THE NEXT MORNING I departed for Nadia’s house, a fine apartment on the first floor of a two-story building, a five-minute walk from our place. I wanted to do a good job on my first mission for Pietrik.
On the way I stopped at the stone wall next to her house where we left secret notes and our favorite books for each other. I pulled our special square stone out, smooth, edges rounded from so many years of ins and outs. The last book I’d left was still there, Kornel Makuszynski’s Satan from the Seventh Grade, our favorite book we’d passed back and forth so many times. Would she have a chance to take it? I left it and slid the stone back in place.
I continued on without the least bit of nerves, until I came to Nadia’s house, that is. Once I saw her orange door, my knees became quaky. Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
I stepped around back to the little fenced-in yard, peeked through the slats, and saw Felka curled up on the back step. I could clearly see her ribs, even through her thick fur. Nadia’s yard was even smaller than ours, a sickly rosebush and a rusted child’s wagon the only ornaments.
I had a time of it getting over the fence and then walked slowly to Felka. Was she waiting for Nadia? I stroked her chest, and at my touch she tried to wag her tail, though she could barely lift her head. She was warm, but her breath was coming in shallow pants. Poor girl was starving.
I stepped over Felka, swung the back door open, and crept into the kitchen.
From the looks of the apple kugel on the table, it had been at least a week since Nadia and her mother left. The milk in their glasses was thick, and the flies had found the plums. I walked through the kitchen to Nadia’s bedroom. Her bed was made, as always.
I stole through the rest of the house and into Nadia’s mother’s bedroom. In this room there was little sign of departure, hasty or otherwise. A white-painted iron bed, covered in a down duvet, took up most of the room, and a crocheted blanket lay at the foot. There was a depression in the down where a suitcase had been, and a Polish copy of Gone with the Wind waited on the bedside table. Two tapestries showing country scenes, a small crucifix, and a calendar hung on the wall. The calendar showed a smart-looking woman standing in front of a locomotive, a bunch of yellow flowers in her arms, with GERMANY WANTS TO SEE YOU printed across the top. It also featured the name of Mrs. Watroba’s travel agency: WATROBA TRAVEL. LET US TAKE YOU THERE.
I opened the bedside table drawer, found the phone book, and paged through it to find the fat envelope. It was sealed, with the word Zegota written on the front in a spidery hand, the color of money faintly visible through the paper. I took the book, pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed, and retraced my steps back through the kitchen, where I grabbed a loaf of shiny, braided egg bread from the table. It was rock hard, but any bread was precious.
I reached the backyard and struggled Felka into the wagon. She barely made a peep, poor girl. I set the phone book next to her, smoothed the blanket over it all, and trundled off toward Lipowa Street, taking side streets to avoid Nazi guards. When we were almost there, we picked up speed, and the wagon bounced over the cobblestones.
“What have we here?”
An SS brownshirt stepped out of an alley and startled me no end. I saw a girl from my gimnazjum class standing behind him, but she retreated into the shadows. I almost fell over, my knees jellied so.
“Just heading home,” I said in German. Thank goodness I knew German, since all conversation in the Polish language had been banned.
“Ah, German, are we?” He lifted the blanket with his nightstick.
“No, Polish.”
The officer ignored me and walked around for a closer look at the wagon.
“What is this? A dead dog?”
I could barely hear him. My heart was thumping so loud in my ears. “Just sick. I hope it’s not catching.”
The guard dropped the blanket. “Move along,” he said. “Get that sick animal home.” He disappeared back into the alley.
By the time I arrived at the office on Lipowa Street, I was