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FOURTEEN

LUKA

The daytime hours in the ghetto carry on as if they might never end, especially in the dead heat of summer.

By noon, I’m exhausted to the point of wondering whether I’ll make it back to our tenement.

Yet somehow, here I am.

The lights are out as some try to sleep.

Others lie awake all night.

Some never wake up at all.

The heat inside is worse than it is outside, even with the windows open.

The walls sweat along with the constant fog of heavy breaths that clings to every one of us.

It’s no wonder Grandmother can’t seem to get well.

Today might be like the longest day I’ve faced since arriving in the ghetto ten months ago.

All day beneath the grueling sun dragging loads of bodies through the streets, my mind spun around the conversation that Ella and I had last night in the tunnel.

I might have put too much pressure on her to find herbs for Grandmother.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

She promised not to leave Warsaw, but every crumb of bread is a challenge to find, and there’s no question in my mind that she would go to the ends of the earth to help.

It’s hard enough living with the fact that I can’t keep her safe from inside these walls.

I also know her life would be much easier without me, and it’s a hard concept to sit with.

Am I selfish for holding on to her?

The thought of her is the only thing that keeps me going here.

None of the four-hundred-thousand Jewish people imprisoned within these walls should have to fight for their lives.

The Germans have ensured this by making certain everything has been taken away from us.

But I do have a reason to fight.

With little space between any one of us, I sit here in silence between Mother and Grandmother, who are trying to sleep through the deafening symphony of sickness while I wait out the minutes until I can move again.

Mother is aware I leave every night, but by waiting until she’s asleep, it saves her from having to question where I’m going and when I’ll be back.

What matters is that I return with extra food for us.

I fear causing her extra worry, especially in her weak state.

She isn’t sick like Grandmother but she’s beyond pale, almost gray some days.

The skin on her face sags and her eyelids are heavier than I’ve ever seen them.

It’s as if her soul has left her body.

She’s living in agony, worrying about Grandmother’s health and wondering if Father and Grandfather are well.

I’m sure she’s imagining the worst, just as I am.

Grandmother doesn’t talk in her sleep, but she falls into a state of unconsciousness each night that often scares me.

Before leaving, I lean in closer to make sure I can hear her still breathing, for peace of mind.

We aren’t sure what she’s sick with, but I fear it’s something more than what can be cured.

She coughs so hard, there’s a rattle in her resting breaths, and she hardly moves when she is awake.

Watching her has caused me so much desperation—to the point of asking Ella for help, possibly endangering her.

God, I hope she’s safe and okay.

I stare over at Apollo to see if he’s ready to leave the building and head down to the tunnels, but one of his sisters is whimpering and he’s brushing his fingers through her hair, smiling and talking.

His mother is lying down with his other sister, doing the same, trying to assure them both that everything is okay.

The poor girls never leave this room.

Apollo tries to bring them home “treasures” every day, scraps from the factory that he bends into shapes.

He gives them parts of his portioned food and reads them stories, teaches them math and English.

He does all of this after working all day.

It’s as if he’s taken on the responsibility of being their father and he’s only twenty years old.

I don’t envy the additional amount of worry he carries on his shoulders.

He’s a better man than I.