delight, then swapped the plate of cake for the box as I sat beside her. The box was surprisingly heavy, and I rattled it, trying to draw out the anticipation of what might be inside. I glanced at Sara and found her staring down at the cake, a look of glee in her eyes. She looked back at me, and we both laughed.
“Go on,” she said.
“You, too,” I said, nodding toward the cake.
Sara broke off a piece and popped it into her mouth, then moaned in sheer joy.
“Truda is a wonder,” she said, her eyes alight. “How did she manage this miracle?”
Having eaten two slices of the cake already, I knew it wasn’t all that extraordinary. It was dry and bland and, by prewar standards, barely deserved the title of cake at all. Even so, I understood the lengths Truda had gone to in order to make me a birthday cake, and I well appreciated how rare such a thing was. It had been a day of small miracles. Cake and cut flowers and candy and even a carnival ride, not to mention a calling from God.
“She has been skimming rations for a few weeks, plus...” I understood that a bond of trust between Sara and me existed only by circumstance. She had been forced to trust me the previous night and, as such, I now held her life in my hands. But if things were to progress as I planned, I now needed to demonstrate my trust in return. There was one obvious way to do so. Sara still thought that Truda and Mateusz were my real parents, but I had promised Mateusz that I would not betray that secret, and I intended to keep that promise. Instead, I had to share something else.
“Well, Uncle Piotr occasionally dabbles in the black market,” I said conspiratorially.
“Ah,” she said, but her tone was completely neutral. I scanned her face, expecting to see some kind of reaction, but instead, she pointed toward the gift. “Open it. I’m eager to see what you think.”
I opened the box and drew in a sharp breath as I recognized the objects inside. There was charcoal and oil pastels and pencils and not one but two notebooks—more brand-new art supplies than I’d seen in years. Such a thing would have been impossible to procure in Trzebinia.
“You remembered,” I whispered. I’d mentioned to Sara in passing that I loved to draw but that I hadn’t done so in some time. The truth was I hadn’t been able to bring myself to draw since Tomasz died. Drawing felt like the act of an innocent, childlike version of myself—a girl who had been lost forever with the last remaining member of my real family. But as I opened that gift from Sara, I knew immediately that I would not only use these precious items, I would relish using them. My fingers already itched to pick up the charcoal. “How did you do this?”
Sara gave me a wry smile.
“I, too, occasionally dabble in the black market.”
She set the plate down on her coffee table, and I leaped from my seat to hug her.
“Thank you,” I said, my throat feeling uncomfortably tight. I told myself that I must not cry, that the entire purpose of this visit was to convince Sara that I was adult enough to help her with her secret work. But in this kind gesture, I saw shades of my beloved Alina, who had always encouraged my artistic efforts, and I was almost overcome with relief and gratitude to find that someone in Warsaw finally understood me.
After a moment, though, I pulled myself together to start what I expected was going to be a difficult conversation. I extracted myself from her embrace, moved back to my chair and drew in a deep breath, but as I opened my mouth to ask her if I could help her, I lost my courage at the very last second. My gaze fell upon the half-eaten cake, and my tone was a little manic as I said, “Aren’t you going to finish that?”
Sara laughed and patted her belly.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t possibly. You should eat it for me so it doesn’t spoil.”
It was a lie, and an unconvincing lie at that—Sara was so selfless that she seemed determined to share even this rare treat. However, drawing attention to her lie would mean I would have nothing to talk about other than the thing I needed to talk about, and I was suddenly far