The Winter Guest (28 page)

“Not me. I knew I would find my way to you.” He kissed the tear, catching it midflight with his lips. He kissed a trail up her cheek to her eyes, across her forehead, down toward her chin. He finally reached her mouth, but then hesitated, pulling back, his lips nearly grazing hers. A worried expression crossed his face, then disappeared.

“What is it?”

He shook his head, then pressed his lips to hers, and for a moment it was as if they were back in the chapel. But they weren’t, she reminded herself. Ruth and the children were in the next room. She pulled back, forcing her desire down.

He straightened. “I saved a bit of food for you,” he said, pulling some meat wrapped in paper from his pocket. “Because I knew you never would for yourself.” She started to protest. “Eat it. You need your strength, too. Lena, you’re starving.”

She started to say that she was fine. But he was right. Day to day she did not notice it. Hunger was so much the default state, the gnawing in her stomach omnipresent. She was a little more tired perhaps. But she saw herself now as he did—after weeks apart, the change was more visible to him, how her cheeks were sallow and sunken. “It’s the rations,” she confessed, taking the food he offered gratefully.

Warmth surged through her blood at the unexpected nourishment. “What’s the plan?”

“The partisans have a base camp not far over the border.”

“But Alek had said that his entire southern route might be compromised.”

“It’s true. There’s no clear path anymore, so we will just have to make our way. It will have to be by foot.”

Helena looked out the window, imagining the peaks which stood jagged and menacing between them and the destination he had indicated. Then she shook her head, gesturing slightly toward the bedroom, thinking of Dorie. She could not remember if she had told Sam about her younger sister’s limp, or if it had been apparent before the children had gone to bed. The mountains would have been difficult even just for the two of them, but impossible with the children. “No,” she said slowly. “Some time ago, you said something about trucks.”

He shook his head. “The roads are closed now, and even if the trucks could get to us, we’d never clear the checkpoints. They’re all but taking them apart looking for stowaways. No, it’s the only way.”

She wondered if he had any idea the enormity of the risk or how difficult the journey might be. Of course he did—he had just come that way. But there was no other choice—what awaited them here was surely that much worse. “There’s a train station about nine kilometers to the southeast,” she began slowly, still thinking. “If we can make it there by 5:00 a.m., there’s a freight train that stops. It will take us across the border.” She had seen the train weeks earlier from the loft in the barn as she watched for him in the predawn hours.

“East,” he echoed. Then he lowered his voice. “Lena, no. The German army is headed that way, and getting closer by the second.”

“We can make it, Sam. We must try.” It was as if they had switched places, her strength bolstering his.

“Fine,” he relented, brushing her hair from her forehead. She tilted her face upward, drinking in the touch for which she had longed these many weeks.

“Tell me more about the partisans,” she said. “That is, if you’re not too tired.”

“That morning, before dawn, someone came for me, a young woman with dark hair.” She tried not to feel jealous this time. “And she took me over the border to the partisans. They wanted to move me farther south to reconnect with my unit, but I knew if we went that far there would be no turning back. Three days, I begged. Three days to come back and find you. I told them how you had helped me and how much I owed you. They refused, said the effort could not be held up for any one person. So I left.” She tried to fathom what he had gone through making the dangerous crossing not once, but twice.

“I was afraid I wouldn’t make it,” he confessed, and she heard real fear in his voice. “The path was even worse than you described. But I could not bear to have you think I’d just left you.” His words filled Helena with deeper consternation, for if he could barely survive the trip on his own, how would they manage with the children? “And I know where they are—or at least where they were—and I have the passes.” He pulled out a folded card. “This is a temporary passport, identifying you as my wife and granting you an entry visa to America.”

“How did you...?”

“I lied. I told them that I wouldn’t go back myself if they sent back papers for all of you. They have forgers—artists, really—quite remarkable at making documents, especially under such primitive circumstances. But I couldn’t be sure they would follow through, so I took the documents and left.”

Recognizing the photo she’d given him, now affixed to the card, she laughed. “So that’s why you wanted my picture?”

“Just in case. But I didn’t want to get your hopes up—or argue with you about not going.” He held up another document. “And these papers will put the children on a youth transport out of Czechoslovakia. We don’t necessarily have to send them, of course. But the papers will give us the pretext to get them over the border.”

“And what happens when we get to Czechoslovakia?” Her doubts redoubled. “That’s occupied, as well.”

He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. “True. But the border is much more porous, and closer to the west.”

“And Ruth?”

Sam’s expression fell. “Nothing yet. But we’ll take her with us, of course, and I’ll think of something.” His face bore the same grim determination she had seen when he talked of escape and she knew he would not relent until he had gotten them all across the border to safety.

Helena looked over his shoulder out the window. In just a few hours it would be light. “You should rest.” She fought the urge to lie beside him as she had in the chapel. But it would not be proper and the children might see. “Good night.” She bent to kiss his cheek.

