SARAH
Something wakes Sarah. Though the cupboard is dark, she knows it’s early morning. Her first thought is for her baby. It’s like she has been given a gift—the best, most exciting gift ever—and as soon as she wakes, she wants to see him, touch him, check that he’s real—that she didn’t dream it all.
She can’t see him in the dark cupboard, but she can sense him lying next to her, can hear his light, regular breathing. Instinctively, she knows he’s fast asleep. A creaking noise makes her jump. It sounds like someone outside on the stairs.
“David,” she whispers. “Did you hear something?”
“No.” He rolls over in his sleep, reaching a hand out for her. She takes it, intertwining her fingers with his, telling herself it must have been her imagination, that she should just go back to sleep, while the baby’s sleeping. She must keep up her strength for what lies ahead. They could be moving every day now. But she doesn’t feel safe knowing that they are out there looking for them.
A pounding thud shakes the wall. She lets go of David’s hand, pulling herself up to a sitting position, sweat breaking out on her forehead. She picks the baby up, holding him tight against her chest.
David is sitting too. She can’t see him, but she can feel the rigidity of his body, like a statue next to her, both of them willing themselves to turn to stone.
She hears doors opening and slamming, heavy boots running upstairs, commands shouted in German. “Schnell!” “Bewege dich schneller!”
She wants to whisper something to David, something about the hidden door, about the key he used to open it. Has he locked it from the inside? Are they locked in? Will they be found? But she hardly dares breathe, let alone whisper. She wishes she could see him. If only she could see him, she would feel safer.
A door slams loudly—more loudly than the others. It sounds like it’s the front door to the apartment. She hears David’s sharp intake of air. Silently, she prays: Please, God, protect our son. I’ll never ask for anything more.
She hears loud German voices. David reaches out for her in the dark, putting his arm around her. He holds her tight, and she holds their baby tighter as they sit there trembling.
“Hier drin!” a German voice shouts.
Sarah doesn’t understand what it means, but she knows the voice is right outside the cupboard door now. She grips Samuel, praying again in her head: Please, God, keep him safe.
He’s still fast asleep, and she wonders that he hasn’t woken up with all the commotion. Then he moans softly. She freezes, every sinew and muscle taut. Placing her fingers over his lips, she desperately tries to communicate to him the need to be silent. Frantically she puts him to her breast, but he turns his head away, falling asleep again.
She listens to the loud conversation in German being conducted on the other side of the thin wall. How she wishes she spoke the language now. David’s fingers dig painfully into her shoulder, but she doesn’t flinch. She almost welcomes the pain as a distraction from the terror mounting within her.
Samuel squirms in her arms, whimpering softly. Maybe she’s holding him too tightly, like David’s holding her. She relaxes her grip, consciously letting out the breath she’s been keeping in. He mustn’t feel her tension. It might make him cry.
His whimpering goes up a notch. Her heart freezes. She pushes him up against her breast, trying to get him to latch on, to be quiet. But he pulls his head back, letting out a cry. Loud and sharp.
A huge crash reverberates against the door. Then another, and another. Big black boots come smashing into the cupboard.