that my clearance has come through and that I am to report to the Kommandant’s office the following Monday.
“We need to go to town tomorrow,” Krysia says that Saturday night after we have put Lukasz to bed.
“Tomorrow?” I turn to her in the hallway, puzzled. The stores are not open on Sundays.
“We have to go to church.” Seeing the stunned expression on my face, Krysia continues. “The mayor’s wife commented at the dinner party on the fact that I have not been there with you and Lukasz.”
“Oh,” I manage to say at last. I cannot argue with her logic. Krysia is a devout Catholic, and it only made sense that Lukasz and I would be, too. The fact that she normally went to mass every week but had not gone since our arrival might raise suspicions. Still, the idea of going to church sticks in my throat like a half-swallowed pill.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “We don’t have a choice. We have to keep up appearances.”
I do not answer but walk to my bedroom and open the wardrobe. I study my few dresses, trying to figure out which one most looks like the ones I have seen young women my age wearing on their way to and from church. “The pink dress,” Krysia says, coming up behind me.
“This one?” I hold up a cotton frock with three-quarter sleeves.
“Yes. I am going to have coffee. Care to join me?” she asks. I nod and follow her downstairs to the kitchen. A few minutes later, we carry our steaming mugs to the parlor. I notice her knitting needles and some bright blue yarn on the low table. “I am making a sweater for Lukasz,” she explains as we sit. “I think he will need it for the winter.”
Winter. Krysia expects us still to be with her then. I do not know why this surprises me. The Nazis’ stronghold on Poland shows no signs of weakening, and we certainly have nowhere else to go. Still, winter is six months away. My heart drops as I think of Jacob, of being without him for that long.
Trying to hide my sadness, I lift the needles to examine Krysia’s handiwork. She has only knitted a few rows so far, but I can tell from the small, even stitches that she is working with great care, and that the sweater will be lovely. The ball of yarn is kinked, and I realize that she must have unraveled a garment of her own to get it. “The color will match his eyes perfectly,” I say, touched once again by how much she is doing for us.
“I thought so, too. Do you know how to knit?” I shake my head. “Here, let me show you.” Before I can reply, Krysia moves closer to me on the sofa, placing her arms around me from behind and covering her much larger hands with my own. “Like this.” She begins to move my hands in the two-step knitting pattern. The touch of her hands, thin and delicate like Jacob’s, brings back a flood of emotions. My head swims, and I can barely feel the knitting needles. “That’s all there is to it,” she says a few minutes later, sitting back. She looks at the needles expectantly, as though I will continue on my own, but my hands fall helplessly to my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I say, placing the needles and yarn back on the table. “I’m not very good at such things.” It is the truth. My mother had given up on teaching me to sew when I was twelve, declaring my large, uneven stitches an abomination. Even now, looking down at the knitting needles, I know that Krysia will have to unravel and redo my few clumsy stitches.
“Nonsense, you just need practice.” Krysia picks up the needles and yarn. “If you learn how to knit well, you can make something for Jacob.”
“Jacob,” I repeat, seeing his face in my mind. I could knit him a sweater, perhaps in brown to bring out the color in his eyes. I see him pulling it over his thin shoulders and torso. Sometimes he seems fragile, almost childlike in my memory. It is hard to imagine him as a resistance fighter. I wonder suddenly if he took enough warm clothes with him when he left.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
“We need to go to town tomorrow,” Krysia says that Saturday night after we have put Lukasz to bed.
“Tomorrow?” I turn to her in the hallway, puzzled. The stores are not open on Sundays.
“We have to go to church.” Seeing the stunned expression on my face, Krysia continues. “The mayor’s wife commented at the dinner party on the fact that I have not been there with you and Lukasz.”
“Oh,” I manage to say at last. I cannot argue with her logic. Krysia is a devout Catholic, and it only made sense that Lukasz and I would be, too. The fact that she normally went to mass every week but had not gone since our arrival might raise suspicions. Still, the idea of going to church sticks in my throat like a half-swallowed pill.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “We don’t have a choice. We have to keep up appearances.”
I do not answer but walk to my bedroom and open the wardrobe. I study my few dresses, trying to figure out which one most looks like the ones I have seen young women my age wearing on their way to and from church. “The pink dress,” Krysia says, coming up behind me.
“This one?” I hold up a cotton frock with three-quarter sleeves.
“Yes. I am going to have coffee. Care to join me?” she asks. I nod and follow her downstairs to the kitchen. A few minutes later, we carry our steaming mugs to the parlor. I notice her knitting needles and some bright blue yarn on the low table. “I am making a sweater for Lukasz,” she explains as we sit. “I think he will need it for the winter.”
Winter. Krysia expects us still to be with her then. I do not know why this surprises me. The Nazis’ stronghold on Poland shows no signs of weakening, and we certainly have nowhere else to go. Still, winter is six months away. My heart drops as I think of Jacob, of being without him for that long.
Trying to hide my sadness, I lift the needles to examine Krysia’s handiwork. She has only knitted a few rows so far, but I can tell from the small, even stitches that she is working with great care, and that the sweater will be lovely. The ball of yarn is kinked, and I realize that she must have unraveled a garment of her own to get it. “The color will match his eyes perfectly,” I say, touched once again by how much she is doing for us.
“I thought so, too. Do you know how to knit?” I shake my head. “Here, let me show you.” Before I can reply, Krysia moves closer to me on the sofa, placing her arms around me from behind and covering her much larger hands with my own. “Like this.” She begins to move my hands in the two-step knitting pattern. The touch of her hands, thin and delicate like Jacob’s, brings back a flood of emotions. My head swims, and I can barely feel the knitting needles. “That’s all there is to it,” she says a few minutes later, sitting back. She looks at the needles expectantly, as though I will continue on my own, but my hands fall helplessly to my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I say, placing the needles and yarn back on the table. “I’m not very good at such things.” It is the truth. My mother had given up on teaching me to sew when I was twelve, declaring my large, uneven stitches an abomination. Even now, looking down at the knitting needles, I know that Krysia will have to unravel and redo my few clumsy stitches.
“Nonsense, you just need practice.” Krysia picks up the needles and yarn. “If you learn how to knit well, you can make something for Jacob.”
“Jacob,” I repeat, seeing his face in my mind. I could knit him a sweater, perhaps in brown to bring out the color in his eyes. I see him pulling it over his thin shoulders and torso. Sometimes he seems fragile, almost childlike in my memory. It is hard to imagine him as a resistance fighter. I wonder suddenly if he took enough warm clothes with him when he left.
“You miss him, don’t you?”
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