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ONE

ELLA

May 1940

Warsaw, Poland

My fingers tighten around the handlebars of my bicycle as I pass through the quiet, narrow and winding roads along the desolate outskirts of Leszno Street in Warsaw’s Jewish quarter.

The vacant shops, shattered windows, and scattered rubbish cry of an abandoned district, but that isn’t the case.

German soldiers lurk everywhere in Poland now, and have done since last September when the Wehrmacht, Germany’s unified armed forces invaded our country.

However, their presence is much greater in the Jewish districts as their demand for relentless control grows by the day.

It’s hard to tell if the residents are locked inside, hiding, or if they’ve left Warsaw altogether.

I try not to fear the soldiers, but they lurk in inconspicuous places just to stir up paranoia, then emerge like dark creatures from a nightmare to demand proof of identification.

Being nineteen and the daughter of a Polish Catholic grocer, I spend most of my time working at our family store.

The little free time I have hasn’t allowed me to visit this district since segregation laws, ration cuts, and curfews closed in on our city.

However, working in the grocery as endless lines of customers come and go, I overhear whispered accounts of life there…

the public beatings and arrests for something as minor as questioning a German soldier.

Still, nothing compares to seeing it up close.

These streets were once bustling with life—horse-drawn wagons, bookshops, and street vendors selling newspapers and fresh produce.

Now, the streets are nearly vacant.

Even the air is stale, not a hint of baked goods or fresh flowers, scents that once cloaked the district with a friendly warm welcoming.

It’s a different city within our city.

These people—they are us .

We’re all Poles. Yet, in the eyes of the Wehrmacht, it’s the Jewish people they despise most of all.

I came down here at my father’s request, delivering a wrapped bundle of bread to a Jewish woman—a former neighbor and friend of my parents.

He said she’s been unwell, but when she opened the door, her gaunt figure and drooping eyes spoke more of hunger than illness.

All of Warsaw is suffering from food shortages, but the Jewish population survives on half of the rations we do.

The surrounding desolation yanks at my heart as I veer toward the main road, but a nearby spark of commotion distracts me from my direction.

I clutch the handbrake of my bicycle and lower my feet to the ground, listening for where the noise is coming from.

A melody floats around the corner, carried by a soulful voice singing an uplifting tune.

I haven’t heard anyone singing on the streets anywhere in Warsaw in a very long time.

Curiosity gets the best of me as I take a turn down a side street, the squeaky gears of my bicycle echoing between building walls.

I peek around the corner before entering the square, finding a gathering of people.

“Please, do you have any food to spare?” The question breaks through the music, startling me.

I hadn’t noticed the old woman before, her black scarf draped over her head and knotted beneath her chin.

She’s sitting on the ground with her back against the building, studying me carefully.

Her eyes beg louder than her words, and my heart breaks when I realize I have nothing left to give her.

“I’m so sorry,” I utter, my throat tightening as I continue forward into the square.

I should do something.

There must be something.

The swift change between the sight of what must be someone’s starving grandmother, and a slew of whistles zinging through the air makes me dizzy.

I move toward the crowd of people and settle within a nook alongside a building.

An elderly couple pass, the husband in something of a tizzy.

“That boy is asking for trouble. All the folks listening, too. The last thing we need around here is a gathering.”

“It’s just a song,” the wife argues.

“Well, it won’t be long before we’ll be forbidden from singing, too,” the husband states, ending the argument.

I haven’t heard of public gatherings being a crime, but the rules are different in the Jewish district.

For a short moment, a flicker of disappointment sets in, assuming I’ve missed the beautiful performance, but when the cheers fade into silence, a beautiful harmony ascends and spirals around me, sending a chill down my spine.

How can I not start to sigh?

I’m wondering, wondering why

the world is feeling unkind.

but soon I know we will find

Our way back to smiles and love.

The sun will shine brightly above.

And once again we will be,

who we once were, we’ll be free.

His voice—so pure, smooth, and flawless.

It’s as if he’s singing from his soul.

His voice pulses through me like flickering sparks, drawing a smile along my lips, and tears from my eyes.

The crowd shifts, offering a peephole view of the man they’re surrounding.

He’s young, younger than the sound of his voice, but maybe older than me.

He’s smiling, too—it’s contagious.

No one smiles anymore, but here…

they are.

“Look at them,” a man mutters in German, nudging his counterpart.

