The Winter Guest by Pam Jenoff

misunderstood, for who misplaced a child? But the woman’s eyes, ringed with circles from her not having slept or rested in her search, were sincere. “I’m sorry, I haven’t.” She eyed the woman. She had only seen Jews from afar, dark, mysterious creatures that seemed to confirm Father Dominik’s admonitions in his sermons that they were shrewd and cunning and drank the blood of Christian infants. But the woman before her just looked like any mother, tired and bedraggled and desperate.
    “They said a camp...” the woman began feebly, and before Ruth could ask, the woman turned and started off across the hill.
    “I’m sorry,” Ruth said again into the empty space before her, with more feeling than she had expected. Though the woman might look different, a child was a child, and Ruth could not help but pity her. Still, Ruth had her own family to think about and could not afford to become involved.
    She closed the door and sat down with Karolina on her lap, shaken by the lingering image of the woman’s face. They knew families that had lost children in the traditional sense, born too small or taken by influenza or some other illness—not the odd way this woman had just described. She had seen the grieving mothers at market with their hollow eyes, disbelieving, despite the odds, that it had happened to them. The merchants seemed to speak softly and cut more generously for those women, but other villagers stepped back, as if the loss might somehow be contagious. Ruth’s throat tightened. She would take the squabbling and competition and hardships of a large family if it meant that they were safe—and together.
    Suddenly anxious, Ruth rapped on the window, gesturing for Michal and Dorie to come inside. “Take your boots off,” she instructed, closing the door quickly behind them. “I’ll warm some milk.” As she set Karolina in her high chair, she hoped they would not ask about the woman.
    The children darted beneath the table and around the chairs, as though the colder weather had made them unusually restless. “Where’s Helena?” Dorie asked, seeming to notice her sister’s absence for the first time.
    “She’s gone to the city,” Ruth replied absently.
    “Nooo!” the child wailed, her face seeming to crumple. She swung her braids from side to side, tears streaming down her cheeks.
    Ruth stopped in surprise, milk pitcher suspended midair. The children seldom noticed, much less minded, Helena’s absences. She set the pitcher down and knelt. “There, there,” she soothed, stroking Dorie’s hair. The child’s breath was improbably sweet like cinnamon. “She’ll be back by tonight. You’ll see. She’s only gone to visit Mama.” She usually refrained from mentioning their mother, not wanting to remind the children and cause them distress or answer their many questions. But now she added the information, hoping it would bring further plausibility to her explanation of Helena’s absence.
    “You know Christmas is coming,” Ruth offered, trying to change the subject.
    “Are we having a tree?” Michal asked.
    “I don’t think so, darling,” Ruth said, a knife going through her as she watched his face fall. It seemed frivolous, cutting down a pine tree when there was so much else to worry about. “But we’ll have a lovely meal and all of the songs and stories.”
    “And Mama?” Dorie looked up hopefully, eyes brightening. “Will she be back for Christmas, too? Did Helena go to get her?” Ruth understood then that for some reason today, Dorie had equated Helena’s going to the city with Mama’s disappearance, a trip was taken in one direction only. She imagined that Helena, too, wasn’t coming back.
    “Mama,” Karolina repeated absently, asking for the mother she surely could not remember.
    Inwardly, Ruth crumbled. This was the conversation she had been avoiding. “No,” she said gently, knowing that there was no way to avoid breaking Dorie’s heart again. She pushed a cup of milk