catches the corner of my eye and I look down at Lukasz. The rabbi’s child is waving his hand in front of his face, earnestly attempting to cross himself, to imitate Krysia and the others. Crossing himself. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end at the sight of this.
Stealing another glance at Krysia out of the corner of my eye, I see that her lips are moving slightly, as though memorizing something. She is praying, I realize, really praying. I look around, trying not to lift my head, and wonder if my prayers will work here, too. It has been so long since I have prayed anywhere. I don’t know where to begin. I consider saying the Shema, the most basic of Jewish prayers. Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is one. Then I stop. It does not feel right here. I try again. Please, I pray, uncertain what to say after that. Please, God. Suddenly, the words pour forth inside me like a fountain turned on. I pray for the safety of my parents and Jacob. I pray for Krysia, and Lukasz and myself, for the strength to keep up our charade as I work for the Kommandant. I ask forgiveness for being in this place, for kneeling. I pray that Lukasz will never remember being here.
Then the kneeling part is over. We sit up again, and I lift Lukasz to my lap, pressing his cool cheek against mine as the priest keeps chanting. The priest steps in front of the altar then, a silver chalice and plate in hand. People in the front of the church begin to rise and go forward. “Communion,” Krysia whispers, so softly I can barely hear. I nod. I have heard of this before. A few minutes later, Krysia stands and touches my shoulder. She means for me to go with her. I rise, my legs stone at the prospect of going up. We make our way to the center aisle and join the line as it shuffles forward, Lukasz coming with us, although, I suspect, he is too young for Communion. When we reach the front, Krysia goes first. I watch as she kneels and opens her mouth, allowing the priest to place a wafer there. Then she rises and turns, taking Lukasz’s hand from me. It is my turn. I step forward and kneel. “Body of Christ,” the priest says as he places the wafer on my tongue. I close my mouth against the dryness, wait for lightning to strike me dead.
A few minutes later we are back in our seats. The collection plate is passed. It is almost empty when it reaches us. Krysia places a few coins in it, much less, I am sure, than she would have before the war. I wonder if she can afford it now. Then it is over, and we make our way from the church. I fight the urge to rush ahead as Krysia makes obligatory introductions and small talk with other parishioners by the front door. Finally, we step out into the light.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Krysia asks when we are far from the church. I shake my head, not answering. There are some things that, despite her best intentions, she will never understand. I feel violated by the experience, nauseous at the knowledge that we will have to go again.
When we arrive back at Krysia’s house, my mind turns to the next day. Less than twenty-four hours from now, I will go to work for the Kommandant. I deliberately keep busy with household chores, preparing a rich beet soup for Lukasz’s lunch, laying out the clothes he will wear the next day. “I can do that for him tomorrow,” Krysia protests.
I shake my head and do not stop moving. “I need to keep moving,” I reply, refolding one of the child’s freshly washed shirts for the fourth time. “It’s not like I’m going to be able to sleep tonight, anyway.”
I do not go to bed until almost midnight, and even then I toss and turn. The thoughts I usually fight so hard to keep from my mind, of my family and the ghetto and all of the awful unknowns, are welcome diversions now, as I try to ignore the reality that awaits me the next morning. How had my life changed so much in a week, a month, a year? Jacob would not even recognize me anymore. I imagine writing a letter to him—where would I begin? Oh, yes, my beloved, I write in my head. Your wife is a gentile now. And did I mention I have a child? And that I start working for the Nazis tomorrow? I laugh aloud in the dark.
But in truth I know that the situation is deadly serious. By walking into the Nazi headquarters every day, I will be entering the lion’s den. It is not just my own safety I will be risking: if my true identity is discovered, it will put everyone around me, my parents, Lukasz, even Krysia, in grave danger. Krysia. I can see the look on her face as she urged me to take the Kommandant’s offer, the worried way she has watched me ever since. She, too, knows the stakes. She must have very good reasons for wanting me to do this. At last my eyes grow heavy and I finally doze off.
After what seems like only minutes, I am awakened by the predawn sounds of the neighbors’ rooster crowing. I can tell by the way the early morning light falls through the maple tree outside my window that it is approximately five o’clock. I lie still for a moment, listening to the horses’ hoofs pound against the dirt road as they pull the farmers’ wagons down from the hills, carrying produce to the markets. Staring at the ceiling, I hesitate. Once I set that first foot on the floor, it will all begin. If I do not get out of bed, I think, perhaps I can stop time. It is a familiar game, one I played as a child when there was something I did not want to do. It did not work then, I remind myself, and it will not work now. And it will not do to be late my first day on the job. I take a deep breath and stand.
I rise and wash quietly. Hoping not to wake Krysia or Lukasz, I tiptoe downstairs, trying not to let the soles of my shoes squeak on the hardwood steps. Krysia is already seated at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper over a cup of tea. I wonder if she slept at all last night. “Dzien dobry,” she greets me, her voice fresh. She rises and looks me up and down, appraising my outfit. I have chosen from among her castoffs a white shirtwaist and a gray skirt, belting the oversize shirt at the waist. The skirt, which was supposed to be knee-length, falls nearly to my ankles. “Very professional,” she remarks, gesturing for me to sit. She pushes a plate of steaming scrambled eggs across the table toward me. “Now eat.”
I shake my head, nauseous at the smell. “I’m too nervous.” Even as I speak, my stomach jumps and a wave of queasiness washes over me. “And I should be going, I don’t want to be late.”
Krysia hands me a small lunch pail and a light wool cloak. “Try to relax. You’ll be more likely to make mistakes if you’re nervous. Just stay quiet, observe as much as you can … and trust no one.” She pats my shoulder. “You’ll do fine. Lukasz and I will be here when you come home.”
It is not quite seven o’clock when I set out. The residents of Chelmska are early risers; as I walk down the road, past the houses and farms, there seems to be someone out in every yard, gardening or tending livestock or sweeping their front porch. They look up as I pass, my presence at Krysia’s still a curiosity to them. I nod my head and try to smile as I go, as though it is perfectly normal for me to be heading into the city at this early hour. At the end of the road where it meets the roundabout, I pause and inhale deeply. I have grown to love early mornings since coming to Krysia’s house. There is a thin layer of fog hovering over the fields that I know will lift like a flock of birds by midmorning as the sun rises. The air smells of wet grass. As I take in the scene, my heart grows lighter, and for a second, I almost forget to be nervous.
At the bus stop I wait without speaking beside an elderly woman carrying an assortment of garden herbs in her tattered basket. The bus arrives and I follow the woman aboard, passing one of the tokens Krysia has given me to the driver. The bus rumbles along the unevenly paved road, pulling over every half kilometer or so. The trees, bent toward the road with their heavy loads of leaves, brush the roof of the bus as it passes. When all of the seats are filled and still more passengers continue to board, I stand to give my place to an old man, who smiles toothlessly at me.
Twenty minutes later, I step off the bus and, after a short walk, find myself standing at the foot of Wawel Castle. Looking up at the enormous stone fortress, I inhale sharply. I have not seen Wawel since I went to the ghetto last autumn. Now as I approach, its domes and spires seem even grander than I remembered. For the centuries that Kraków had been the capital of Poland, Wawel was the seat of kings, and many royal figures were buried in its cathedral. The actual capital had long since moved to Warsaw, and Wawel had become
