were already off, down the cobblestones toward Nadia’s mother’s apartment.
Pietrik had made his choice.
I headed for the tunnel, which ran under the ancient Cracow Gate, a soaring brick tower with a bell-shaped spire, my favorite Lublin landmark, once the only entrance to the whole city. The bombs had cracked the tower down the side, but it was still standing.
My math teacher, Mrs. Mikelsky, and her husband, who lived close to me, cycled past, headed in the opposite direction. A very pregnant Mrs. Mikelsky turned as she rode.
“Your mother is frantic looking for you, Kasia,” she said.
“Where are you going?” I called after them.
“To my sister’s,” Mr. Mikelsky shouted back.
“Get home to your mother!” Mrs. Mikelsky shouted over her shoulder.
They cycled on, disappeared into the crowd, and I continued toward home.
Please, God, let Matka be unhurt.
Once I arrived at our block, every cell in my body tingled with relief to see that our pink sliver of a building still stood. The house across the street had not been so lucky. It was razed to rubble, now just a mess of concrete, plaster walls, and twisted iron beds strewn across our road. I scrambled over the wreckage and, as I drew closer, saw one of Matka’s curtains blow gently out the window in the breeze. That’s when I realized every one of our windows had been blown out by the bombs, blackout paper and all.
There was no need to fetch the apartment key from behind the loose brick, for the door was wide open. I found Matka and Zuzanna in the kitchen near Matka’s drawing table, gathering fallen paintbrushes scattered about the floor, the smell of spilled turpentine in the air. Psina, our pet chicken, followed behind them. Thank heavens Psina was not hurt, for she was more like our family dog than a hen.
“Where have you been?” Matka said, her face white as the drawing paper in her hand.
“Up at Deer Meadow,” I said. “It was Pietrik’s id—”
Zuzanna stood, holding a pile of glass shards in a cup, her white doctor’s coat gray with ash. It had taken her six long years to earn that coat. Her suitcase stood next to the door. No doubt she’d been packing to go live at the hospital for her pediatric residency when the bombs had dropped.
“How could you be so stupid?” Zuzanna said.
“Where’s Papa?” I said as the two came and brushed bits of concrete from my hair.
“He went looking for you,” Matka said, about to dissolve into tears.
“He’s probably at the postal center,” Zuzanna said. “I’ll go find him.”
“Don’t go,” I said. “What if the planes come again?” An electric eel of fear punctured my chest. Those poor women lying in the field…
“I’m going,” Zuzanna said. “I’ll be back.”
“Let me come too,” I said. “They’ll need me at the clinic.”
“Why do you do such stupid things? Papa’s gone because of you.” Zuzanna slipped her sweater on and stepped toward the door. “They don’t need you at the clinic. All you do is roll bandages anyway. Stay here.”
“Don’t go,” Matka said, but Zuzanna rushed out, always strong, like Papa.
Matka went to the window and bent to pick up shards of glass but gave up because her hands were shaking so badly and came back to me. She smoothed my hair, kissed my forehead, and then held me tight, saying, Ja cię kocham, over and over like a skipping record.
I love you.
—
MATKA AND I SLEPT in her bed that night, both with one eye open, waiting for Papa and Zuzanna to walk in. Psina, more dog than fowl, slept at the foot of our bed, her head tucked beneath one downy wing. She woke with a squawk when Papa did come home, well before dawn. He stood in the bedroom doorway, his tweed jacket powdered with ash. Papa always had a sad face, like that of a bloodhound. Even in his baby pictures, those creases and folds of skin hung down. But that night the light from the kitchen cast a shadow on his face, making him look sadder still.
Matka sat up in bed. “Ade?” She threw back the blanket and ran to him, their silhouettes dark against the light from the kitchen. “Where’s Zuzanna?”
“I haven’t seen her,” Papa said. “When I couldn’t find Kasia, I went to the postal center and took my files outside to burn. Information the Germans will want. Names and addresses. Military lists. They’ve occupied the postal center in Warsaw