orphanage. That they are lost is an immense tragedy, but think about the scale of this, Elz·bieta. There are maybe fifty thousand more children in that ghetto tonight. We could not save the two hundred, but there will be others, and every life we save is a life that counts. You need to come back to work tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” I said, sinking back into the pillow. “I’m sorry, Sara. I just can’t.”
“I know we ask a lot of you, and you are but a child yourself. I know it is too much, but when I think of what the children in the ghetto are being forced to endure... Well, when I consider that, I don’t feel guilty about the things we ask of you. Besides, you are within our circle of trust, and it is a very small circle—every part counts. And besides all of that?”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small note that was folded tightly. She reached for my hand and pressed it into my palm.
“Do you remember the Gorka children last week? The sick baby, the young boy?”
“The angry brother,” I said hesitantly, and she nodded. I shuddered, and tears filled my eyes. “Sara, I am not strong enough to keep doing this. I thought I was, but I was wrong. I can’t.”
Sara picked the note up out of my palm and unfolded it, then rested it back in my hands.
“The Gorka children are not lost. In fact, Matylda has found a foster mother for the baby—a woman who has lost a child of her own and who has milk and food and can help that tiny babe recover. But the only way that mother connects with that baby is if we continue to do our work.”
“You can facilitate that without me,” I whispered. “I don’t even help you with that side of things.”
“You will see, Elz·bieta. What you do is just as important as the work I do, and I cannot let you give up like this. I will see you tomorrow morning in the lobby.”
“No,” I protested, but she rose, kissed my forehead and murmured, “Darling, read the damned note,” and then she left.
I stared down at the paper in my hand. The words were written in a firm, blocky fashion; even the handwriting looked to be simmering with rage. Even so, there was no denying the immense humility it had taken him to write me, and I could sense genuine remorse in the words. I pictured his little sister, and I remembered how empty her gaze had been.
Empty like my brother’s eyes after his death.
I suddenly understood the rage I had seen in Roman Gorka. I thought about that young man, trapped within the ghetto walls all but doomed, and yet still committed enough to goodness to make amends. There was nothing he could do to help his family other than convince his parents to let their children go.
But there was something I could do. I could pull myself together and go back into that ghetto to teach his little brother the Catholic prayers. I climbed out of bed and went to have dinner with my family.
“Are you feeling better?” Mateusz asked, ruffling my hair as he moved to take his seat.
“I am,” I murmured.
“Should we make some dolls later?” Uncle Piotr asked cheerfully. I shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the dolls in the hands of those children.
“I’m still tired,” I forced myself to say. “I’ll have an early night.”
The dolls had been a pure idea—an innocent gesture to benefit innocent children. Even so, I knew I would never sit with my family to draw faces onto those figures again.
Maybe I could force myself to return to the ghetto, but I would have to learn how to stop bringing the ghetto home with me or I’d never survive.
* * *
I was always nervous to do house visits, but Sara insisted we call on the Gorka family on our way home the next day, to tell them the news about the placement she’d found for baby Eleonora.
“Thank you for coming back,” Maja said, offering us a shy smile as she let us into the apartment.
The last time we visited, the other families in the apartment had been occupied with tasks in the kitchen and courtyard. Today, there were people everywhere, and I was struck by the thought of all these people trying to live in this tiny space. An elderly woman sat on a cushion on the floor, watching as three children squabbled over