Page 6

FIVE

LUKA

Jak’s mother was the person knocking on our door the other night, wanting to thank us for finding her son’s stuffed bear.

But these days, every knock we hear, letter we receive, and shout echoing from outside the window is a deadly threat.

We can deny our fear, but it’s been laced into our lives for so long that it’s tainted the blood running through our veins.

We had been sure there was a soldier waiting at our door with a rifle…

Now, the walls are closing in as we prepare to say goodbye to Father and Grandfather.

I’ve been in something of a trance for the last few days, suffering with the turmoil of guilt and worry over them leaving us rather than me going with them.

The letter says they’re being sent to forced labor but in truth, that could mean anything.

My name was left off that letter, for a reason I still can’t understand.

Despite the number of times I’ve asked Mother if she has any other ideas as to why I was left off the list, she will not bat an eyelid, reciting the same excuse about factory experience.

The soldiers don’t care about former work experience when it comes to forced labor.

They want working bodies, and my body works just fine.

If I could go in place of one or both, I would without a second thought.

I’m supposed to protect Mother and Grandmother here at home, but what about Father and Grandfather?

Instead, I’m standing in the doorway of my bedroom, watching them gather their belongings, shoving what they can into battered brown suitcases with lock clasps that need repair and handles covered in torn leather and loose seams.

Mother stands between the kitchen and dining table, squeezing her hands together atop her apron with a handkerchief dangling from her pinched fingers.

She hasn’t said much in the last couple of days, but her quiet is a sign of grief and one that pains us all.

Grandmother is pacing back and forth from the bedroom she shares with Grandfather, bringing out additional belongings with each return.

“You must take this—you need it more than me.” She places her balled-up fist into his, concealing whatever it is she’s giving him.

But he isn’t questioning a thing.

The tears in his eyes say so.

“It’s time,” Father says, tapping his palm against his suitcase.

He gives Mother a kiss and a tight embrace as I step toward them.

I must be strong, for him, for Mother and Grandmother and Grandfather.

It’s up to me to be that person for them now.

“Father, I promise to watch over everything here. You have nothing to worry about while you’re away,” I say, my voice stern and deep to conceal the pain splintering through my heart.

He places his hand behind the back of my head and squeezes, staring me in the eyes with resolve and trust. “I know, son. I know.” He kisses me on the forehead and pulls me in for a hug.

“I’ll miss you, my boy.”

I swallow my response; afraid it won’t come out in just words.

I shake my head instead, knowing it’s not a proper response.

There’s more to say.

But I can’t.

The goodbyes carry on, the distress growing as Mother and Grandmother pull away and stand back by the dining table, both with their hands pressed to their hearts.

I follow Father and Grandfather out the door as they make their way down the stairs.

I pause at the window in the corridor, waiting as they walk towards a truck surrounded by soldiers.

One of the men tears the suitcases out of Father and Grandfather’s hands.

“Geh jetzt!” a soldier shouts, telling them to move faster.

They duck their heads while climbing into the vehicle and the door closes.

Their luggage is tossed into the back and—that’s it.

I can’t move or do anything—I can only stare.

My heart sinks, falling heavily into the pit of my stomach.

We’re still breathing, I remind myself .

We have no choice but to be strong—stronger now than before.

The gathering of people in the square is larger than usual but more people are hesitating to stick around.

I’m used to people coming and going, fear of our surroundings getting the best of them.

We’re all doing what we must to get by, and for me…

this is surviving. “You don’t want to be doing this—making a scene,” says a man with two coiled curls hanging down the sides of his eyes.

“They’re everywhere. Get yourself home and be safe, young man.”

I give him a nod out of respect and wait for him to leave the area before making it clear I’m choosing to continue.

The real dread is noticing how few men I see walking around.

They’re all being taken.

Any of these women might have had their husbands, brothers, or sons taken from them this morning, too.

There are still some men here in the crowd but, like me, I’m sure their time will come when they disappear, too.

“Sing!” someone shouts, breaking through the blur of my thoughts.

“Sing!” another voice follows.

My heart aches too much to sing with this morning’s goodbyes still fresh in my mind.

Mother’s tears and Grandmother’s attempt to show strength despite all she has already lived through, gnaws at my stomach.

And Father’s voice as he told me he’ll miss me…

Everything hurts and no matter how many last words we shared, none of them convey the immeasurable distance between us.

Despite it all, I take in the view of the sky and let the melody form deep within my throat, my voice trembling as I attempt to shut out the world around me.

The sky is dark and gray

but behind the clouds, it’s blue.

When I return to the present moment following the chorus, my heart leaps into my throat as I spot her figure glowing in the murky light, her face a golden ray of light amid the gray flock of spectators.

She isn’t smiling, but her gaze draws me in, holding me still within this dreamlike moment where the notes of my song float through the air between us.

My savior…

Lovely days will come

soon for me and you.

Keep me in your dreams,

And I’ll come to you each night.

Hold me in your arms

Until the morning light

The words of the song fade away and I stumble forward, reaching to grasp her hand, my heart pounding in my chest. “What is your name?” I press with determination, making sure I don’t miss the opportunity to ask again.

