Our double life continued, Mama and I doing daily chores and worrying about Maria. But we heard nothing.
At night we visited with Dolik, Leon and Mr. Segal. I got by on just two or three hours of sleep. It seemed too selfish to rest instead of talking or playing cards with our guests. I knew that if the roles were reversed, I would be desperate for company after spending the entire day in cramped darkness. But the schedule took its toll, especially with just Mama and me doing the heavy work of bringing in the harvest. Sometimes I think I slept through digging potatoes and scything wheat.
The arrangement took its toll on our guests as well. While Mama and I ached from overwork, Dolik, Leon and Mr. Segal got weak and sick because they could barely move for much of the day.
I felt most alive when we had finished playing cards and Leon would go to a quiet corner and read a book by candlelight. That was when Dolik and I sat side by side and flipped through pictures, or just talked. I told him of my earliest memories of Tato before he got sick, of how he’d put me on his shoulders and prance around, neighing like a horse. About how a honeybee would fly through our window each morning and land on the tip of his teaspoon. He’d feed the bee a drop of Mama’s berry jam.
Dolik reminisced about visiting his father’s parents in the country when he was little. “Bubbe and Zayde had geese,” he told me. “I tried to pat this one big white goose, but it would run away at the sight of me.”
“Did they have a horse or cows too?” I asked.
“They had an old mare named Sheyn that I’m sure had been pretty at one time.”
“Did you ever ride her?” I asked.
Dolik shook his head. “She was too old. I did feed her carrots, though.”
He also told me stories about his bubbe, who was an expert mushroom hunter. “I loved going into the woods with her,” he said. “What I loved even more was eating the fried mushrooms when we got back.”
We had a silent agreement to talk only of happier times. It took our minds off the fact that we were living in the midst of death.
* * *
One day in early October, Uncle Ivan visited after dark. He sipped his tea in silence and regarded us all as we sat around the kitchen table. “Kataryna, I have some news,” he said finally. “Nathan and Maria came to us in the forest when they escaped. They stayed with us for a few days and I gave them some lessons in survival and living on the run. They left for Lviv, hoping to blend in with the crowd and find work. I had Maria memorize the address of a woman she could leave a message with.”
Mama could not seem to find her voice, so I asked, “Have you heard anything from the woman?”
“Finally, yes,” said Uncle Ivan. “One of our couriers met with her in Lviv just a few days ago. Maria had left this with her.” He reached into his pocket, drew out a folded piece of paper and handed it to Mama.
She unfolded the paper and a twenty-zloty banknote fluttered onto her lap. Mama read the letter:
Mama, don’t worry. Assigned to the Huber farm near Thaur in Austria. I’ve heard it’s not a bad place. N sends love to father. Will write when we can. Love M.
Mama rested her head in her arms and wept with relief. “I wish she’d come home so I could watch over her, but at least now I know she got out of the war zone alive.”
I was so relieved to hear that Maria was safe, but like Mama, I would worry until I saw her with my own eyes.
“Thank God they got out of this area safely,” said Mr. Segal.
“That’s why I came here as soon as I heard,” said Uncle Ivan, standing up. “But I must be on my way.” He enveloped Mama in a firm hug. “Stay safe, sister,” he said. And then he was gone.