The second man lets out a snort.

“These people can’t figure out when to be quiet.”

“We should remind him,” the first man says, tapping his fingers against his holster.

I peer to my left at the two, watching the evil glimmer in the soldiers’ eyes.

They both laugh as if killing innocent people is a joke.

Still watching them in disbelief, I notice one reach for the whistle dangling from his neck.

My heart pounds and heat writhes through me as I rebalance my weight on my bike and push forward to leave the nook.

I head straight for the crowd.

“Pardon me,” I say again and again, warning people I’m coming through.

Shrill whistles cut through the air as German commands ring loudly in the square.

The cobblestones scrape beneath my bicycle tires as I skid my feet against the rubble, stopping my bike from rolling into the man who was performing and his flat-top hat sitting by his feet, filled with one-cent coins.

Fist fights are breaking out behind me and to the sides, everyone stumbling to escape but caught between too many others as the German soldiers move in closer, enforcing terror.

“All Jews, stay where you are!” a soldier hollers.

The singer wears a black overcoat, unbuttoned over a white dress shirt, dark pants, and worn black boots.

His white armband donning the Star of David, stands in stark contrast against the dark fabric.

They’re all branded this way.

My heart pounds as I glance around, caught between fear and instinct.

I shouldn’t even be considering what I can do to help…

I don’t have anything to offer anyone.

But his voice—the raw hope it carries, compels me.

Before I can stop myself, I drop my bike and hop to the side.

Why am I doing this?

The thought echoes through me as I run toward the singer.

“Run,” I whisper. He hesitates for a split-second, and in that second, our gazes meet.

His hooded eyes, hazel, flecked with a hint of blue, and fringed with dark lashes, steal my ragged breath.

Our shared look, fierce with disbelief, speaks through our silent exchange.

“Did you hear me?” My words come out in a hiss as I grab his armband, tear it from his sleeve, snatch up his hat full of coins and shove both against his chest. “Go!”

I whip my head around, searching in every direction for who might have witnessed my defiant act, but with everyone scampering away, I don’t think anyone was focused on us.

Us? What has gotten into me?

Our eyes meet for one more fleeting moment, carrying an inexplicable draw to him, and a need to prove humanity still exists among us.

Finally, he takes off running, weaving through the others.

The whistles grow louder, and I grab my bike’s handlebars and jump back on, turning in a circle along the stone to leave the inlet.

“You there, halt!” a soldier shouts, pointing at the singer.

Keep running , I want to shout out to him.

I pick up speed on my bike and ride through the dispersing commotion, wondering why anyone would stay and do as they were commanded while others have fled to hide.

The whistles blow again, louder and piercing.

“Jews, line up!”

Are they really going to punish these people for simply standing together in the square?

Both soldiers have assault rifles clutched in their grips and my veins flood with cold as my heart races with anger.

As I approach the space between the soldiers and the group of quivering Jewish people, I deliberately let my front tire catch on a cobblestone divot and tumble off my bike.

The action is jarring, but it works.

I crash hard onto the street.

Pain fires through my ankle, sharp and stinging, but I don’t let myself stop to think about it.

My purse spills out of the basket, scattering its contents across the ground.

I cry out and clutch my ankle, the pitch of my voice drawing the attention of the German soldiers who walk toward me, their faces expressionless.

With a sideways glance, I spot the Jewish people slipping away, their desperate movements hidden by the growing commotion.

Relief consumes me, but it’s quickly replaced by the weight of what I’ve just done.

I’m shaking, not from the pain, but from realizing I’ve just acted out in a form of resistance.

“You shouldn’t be here,” one of the soldiers says to me, his voice gruff as he hauls me to my feet.

I don’t wear a white armband with the Star of David because I’m not Jewish, and my blonde hair and blue eyes make it easy for others to mistake my Polish heritage.

At times, it seems I can move along more freely than most, but there’s no mistaking the vitriol these German soldiers have for all Poles.

Everything inside of me wants to fight back, to tell them they’re nothing but scoundrels with weapons.

I should have the right to be wherever I choose.

So should the Jewish people of this city.

This is our home.

“I—I got lost,” I stutter and reach for my hurt ankle, trying to sound more pitiful.

“All that whistling—well, it startled me.”

“Is that right? You’re lost?” one of them asks as the others share a laugh.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I question whether they’ll accept my lie.

And what will happen if they don’t…