Her cheeks blush and she touches her fingers to them, smiling shyly.

“It was too late when I realized we didn’t exchange—I’m Ella Bosko,” she says, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m Luka Dulski, and—and I can’t believe you’re here.”

She peers up at the sky for a short second then shakes her head.

“Boy, you’re really taking this humble act a little too far…” Her gaze floats back to mine with a look of intent.

“I wanted to hear you sing again,” she admits, her eyes falling to my watch.

It’s around the time when the German soldiers will be making their rounds.

“Sing,” she whispers.

“You just took my breath away… Now, I can’t sing.”

“Oh, but you must. Please, do sing!” a gruff voice thunders over mine.

“Entertain us, Jewish singer!” A soldier—he must have been standing here this whole time.

“I—I think I’m done,” I say, pulling Ella in behind me.

“No, don’t stop on account of me. Everyone wants to hear you. It’s clear, yes? You’ve even captured the attention of a non-Jewish woman.” He tsks his tongue at me.

“We can’t have that here. Shame, shame.”

“She’s a friend,” I argue, nearly choking on my words as this soldier stares at me like I’m his next meal.

“You shouldn’t be hanging around these dirty Jews…friend,” he says to Ella.

I reach down and grab my cap full of coins as the gathering disperses behind the soldier who’s holding his hard stare over me.

“They aren’t—” Ella replies.

But I cut her off, speaking over her.

“Good night to you,” I say, leading us away from the soldier.

My pulse races and my breaths are short the faster I walk and pull Ella alongside.

The soldier laughs from behind us.

“Good night to you,” he says, mocking me in a feminine tone.

“I’m so sorry. It’s not safe for you here, clearly.”

“It’s not safe anywhere in this city,” she says.

“But at least I have a good reason for being here.”

“I’m not sure I’m much of a good reason.” I peer over my shoulder, making sure we’re not being followed.

He’s out of sight, thankfully.

“I came to see if you were singing last night and the night before,” she says, making her statement sound more like an embarrassing confession.

“I got to thinking you’ll probably become famous someday and I’d have to wait until then to learn your name.”

“That would be a very long time,” I reply, trying not to let my own smile betray me.

“You never know,” she adds.

Her optimism makes me wonder if she’s aware of the type of life we’re living in the Jewish neighborhoods.

It’s become a stark contrast to any other district in Warsaw.

We pass by closed shops owned by Jewish people with propaganda posters depicting us as hideous creatures.

Ella’s pace slows and her face contorts with disgust as we move past each demoralizing display.

As if she can’t take much more, she comes to a sudden stop as we approach a storefront window with crude remarks etched in shaving cream.

Ella’s forehead crinkles and her bottom lip falls with what must be shock.

“It’s a lot. Are you sure you want to be here?”

Her blonde eyebrows furrow over her small, freckled nose and she nods insistently.

“Yes, I want to understand what you, all of you, are living through here. Everyone should be aware.”

My heart swells with appreciation and sorrow.

It’s easy to avoid this reality, but this girl—this beautiful girl wants to understand more, despite the danger surrounding us.

With a stiff breath, I take her hand in mine.

In a normal world that doesn’t run out of free minutes, I wouldn’t be so forward, but there’s something about her that I need to hold on to.

“I’m not going to run off,” she says, glancing down at our hands.

I let go, worried I’ve moved too fast too soon, but she reaches back for my hand.

“I didn’t mean you should let go. I meant I wouldn’t run, in case that’s why you were holding on.”

“You’re something else,” I tell her, peering over at her confident smile.

“And you—you and your voice have brought the only semblance of beauty left in this desolate city…but?—”

“But?” I echo.

“You sounded different tonight. It was like someone broke your heart, maybe.” Her words spark a pain in my chest. I didn’t realize my grief was so obvious.

“I’m being far too nosy. I should—I should try harder to keep some thoughts to myself.” She shakes her head and presses her hand to her lips.

“I’m impressed by your ability to hear emotions within music.”

“I’ve never been able to before I don’t think, not before listening to you.”

I want to tell her I’m unsure how much longer I can keep this up—performing here—or anywhere.

Any day now, I’ll be told to pack my belongings and report to a factory for forced labor.

“That means the world to me,” I say, peering down to catch a faint smile growing across her lips.

No sooner than the words slip off my tongue, the clomping of horses trotting in sync acts as a countdown for the seconds left before we need to be away from the square.

“The German soldiers,” Ella says, glancing over her shoulder.

“I should get home. You should, too,” I say, hating the thought of her walking home alone with soldiers on the prowl.

My curfew ends three hours earlier than hers though, and I can’t take any chances with Father and Grandfather being gone.

“Will you be all right?”

“Of course,” she says without hesitation.

“Be careful,” I say as she begins to walk away.

“I don’t want you in danger because of me.”

Ella turns around and steps back in toward me.

“Well, I happen to humbly disagree.” She takes a hold of my wrists, presses up on her toes and kisses my cheek.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, earlier so I can listen to you for longer,” she says before disappearing into the growing darkness of the night.

“Papers!” a soldier shouts from the around the corner.

Please get home safely.