Sam closed his eyes with the ease of someone who had become used to spending nights in strange, uncomfortable places. Helena adjusted his blanket, her hand lingering on his back. She crept back to the bedroom, feeling Sam on the other side of the wall as though he were beside her. She crawled in among Ruth and the children. For this one night, they were all together under one roof, just as it should be. But it would be their last time together in the giant bed and she could not help but wonder where they would next lay their heads, or if they might all sleep together just like this again somewhere else. From the other room, Sam snored faintly and she breathed in unison with him, trying not to imagine the treacherous road that lay just ahead.

In spite of herself, her eyes grew heavy. Sometime later she awoke with a start, cursing herself for drifting off. But the room was still dark. She turned to reach for Ruth to tell her it was time to wake the children. She felt beside her to an empty spot, a coolness on the sheets where there should have been warmth.

Seeing the emptiness, she let out an involuntary cry. Michal was not there.

23

Hands shook Ruth from sleep. “Mischa’s gone.” Helena’s voice, low and urgent, cut through the darkness.

Ruth sat up, banging her shoulder on the bedpost. “Don’t be silly.” It was usually Helena accusing her of being melodramatic, not the other way around. “He probably just went to the water closet.”

“No, I already checked. He’s gone.”

Gone.
The word reverberated in Ruth’s head as she searched for a plausible alternative explanation. In daylight, Michal might have been tending to the animals, or fetching wood if he had not done that yesterday. But even then, he would not have left without telling one of them.

“I’ll go find him,” Helena whispered, and hurried out of the room. She was trying not to wake the other children, or Sam. If he awoke he would surely insist upon helping with the search, instead of conserving his strength for the journey ahead.

Ruth dressed quickly. In the main room, Sam slept peacefully by the fire on the bed of blankets Helena had carefully made. His head was nestled in his arm exactly as it had been that morning she had gone to the chapel. Averting her eyes, Ruth went to the window and watched as Helena strode across the field and disappeared behind the barn, holding a lantern aloft before her. Another thick snow had fallen overnight. Ruth’s mind raced. Like herself, Michal was not suited to the rugged terrain, and he seldom ventured farther than the edge of the property unless necessary. She had awakened in the middle of the night and felt Michal sleeping soundly beside her. He could not have been gone more than an hour.

Helena returned twenty minutes later, breathless and alone. “I looked everywhere—the barn, the fields.” She did not bother to lower her voice now. “I even went as far as the pond.” Fear sliced through Ruth. Other than Helena’s trips to the city to see Mama or to the chapel, the five of them had always been together—until now.

Sam stirred then beside the fire. “What time is it?”

“Just about three.”

He struggled to stand, grimacing. “We should go.”

“There’s a problem. Michal’s gone.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

“There were faint tracks headed toward the forest. I think—” Helena glanced nervously between her sister and Sam “—that he’s gone to the city...to get Mama.” Even as Helena spoke the words, Ruth knew she was right. Michal, not knowing about Mama’s death, had been clearly distressed at the idea of leaving without her.

“We should have told him the truth,” Ruth lamented. But who knew what he might have done then?

“The train is leaving in two hours,” Sam interjected gently. “This is our only chance.”

“We can’t go without him,” Helena insisted. Ruth shook her head in firm agreement.

“I understand. But if we don’t leave now, none of you will get out. This is our only chance,” he repeated. “I’d send you both ahead and go find him myself, but you’re going to need me to find the partisans.”

“You take the little ones to the station with Sam,” Ruth blurted out. “I’ll find Michal.”

Helena’s brow furrowed. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t possibly do that.”

Hearing Helena’s dismissiveness, Ruth’s resolve hardened. “I’m perfectly capable.”

“But you’re so much less familiar with the forest. You’ve never been to the hospital on your own.”

Ruth looked away, avoiding Sam’s direction. She couldn’t tell her sister that she had been through the woods more recently than she knew, on her secret, ill-fated trip to the chapel. “I can do it,” she replied firmly.

“Let me,” Helena protested again. “I’m stronger.” Once that might have been true. It should be Helena going through the forest, Ruth caring for the children. But Helena had grown so much weaker during Sam’s absence. It was almost as if they had traded places in the past few weeks, Ruth drawing on her strength where Helena’s had failed.

“No, I can do this. Anyway, you’ll need to carry Dorie if she gets tired. I can’t manage both of the little ones all the way to the train station. You can. I’ll meet you there.”

Helena opened her mouth once more. “There’s really no time to argue,” Sam interjected. “The Germans are getting closer.” As if on cue, a rumbling came from the distance, low and ominous, shaking the ground beneath them.

“Fine,” Helena relented. Their eyes met in silent agreement: this was the only way. She would let her sister help.

Ten minutes later they stood in front of the house. Together she and Helena had bundled every conceivable piece of clothing onto the younger girls, who stood like plump little balls of wool, scarcely able to move. Ruth had hurriedly extinguished the fire, but left a light burning, as though they might be back in an hour. She looked over sadly at the mule they had never bothered to name. Helena had pitched the last of the feed into his bin, but it would last a day or two at most. Then what? They could not ask anyone to care for him.

