Chapter 42 Rosalie
FORTY-TWO
ROSALIE
A spattering of stars above the small village comes and goes with the passing of dark clouds. Cottages lit by oil lamps on front porches with small barns fenced in between remind me of Sanok. Villagers peer from their lit windows as we pass by, and I can’t help but feel like an intruder.
“Don’t mind them. Curiosity only gets people in trouble around here,” Maja, the kind elderly lady saving me from the hungry night, says.
“I grew up in a village like this. Neighbors were family, protecting each other as their own. I’ve forgotten the feeling.”
The woman steers her horse into a small, covered barn and eases herself down from the wagon.
Every bone in my body is stiff and sore from sitting after walking so long, but she hobbles right along to retrieve a bucket of food to feed her horse.
She limps as if one leg is shorter than the other but moves quickly between the barn and her dark cottage.
“I should be looking for him.” The words spill out of my mouth—passing thoughts stumbling through my weary mind.
“Not at night. You won’t find him at night, Rosalie,” she says sternly with emphasis on my name, which she’s only just learned. “You know, you remind me of my daughter—stubborn but with good intentions. She got that from her father; God rest his soul.”
“I’m sorry for your loss. Where is your daughter? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“Not far from here but chose a more modern lifestyle in a bigger village where she could teach a classroom that could hold more than a few children. She comes by every weekend, though.”
We step into the cottage, dry air, cool but not as cold as outside. No drafts. A heavy scent of firewood mixes with something sweet—a mixture of old baked spices. She moves along the wall, fingers brushing rough surfaces until finding a lamp.
A faint glow unfurls, revealing in one corner, a bed covered with a quilt thick enough to swallow me whole, a lace-draped table with baskets and chipped dishes—signs of meals shared with loved ones, a common life.
Two wooden chairs rest angled toward a wood-burning stove with stacked firewood promising heat, and pots and pans dangling from a rack overhead.
If Stefan is alive…he’s starving and cold. I don’t deserve this.
“Sit, sit,” she says, shooing her hand at me.
Within minutes, a fire is lit and a tea kettle with water is gently swinging over the flames. The blanket draped over the wooden chair is like a cloud against my back. Stefan might be sleeping on frozen mud. If lucky.
“The railroad with the freight cars you mentioned—how far is that from here?” I ask as she’s slicing something on the table.
“By foot, eight hours to ten hours or so,” she says with a sigh. “Those freight cars aren’t meant for passengers, as I’m sure you know.”
“I know,” I whisper. Stefan might already be in one.
“And most likely guarded by the Reich.”
“How can you be so sure?” Questioning her won’t help me. I know next to nothing and will be traveling blindly.
She leans down and pulls out a radio from beneath her table. “The sheep farmer’s boy knows a thing or two about radios. He helped us tune into a frequency the Germans don’t bother with. That way, we hear things before they reach our village.”
My hand tightens around my throat. “Then you’re sure about the prisoner men being taken to the railway,” I state rather than ask.
“Yes,” she says, scooping up a pile of potatoes and onion for the boiling water. She gives the broth a stir. “Where are you from? You haven’t mentioned a family, sisters or brothers.”
“Sanok. I have no family. My parents and baby sister are all gone.”
“I see,” she says, pinning her hands to her hips, the ladle dribbling broth. “This man you’re looking for—he’s the one person you have left from home?”
I nod, feeling the familiar lump form in my throat. “He’s my one. The only one, and yes, also from Sanok.”
Maja hangs up her ladle and covers the boiling pot. “You’re a grown woman, Rosalie. It’s apparent you’ve done a fine job at carrying on as you have, but if I may, I’d like to offer you my personal advice…I’d sleep better tonight.”
“Of course.” I’m not sure what she might suggest but I could use a more noble thought than my own now.
“Go back to Sanok. I heard on the radio that the Soviets are on the way, which means there’s a chance the war could come to an end. If that happens, you’ll have more resources to find this man. More than you will by searching for him in the freezing cold woods here.”
Her advice sounds like she’s suggesting I give up and go wait. Waiting for things to turn out right has never served me well.
“I—I’m not sure I can just go wait…”
Maja takes a seat in the chair beside me.
“My husband was ill for about a year before he passed. The doctor said there was nothing that could be done, except wait. Make him comfortable. Stay by his side.” She clenches the fabric of her dress within her fists.
“I wasn’t going to watch and wait while the love of my life dies in front of me.
” She pauses and sniffles. “I collected every herb, spice, and oil I could get my hands on. I spent hours every day making concoctions of ancient remedies promised to heal. I was determined to find a way to make him better. But I didn’t.
He passed within the year, just as the doctor said he would.
I was angry at myself for wasting time trying to find a cure rather than sitting by his side, which is the only thing he truly needed. ”
“I’m sure he knows your only intention was to make him better,” I tell her.
“Of course. But what I failed to accept is that time unfolds whether we fight or not. Sometimes…waiting is the only right thing to do.”
“What if I end up waiting for…forever?” I ask, my heart lodged in my throat. How can I just—wait?
“That’s what the past is for—holding your memories, keeping them close so they can serve you now and every day for the rest of your life.”
I nod, swallowing hard as her words coil inside me. Memories of Stefan won’t keep him alive. If I wait and lose him, I’ll never forgive myself. It’s better to act—and possibly fail—than do nothing, the way I did with Mama.