The Winter Guest by Pam Jenoff Page A

toward her sister. “Mama needs to stay in the hospital where there are doctors and medicine that can make her feel better.”
    “Just like we were playing outside, Dor,” Michal offered. Ruth braced herself for further questions about their mother’s recovery, tried to anticipate and come up with answers that were not quite lies but spared the child from the truth. But Dorie turned away and began playing with her rag doll on the floor.
    “What were you playing outside?” Ruth asked, grateful to Michal for redirecting the conversation. When she and Helena were little, theirs were simple pretend games, like house and school. Ruth was always the mother or the teacher, taking charge in a way that now seemed prophetic.
    “Hospital,” Michal replied. “Dorie’s the nurse. I was the patient and Dorie cured me.” She wondered what the unseen hospital life must look like in his mind.
    “Doctor,” his little sister corrected quickly. “I’m going to become a doctor for real.”
    Ruth started to tell Dorie that to be a doctor you need to go to school and then college, which would take money they did not have. That even under better circumstances, it would be nearly impossible for a woman. But Dorie’s eyes shone at the idea, a childlike dream not yet deterred by the war or realities of their situation, and Ruth would not take that from her. “That sounds wonderful.”
    Dorie’s expression dampened. “Ruti, what are Nazis?” she asked, shifting topics without warning.
    “Why do you ask?”
    “I heard you talking to Helena about them.” Inwardly, Ruth sighed. She already knew better than to speak in front of Michal about matters from which she wanted to shield the children. But Dorie was getting older now, and speaking guardedly or spelling out words did not work anymore.
    “They’re Germans, darling—German soldiers.” The last word—too good for them, really—stuck in her throat.
    “Why have they come?” Dorie had a need to know why things were a certain way, how they worked, to scratch beneath the surface. It was a fierce intellect that in another time and place might have been nurtured to greatness. But Ruth did not know how to channel it, and after taking care of their basic survival needs, she seldom had the energy.
    Ruth stopped, stymied by the impossibility of explaining war to children. Why indeed? “They want to be in charge. It’s all about politics and government. But they haven’t come to Biekowice so they won’t bother us.”
    “But what about the Garzels?” Dorie had been outside playing when she and Helena had spoken of their neighbors’ disappearance. Had Helena told her about it? “Did the Germans make them leave the village?” Dorie persisted.
    “Never you mind about the Garzels. Tend your own garden, as Mama used to say.” Karolina giggled from her high chair, as though Ruth had said something funny. Ruth wiped the milk that had dribbled onto her chin, then picked her up and set her on the floor by the fire.
    Dorie’s forehead lifted in that way Ruth’s used to, before Mama had cautioned it would leave wrinkles. “But it’s winter,” she said. “The garden has gone all withery.”
    Ruth smiled at the child’s literal interpretation. “Not an actual garden, silly. It means that we should take care of our own family and our own business instead of worrying about what others are doing.”
    “Okay.” Dorie downed her milk with a gulp, then hopped down and joined Karolina playing blocks.
    “And what about Mama?” Michal asked, swiping aside the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead. “Are the Germans in Kraków, too?”
    On this point she could not lie. “Yes, they are. But the hospital is safe.”
    “Good.” Michal’s voice was trusting, devoid of suspicion. He drank his milk, seemingly satisfied.
    Ruth noticed then that the button at his collar had fallen off. She reached out to examine it. “If you change into your other shirt and bring me this one I