“This way,” Halina says, and her parents follow her around the house to the back, where half a dozen graying shirts hang from a length of twine strung between two maples and where there is a small vegetable garden planted with peas, cabbage, and tomatoes.
Halina knocks twice at the back door. After a minute, Pan Górski’s face appears in the window, and a second later, the door opens. “Come,” he says, motioning for them to enter. They step quietly into the shadows of a den and Sol pulls the door closed behind them. The room is just how Halina remembers it—small, with low ceilings, a paisley armchair, a weathered sofa, a set of bookshelves on the far wall.
“You must be Pani Górski,” Halina says, smiling at the slender woman standing beside her husband. “I am Halina. This is my mother, Nechuma, and my father, Sol.” The woman nods quickly, her hands wrung together in a ball at her waist.
Halina looks from the Górskis to her parents. Despite their time in captivity, Sol and Nechuma have figures that are still ample, soft around the edges. They make the Górskis, with their narrow waists and protruding shoulder bones, look like skeletons.
Sol sets their satchel down and steps forward to offer his hand. “Thank you for this, Pani Górski,” he says. “You are very generous and brave to take us in. We will do everything we can not to bother you while we are here.” Pani Górski eyes Sol for a moment before lifting a hand, which Sol envelops in his. Be gentle, Halina prays, or you’ll break her bones.
“Madame,” Nechuma offers, also extending a hand, “do let us know what we can do to help around the house.”
“That’s kind of you,” Pan Górski says, glancing at his wife. “And please—call us by our given names, Albert and Marta.” Marta nods in agreement, but her jaw is tight. Something about the woman’s demeanor doesn’t sit well with Halina. She wonders what conversations the Górskis have had before their arrival.
“I should be getting back soon,” Halina says. She points to the bookshelf. “Could you explain to my parents how this works before I go?”
“Of course,” Albert says. Sol and Nechuma watch as Albert wraps his torso around the small case and slides it gently along the cedar-planked wall.
“It’s on wheels,” Sol notes. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Yes, you can’t see them, but they make moving it easier—and quieter.” Albert brings a hand to the wall. “The wall has eight planks from floor to ceiling. If you count up to the third, and press just here, by these two nails,” he says, running his fingers over a couple of iron nailheads flush to the wood, “you will hear a clicking sound.” Sol squints at the wall as Albert presses firmly against it. Sure enough, the wall clicks, and a small square door swings open. “I’ve aligned the hinge with the seam of the planks, so unless you know it’s here, the door is invisible.”
“Meticulous work,” Sol whispers, genuinely impressed, and Albert smiles, pleased.
“There are three stairs that lead to the crawl space. You won’t be able to stand,” Albert says as Sol and Nechuma crane their necks, peering into the black square behind the wall, “but we’ve laid down some blankets and left you a flashlight. It’s dark as night down there.” Sol swings the small door open and closed a few times. “This here,” Albert says, pointing to a metal latch, “will let you lock it from the inside.” He pushes the door closed until it clicks again, and then rolls the bookcase back into place. “Now, come,” Albert says, waving over his shoulder, “let me show you to your room.” Marta steps aside and brings up the rear as her husband leads the Kurcs down a short hallway to a bedroom just off the den.
“When it’s safe,” Albert says, “you can sleep here.” Sol and Nechuma take in the room, with its white stucco walls and two single beds. A rusted mirror hangs over a simple oak dresser. “We’ll let you know when we’re expecting visitors. Marta’s sister Ró?a, she comes by twice a week. Should someone arrive unannounced, we’ll delay them at the door to give you time to slip into the crawl space. You’ll need to bring all of your things, of course, so perhaps it’s best not to unpack.”
“You have a son?” Sol asks, eyeing a pair of boxing gloves in the corner.
Marta flinches.
“Yes. Zachariasz,” Albert says. “He’s joined the Home Army.”
“We haven’t heard from him in several months, though,” Marta adds quietly, looking at the floor. They make their way back to the den in silence.
Nechuma lays her hand on Marta’s shoulder. “We have three sons,” she says.
Marta looks up. “You do? Where—where are they?”
“One,” Nechuma explains, “last we heard, works at a factory outside Radom. But the other two we haven’t heard from since, well, the start of the war, really. One was taken by the Russians, and our middle son was in France when the war broke out. Now, we don’t know . . .”
Marta shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “It’s awful, not knowing where they are, whether they’re okay.”
Nechuma nods and something passes between the two women that eases Halina’s heart.
Albert returns to his wife’s side, rests his hand on the small of her back. “Soon,” he declares, his voice suddenly grim, “this godforsaken war will be over. And we can all go back to life as normal.”
The Kurcs nod, praying that there is truth to his words.
“I really must go,” Halina says, fishing an envelope with 200 zloty from her purse and handing it to Albert. “I’ll be back in a month. You have my address; please, should anything happen,” she says, avoiding eye contact with her parents, “write to me right away.”
“Certainly,” Albert says. “We’ll see you next month. Be safe.” The Górskis leave the den to give the Kurcs some privacy.
When they are alone, Sol smiles at Halina, and then at the room around him, his palms turned up to the ceiling. “You care for us well,” he says. Crow’s-feet flank his eyes, and Halina’s heart emanates longing for her father, for his smile that she will miss the moment she walks out the door. She reaches for him, presses her cheek into the soft barrel of his chest.
“Good-bye, Father,” she whispers, cherishing the feeling of being wrapped up in his warmth and hoping he won’t be the first to let go.
“Take care of yourself,” Sol says as they part, handing her the keys to the Fiat.
With the green of her eyes amplified behind a wall of tears, Halina turns to her mother, thankful the room is dark—she promised herself she wouldn’t cry. Be strong, she reminds herself. They are safe here. You’ll see them in a month. “Good-bye, Mother,” she says. They hug and exchange kisses on the cheek, and Halina can tell from the way her mother’s chest rises and falls that Nechuma is doing her best to hold back tears, too.
Halina leaves her parents standing by the trick bookcase and walks to the door. “I’ll be back in September,” she says, with a hand on the knob. “I’ll try to bring some news.”
“Please do,” Sol says, taking Nechuma’s hand in his.
If her parents are as nervous as she about her leaving, they’ve done a good job of masking it. She opens the door and squints into the afternoon light, half expecting to catch someone spying on them from behind one of Albert’s laundered shirts. She steps outside and turns to look back at her parents. Their faces are obscured by the shadows. “I love you,” she says to their silhouettes, and closes the door behind her.
AUGUST 17–18, 1942: Radom’s larger Wa?owa ghetto is liquidated. Eight hundred residents, including those from the shelter for the old and disabled as well as patients at the ghetto’s hospital, are murdered over the course of two days. Approximately 18,000 others are deported by train to Treblinka. Some 3,000 young, skilled Jewish workers remain in Radom for forced labor.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Genek and Herta
Tehran, Persia ~ August 20, 1942