
Were they already packed? Wouldn’t I have seen them? What about Stefan’s belongings?
Panic grows and grows, and takes over every part of me as my breaths grow sharp, and the soles of my boots slip on a thin patch of ice. I fall. And I’ve failed. It’s all I seem to do.
The heavy steps of boots against damp gravel leave me with a strangled gasp. My hands in slushy snow redden as I struggle to get back onto my feet. My chest is so heavy with despair, it’s working against gravity.
Hands grab me from behind and lift me off the ground.
“Rosalie…are you all right? My God.” Stefan’s wool coat scratches against my raw, damp cheeks, his arms wrenched around me so tightly, I can hardly breathe.
“What happened? Let me look at you. Are you hurt?” He cranes his head back, trying to get a better look at me, but I can only make a blur of his eyes through my tears.
“The soldiers—” The word swells in my throat. “Your house. They took them—” A sob tears through me. “All of them.”
He yanks me back into his chest, holding me in a vice-like grip. All I can feel is his heart hammering, breaking, and shattering.
“My father knew,” Stefan hisses through his clenched jaw, mind working overtime.
“He made me leave early this morning; told me the ledgers were unbalanced and would take time without his help. He stayed home…because he must have known they were coming for us—a family of five Jews. The Reich sends letters, with a three- or four-day warning to the family being evicted and taken elsewhere. I’ve heard factory workers whispering about these letters.
I should have known my father wasn’t sick this morning. ”
“He saved you,” I whimper.
“And sacrificed everything else.” Stefan’s fingers twist in the lapel of my coat. “Because I’m the defective one in my family and I’m nothing but a risk—an ill, worthless risk. The Nazis would kill me if they knew what’s wrong with me.”
“Stop it!” I pull away from his hold, staring up at him with sternness and gritted teeth as fury laces my tears.
“Your family loves you more than anything in the world. Your father looked right at me as I stood back in the woods. He made it clear that he chose this. To protect you. Just like a father should do for his son.”
“I know,” Stefan croaks. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean what I said.” Tears carve pale tracks down his red cheeks as he collapses against me, his forehead pressing into my shoulder.
The sound of an engine rumbling from down the hill turns my blood into ice.
They must be coming for us next.