Whenever she came to a new town she searched for a bakery that was open, in the hope they would throw out baguettes no longer fit to be sold, whether they were moldy or stale made no difference to her. She slept in barns, and looked for chicken houses where she could steal eggs. On a few occasions she had given up a kiss or two in exchange for dinner, but not more than that. Her French was decent, although she was quiet and kept to herself. She had not left for America, as she had planned. She had other plans now.
For a while she had worked as a laundress in a small hotel, fleeing when her employer began to come at night to her door, which she kept bolted at all times. When he tried to attack her in a hallway, she immediately left and stumbled upon the café, where she worked in exchange for shelter and a meal taken at midday. She slept on a cot that had only a thin blanket, no sheets or pillow, but it didn’t matter. Only her body was curled up there; her spirit was elsewhere. As soon as she closed her eyes she was in the tall grass with her sister. After a while she didn’t even have to close her eyes. She could be in two places at once at all times, both inside and outside of her body. She was with her sister while she was waiting on customers or washing dishes, out in the field in a haze of pollen, but in her fantasies no shots rang out and they ducked into the woods together, through the dark pools of shadow. The past was simply where she lived now, crossing over from one world to the other with such ease it was becoming more difficult to remain in the here and now. Sometimes she felt the heat of her sister’s body next to hers. She felt her heart beating, her whispered voice. Once she thought a young woman who walked into the café was Marta, she had the same lively dark hair and slight figure. She’d grabbed the stranger’s hand, wildly, without thinking twice. The woman had pulled away from her, startled, and Ettie had stuttered an apology. There was no Marta, she knew that, and when her shift was over she went out behind the café and wept, then returned to splash water on her face and went back to work. She could not afford to let her emotions get the best of her.
After her sister’s death, Ettie had torn her clothes, but she hadn’t upheld the traditional mourning period of shiva, which lasts for seven days. She hadn’t wanted prayers or consolation. In the time after a loved one’s passing, mourners must not bathe or brush their hair or wear leather shoes, they must cover mirrors so as not to look at their appearance, for their own needs do not matter, and their grief is all-consuming. But Ettie’s grief had turned white-hot, burning inside of her. She wished to do more than mourn. She remembered the story of Esther, who had been called the Morning Star by her people, the Jewish queen who had lived in exile in Persia and used her beauty to beguile a king, disguising her brilliant mind, causing the king to save her people and her nation. Clearly, a woman could engage in battle. That was when her plan came into focus.
Ettie had heard rumors of underground groups that rescued foreign Jews, young people, and children and fought against the Germans, creating as much chaos as possible, destroying roads and train tracks with homemade bombs made of cheap ingredients, match heads, gunpowder, old nails and tacks, as they did their best to remove the most evil players among the Nazis stationed in their cities and towns. To prove that she, too, was ready to take radical action, Ettie challenged herself. There were days when she didn’t eat or drink, merely to toughen herself, and when she had time she often did push-ups of the sort her little brothers used to do, to keep her body in shape. One evening she took a sharp knife from the kitchen. In the shed where she slept, she cut an M into her arm in memory of her sister so that she would always remember what she was fighting for. In her faith she was never to cut herself, not in service of an idol or in