the light. Ruth kept the children immaculate, Helena conceded inwardly. Their clothes were not torn or stained, the darned bits hidden so well they could scarcely be seen. She brushed their teeth with baking soda each night, insisted that their baths be thorough. Helena sometimes wondered why she bothered when they so seldom saw anyone but one another.
Outside the children ran in circles, Michal pretending to exert himself but really going much slower than he might have, allowing Dorie to catch him and feel that she was doing well. They chased a chipmunk around the yard, nearly colliding into the dwindling woodpile as the animal ducked beneath. Watching them play together, Helena was flooded with pride—despite their thinness and simple clothing, there was a light about them, a kind of strength other children did not possess. And they had a way of instinctively protecting each other, always had, even before they could walk or speak.
Was it different for them somehow because they weren’t twins? Helena wondered. With her and Ruth, it had always been a competition, who had spoken first (Ruth) and walked first (Helena), and later who was prettier, smarter, could sew or cook better. But it wasn’t any easier having older or younger siblings, she supposed, someone always ahead of you in the queue or behind in the scramble for food or attention. It was the plight of being one of many. Big families were the norm in these parts, even families like their own that could ill-afford them.
As the children disappeared into the barn, she smiled at Michal’s awkwardness, the way he had not quite grown into the long legs and broad shoulders he’d inherited from their father. “I heard something at market the other day,” Ruth said in a hushed tone, even though only little Karolina was there to hear them. Helena’s breath caught. Had Ruth learned—or somehow guessed—about the soldier? Guilt nagged at her suddenly. Until now, she always told Ruth everything. Yet this time something had held her back. It was as if, by discovering the man in the woods, she had taken a step apart from her siblings.
Helena licked her lips. “What is it?”
“The Garzels disappeared—Pani Kowalska said maybe they were arrested.”
Helena’s brow arched. “She said that?”
Ruth bristled. “Well, she didn’t exactly say it, but she suggested that was the case.”
Helena waved her hand dismissively. “Just silly gossip from an old woman with too much time on her hands.”
Ruth tried again. “She said that they arrested the Jews in Nowy S˛acz, too. People couldn’t make up such awful things from whole cloth, could they? There must be some truth to it.” She sounded as if she really needed Helena to believe her.
“Perhaps,” Helena said, trying to take the idea seriously. She started to lift Karolina down from the chair before she began to fuss, demanding to climb down herself.
“Here,” Helena said, relenting and letting her do it, but keeping a protective hand close behind. Karolina looked at her in disbelief—it was Ruth, not Helena, who usually gave in. But the child’s smile, so rare these days, was reward enough. Karolina scampered down. She had always shown physical prowess beyond the others, rolling over at three months and walking at nine months, almost as if she knew that the world was testing her, and despite her small size she would need to get around on her own two feet. Helena checked her forehead and noted with relief that her skin was now cool to the touch, then released her to play on the floor.
“People wouldn’t stand for it,” she replied to Ruth, resuming their conversation in that fractured way that happened frequently while they were caring for the children. A lack of confidence eroded her voice. In fact, the war had stripped away so many civilities, given people a license to act on their deeper, baser selves. Many, she suspected with an uneasy feeling, would be only too happy to let the Germans get rid of not just Jews but neighbors they had never really wanted in the first place.
Helena’s eyes traveled to the corner by the fireplace, where the scarf Ruth had knitted for Piotr still lay crumpled in a ball, untouched though months had passed. She kicked it out of the way, hoping Ruth had not seen. Anger rose within her as she thought of the boy who had broken her sister’s heart. “He’s not worth it,” she had wanted to say many times since Piotr last had come. But she held back, knowing such sentiments would only bring Ruth more pain.
Helena gestured to Karolina’s thick hair, which Ruth had cowed earlier into two luminous pigtails. Karolina was the outlier in their auburn-haired cluster—thick locks the color of cornstalks made her shine like the sun. “Do mine next?” she asked.
“Really?” Ruth’s brow lifted. Helena held her breath, wondering if she’d gone too far. She’d never had the patience to sit, instead pulling her hair into a scraggly knot at the back of her neck. She worried that this, coupled with her announcement of an extra visit to their mother, might arouse Ruth’s suspicion. But Ruth just shrugged. “Sit down.” Helena dropped into the chair. Ruth’s touch was gentle, her movements soothing as she coaxed the stubborn wisps into place with deft fingers. Helena fought the urge to fidget—it was all she could do not to leap from the chair and run out the door into the forest.
“Mischa needs shoes,” she announced grimly when Ruth had finished braiding. Ruth’s brow wrinkled. For the girls, there was always an old pair to be handed down, but Michal would not be big enough to wear Tata’s boots for at least another year or two, and there was no money for new ones. “What about your knitting? You could sell some pieces.”
Ruth cocked her head, as if she had not considered that her handiwork would have value to anyone outside of the house. “Perhaps with Christmas coming I can barter something knitted for a pair at market.”
Christmas. The word sounded foreign, as if from another lifetime. “Remember how Mama would decorate the house with mistletoe?”
“Holly,” her sister corrected, her voice crackling with authority. With Ruth, there was always a rejoinder. “And we would sing carols until she would give us a coin to stop.” Helena smiled fondly at the memory, one of many that only she and Ruth shared. “Then we would open our gifts and Tata would pretend to fall asleep early...”
“He didn’t...” Helena began. Tata hadn’t pretended to sleep; he had passed out from the half bottle of homemade potato vodka he consumed during Wigilia, their Christmas Eve feast. Even as a young child, Helena had known the truth. How could two people live the same moment but remember it so differently?
“Of course he did,” she relented, allowing Ruth to win. Ruth sniffed with quiet satisfaction.
Helena brushed aside the memories, forcing herself to focus on more practical matters. “Or we could sell it,” she said, gesturing with her head toward the corner. The sewing machine, which Tata had bought for their mother as a wedding present, had been her most prized possession. It would fetch a fair price, even from someone who wanted to use the parts for scrap.
“No!”
“Ruti, we must be practical. We need food and coal.”
But Ruth shook her head. “We need it. That’s why Mama left it to me. She knew you wouldn’t keep it safe.”
A lump of anger formed in Helena’s throat. Had Mama actually bequeathed the sewing machine to Ruth while she was still coherent enough? More likely, Ruth had simply presumed. Helena swallowed, struggling not to retort. Ruth clung to the machine because letting it go meant acknowledging that things had changed permanently, and that Mama was not coming back.
Helena walked back to the fireplace where Karolina played by the hearth. “Let’s get you dressed.” She held
