Bella squints at the barracks, which appear to be some thirty meters away. Beyond is a fence, a wall of chain link and barbed wire surrounding the property, and on the other side of that, their target—a field of overgrown wheat.
“We’re going to have to run,” Jakob whispers. “And hope that no one sees us.” He peers cautiously around the corner of the washroom facility toward the backside of the factory, narrating what he sees: the tail end of a line of people stretching around the building from its entrance; three guards bringing up the rear, motioning for the last few workers to join the back of the line. After a few long minutes, Jakob reaches behind him and takes Bella’s hand. “They’re gone,” he says. “Quick. Let’s go!”
Bella is jerked forward and soon they are kicking up dust as they sprint toward the barracks, their backs now to the factory. Within seconds Bella’s lungs begin to scream, but she is aware only of holding tight to Jakob’s hand, and of the temptation to turn and look back as she runs, to see if anyone has spotted them—but she fears that if she does she might panic and stop dead in her tracks. Thirty meters shrink to twenty, then ten, then five, and then their pace slows as they duck behind the men’s barracks, pressing their backs up against the weathered wood, sucking fistfuls of air into their burning lungs. Bella leans over and rests her hands on her knees, feeling her heart thrashing in her chest. The run has nearly put her over the edge, but it has also stirred something in her. For the moment at least, it has brought her back into her body.
They breathe as quietly as they can despite the exertion, listening intently for footsteps, shouts, the crack of a rifle. Nothing. Jakob waits a full minute and then nudges his nose around the corner. No one, it seems, has seen them.
“Come,” Jakob says, and they make their way, out of sight now, toward the fence. When they reach it, Jakob kneels and works quickly with the wire cutters, his forehead damp as he clips away methodically at the steel until he’s cut a hole large enough for them to fit through. “You first, love,” he says, lifting the flap of fence. Bella crawls on her stomach through the opening; Jakob passes her the suitcase and then follows, bending the chain link back down behind them as best he can. “Stay low,” he says.
They scramble to the meadow, where they drop to hands and knees and crawl, their bodies enveloped in stalks of overripe wheat that sway beside them as they edge away from the freshly lacerated fence, from the factory and the cattle cars filling up with the men and women who the night before had slept by their sides. On all fours, Bella is reminded for a moment of the morning she’d crawled across a meadow to reach Lvov at the start of the war. There was so much at stake, it had seemed, at the time—so many unknowns. But at least then, she’d had a sister. She’d had her parents.
After a few minutes she and Jakob pause, standing on their knees so they can peer through the tips of the grass toward the factory. They’ve traveled quite a distance—AVL appears small, like a beige brick on the horizon.
“I think we’re safe here,” Jakob says. He pats at the stalks around them, creating a lair of sorts so they can stretch out. The wheatgrass is tall; they can sit up with their heads still obscured. Bella, sticky with sweat, spreads her coat on the ground and climbs on top. Jakob glances again toward the factory. “We should wait until dark before we press on.” Bella nods and Jakob scoots to sit beside her, reaching into his pocket for a half a boiled potato. “Saved this from last night,” he says, unfolding his handkerchief.
Bella isn’t hungry. She shakes her head and pulls her shins to her chest, rests her cheek on a knee. Beside her, Jakob frowns, bites his lip. They haven’t spoken about what happened the night before at Glinice. What’s there to say? Bella has thought about trying to open up, to explain what it feels like to lose a mother, a father, a sister—her whole family—what it feels like to wonder how different things would be had she and Anna been in hiding together during the pogroms in Lvov, and had she convinced her parents to come to AVL. The factory, like the ghetto, will soon be liquidated, but if her parents had taken jobs at AVL, at least they could have tried to escape together. Bella can’t bring herself to talk about these things, though. Her grief is larger than words.
Around them the wheat whispers and sways in the breeze. Jakob wraps an arm around Bella’s shoulders. As she closes her eyes, tears gather in her lashes. They sit in silence, the minutes stretching into hours, with nothing to do but wait as the amber light of the afternoon fades to dark.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Halina
Countryside near Radom, German-Occupied Poland ~ August 15, 1942
Her father hums as he drives, tapping his thumbs on the wooden steering wheel of the tiny black Fiat. Behind him, Halina and Nechuma sit close, their arms linked at the elbow. Thankfully, their old friends and neighbors the Sobczaks had come through for them again, and were willing to lend their car for the journey. Halina had considered traveling with her parents from Radom to Wilanów by train, but worried that they would have to cross too many checkpoints at the stations. The car, Halina hoped, would be the safer bet, even though it would mean scrounging for fuel, which was expensive and nearly impossible to come by. Halina had promised to refill the Fiat’s tank upon returning it to the Sobczaks, and had insisted that Liliana hold on to the silver bowl and ladle Nechuma had left with them before they were evicted, in exchange for the loan.
From the backseat, Halina watches as her father takes in the scenery—the cerulean sky, the verdant countryside, the sun’s brilliant reflection on the winding Vistula River. She had offered to drive, but Sol insisted. “No, no. Let me,” he said, nodding as if it were his obligation, but in truth she knew he’d love nothing more than the chance to take the wheel. For fourteen months, he and Nechuma have lived in a world confined by brick walls and barbed wire, by blue-starred armbands, by the tedium and fatigue of forced labor. Halina smiles, knowing how good they must feel out here, on the open road. Together, they drink in the fleeting smell of freedom, sweet and ripe like the scent of the linden tree flowers washing over them through the open window.
Nechuma has just finished describing what it was like to live and work at the Pionki arms factory. “We felt so old there,” she says. “The others were practically children. You should have heard the gossip—I’ve fallen in love . . . she isn’t even pretty . . . he hasn’t spoken to me in days—the jealousy, the drama; I had forgotten how exhausting it was to be that young. Although,” she confides, lowering her voice and leaning into Halina, “sometimes it was quite entertaining.”