She spun to face me.
“Would you be quiet? What is wrong with you?” Her breath smelled of coffee and pear chrusciki.
I was beyond crying. How could she be so reckless?
“They’ll take us all. Papa too.”
“Get to work,” she said with a cross look. She rushed away across the street and narrowly missed being hit by a couple in a fancy open car, who honked and yelled something in German. She made it to the curb and turned. Feeling badly she’d been cross with me?
“I’ll bring your sandwich to the theater,” she called to me, one hand next to her mouth. “I’ll drop it off early!”
When I didn’t answer, she clutched her coffee to her chest and walked along, swallowed up by the crowd.
I stood there trembling. Whom could I tell? Not Papa. He would kill Lennart the Brave, and we’d all be shot. I glanced back to Deutsche Haus and saw Lennart walk down the steps with three others, digging a toothpick in between his teeth. How could Matka meet with such a man?
I brought my thoughts back to the mission. What was our Girl Guide motto? “Be aware!” It was important to stay focused so I could execute Pietrik’s mission without a hitch. I would tell Zuzanna later. She would help Matka regain her senses.
I continued on toward the ghetto, passed through Grodzka Gate, and made it down to Zaufanym’s Pharmacy in record time. That was easy enough. I’d been to Z’s Pharmacy millions of times with Nadia, but this time as I walked down the cobblestone road, I couldn’t shake the impression I was descending into Dante’s Inferno.
Once, Old Town had been the most active shopping district in Lublin; it was always a fun day with Nadia going to see the shops and feast on Hanukkah doughnuts, warm and sprinkled with powdered sugar, the wagons on the street piled high with turnips and potatoes. Groups of children played in the streets, and black-hatted shopkeepers in their bell-sleeved gabardines stood out front and talked to customers, their doors flung wide to display their wares: Shoes and slippers. Rakes and pitchforks. Cages of squawking hens and ducks.
Back then, at the massive Chewra Nosim Synagogue on Lubartowska Street, men with white-and-black prayer shawls over their shoulders came and went. We would see many leaving for home from the men’s bathhouse, the steamy air felt all the way down the street.
But since the Germans came, crossing into the ghetto, one felt a terrible, sad mood. Lublin Castle, which loomed over the area, had been requisitioned by the Nazis as their main prison, and it peered into the twisting cobblestone streets below, streets no longer full of shoppers and children playing. The Nazis had taken most of the younger men away for a construction project, clearing land to build what they said was a new labor camp called Majdanek on the outskirts of Lublin, south of the city. As a result, many of the shops were shuttered, and the few peddlers who opened their doors offered little. SS men patrolled here and there and the teenagers of working age who hadn’t been marched off to work for the Nazis stood in groups with a worried air. I saw women crowded around a tray of meat scraps on the ground, and a young boy was selling white armbands he kept on his arm, each stenciled with a Star of David. The synagogue was boarded up, signs in German nailed to the doors, and the baths stood quiet, no longer breathing steam into the air.
I was relieved to make it to the pharmacy. It was one of the few places open, and it was lively there that afternoon. Word was Mr. Z bribed every Nazi he could to stay in business, since he was the only non-Jewish shop owner in the ghetto.
Through the plate-glass window at the front of the shop, I spied tables of men in black hats, busy about their chess games. Mr. Z stood at the wood counter that ran the length of the pharmacy, assisting a couple with a remedy.
I turned the smooth crystal knob. The door creaked as it opened, and a few of the men looked up from their games. They followed me with their eyes as I entered, some with quizzical looks. Though I knew Mr. Zaufanym a little from church, he did not acknowledge me when I walked in. As I skirted the tables, I caught bits of conversations, most in Yiddish, a few in Polish. Once I made it to the door along the rear wall of the place, I took the doorknob in my hand and turned it, but it would not budge. Was it locked? I tried it again, my palm slippery on the metal. Still no luck. Should I abandon the mission?
I swiveled to face Mr. Z. He excused himself and started toward me.
Just then, a Nazi brownshirt, one of Hitler’s everyday enforcers, gun strap across his chest, cupped two hands to the front window and peered inside. He was looking at me! Even some of the men at the tables noticed and sat up straighter, watching it all. I repeated this oath in my head: I shall serve with the Gray Ranks, safeguard the secrets of the organization, obey orders, and not hesitate to sacrifice my life.
The “sacrifice my life” part was becoming all too real.
Mr. Z came to me and led me back to the counter. I barely made it there, my legs wobbled so.
“You need aspirin?” he said.
“Yes. I have a terrible headache.”
Once the brownshirt moved along, Mr. Z took me to the door. He jiggled the knob and let me through in a most natural way.
I made it to the bottom of the steps, rapped my knuckles on the wood door, and stood beneath the bare lightbulb. A chill ran through me. Maybe I would tell Pietrik this was my last mission.
“Who is it?” came a woman’s voice.
“Iwona,” I said.
The door opened.
“They send me a child?” the woman said from the shadows. I entered, and she closed the door behind me.
A child? I was eighteen after all and often told I looked older.
“I’m here for the aspirin. I only have five minutes.”
The woman stared at me for a long moment, as one looks at the last piece of fish at the market, and then walked to an adjacent room. I stepped farther into the basement. It was twice the size of our apartment and black paper covered the windows, so it was dark. The smell of mildew and dirty socks down there was strong, but it was well furnished, with a long sofa, a kitchen table and chairs with a bright blue-and-red lamp hung above, and a sink on the far wall. Long silver drips plopped from the sink faucet, and the thuds of footsteps and chairs scraping the floor came from above. Where was the woman?
She came back shortly with a thick package. I tucked it in my rucksack and peeped at my watch. I was finished in less than one minute even with Mrs. Slowpoke taking such a long time. That’s when I noticed the girl on the sofa. She sat in shadow, her head bowed.
“Who is that?” I asked.
“None of your affair. You should go.”
I stepped closer.
“Have you hurt her?”
“Of course not. Anna is going to live with a Catholic family. Her parents think she will be safer there.”
“Dressed in such a way?” The girl wore a dark coat over a hand-knit sweater, black boots, and stockings, and her hair was tucked up under a black-and-red plaid scarf tied like a turban, puffed up on top. I was an expert on how Catholic girls dressed, of course, being one myself and, thanks to Matka, the first at mass every Sunday. That girl wouldn’t get far in those clothes.
“No Catholic girl would dress like that,” I said.
I turned to go.
“Would you take a moment and tell her what to wear?” the woman said.
“I don’t know—” I began. This woman was now nice to me when she needed something? I had problems of my own: carrying secret packages through the streets.
“It would mean a lot to her,” said the woman. “She’s all alone.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
I stepped closer to the girl and sat on the sofa beside her.
“I’m Kasia.” I put my hand over hers, which was even colder than mine. “Anna, what a beautiful name. Did you know it means ‘favored by God’?”
“Hannah is my real name,” she said without even a look at me.