Helena closed the door to the house. “You can’t wear that,” she said, taking in her sister’s blue cape. Her disdain for the impractical garb amplified all of the reasons why she considered Ruth ill-prepared to make the journey up the mountain, why she thought she should be going instead. “You’ll trip, and it’s too easy to see you in that.”

“But I love it.” To Ruth, Mama’s cape was a kind of armor that would protect her against the dangers and hardships ahead.

“Wait,” Helena instructed, then ran back into the house. She emerged a minute later with Tata’s old brown hunting jacket and put it on over the cape, large and bulky. Helena tucked the hem of the cape into Ruth’s boots then straightened. “That’s better. At least the color will make you harder to spot in the woods.”

Helena pulled Tata’s hunting knife from her pocket. “You should take this, too.”

But Ruth shook her head. “I could never use it.” They both knew it was true. Helena tucked it back in her pocket. “Are you taking the rifle?”

“It’s too bulky. Anyway, Sam has his gun.” Ruth noted with a touch of envy the confidence in Helena’s voice that she and Sam would be together and that he would protect her.

Ruth handed her sister the small bag in which she had gathered whatever food had been left in the house that might be eaten on the trip. “Remember that the baby needs...” she began, then stopped herself. Helena knew these things and she would take care of them.

“Here,” Sam said, holding out his hand to Ruth. Clutched in it were a card and one of the pieces of paper. “The paper is for the youth transport. And the card...” He hesitated, turning slightly to Helena, who nodded. “The card is for you.”

Ruth took it. It was a pass bearing her sister’s photograph and granting transit to Helena Rosen, wife of an American soldier. Her jaw dropped slightly. “Helena, you’re not married, are you?”

Helena flushed. “Not formally. Not yet, anyway. But this pass will get you across the border.”

Ruth stared at the card uncertainly, not moving. “But it’s yours.”

“It’s ours,” Helena corrected. “We were always going to leave together.”

So Helena had not planned to leave her, after all. Guilt washed over Ruth as she remembered all of her suspicions about Helena, and the awful things they had prompted her to do.

“Take it,” Helena insisted. “No one will notice the difference between us.” As the card passed from her hand to her sister’s, a kind of healing forged between them, like the
oplatek
wafer on Christmas Eve, but much stronger.

“What about you?”

“Sam will get me over the border.” There was a confidence in her sister’s voice, a certainty that the man she loved could protect her, would not let her down. Ruth couldn’t help the envy that formed in her stomach.

“I’ll find Michal and meet you at the train station.” Helena nodded. Ruth could travel more swiftly with just him and catch up with them. Ruth lifted her head, meeting Sam’s eyes directly now, her concern overtaking any lingering awkwardness between them. “Take care of them,” she ordered.

He nodded so gravely she thought he might salute. “I will.”

“And, Helena, you get those children on the train no matter what.” Ruth stared deep into her sister’s eyes, understanding for the first time how inseparable they were, two halves of the same being.

“I will. We both will.” Her confidence sounded forced now, like a line from a book she had been told to read aloud.

Sam stepped up and put his hand on Helena’s shoulder. “We should go.”

They all walked past the barn and through the gate wordlessly. At the base of the hill, they stopped.

Helena pointed up into the forest. “You know that the path splits farther along. The fork goes to the chapel and you can keep on that way through the woods, or you can follow the main road toward the city.” She faltered, her eyes darting back and forth, as if trying to figure out what other guidance she could give. But who knew which way Michal had gone, or how far he had gotten? He could not possibly make it all the way to the city, and if he did there would be nothing there but certain danger. “If you stay close to the brush by the side of the road you should be safe,” Helena finished lamely.

They looked at each other, any last remaining bits of acrimony fading and disappearing in the wind. It simply did not matter anymore. The sisters were one breath, inhale and exhale, and how could one exist without the other?

“Quickly!” Sam growled in a low voice, looking anxiously over his shoulder across the open field toward the Slomir farm. They could not afford to be seen leaving.

But Ruth hesitated, kneeling by Dorie. There was a quiet fear in the child’s eyes that said she understood what was happening. Ruth straightened Dorie’s collar and closed the top button of her coat, biting her lip. Tears had always come too easily to her. “You listen to Helena,” she managed, fighting to keep the urgency from her embrace.

“No!” Dorie clung to the hem of her coat. “I want to go with you.”

“I’ll meet you at the station in a little while.” Her eyes flickered and she wondered if Dorie believed her. Then she picked up Karolina and handed the baby to her sister. “She likes to be patted to sleep this way,” she said, moving her arms in a slow circular motion, unable to resist one last bit of advice.

She started to turn, but Helena grabbed her arm. “Please...” she said. “Find him, Ruti. Because I don’t think...” Ruth nodded, understanding. She, too, would not be able to go on without their brother.

“I promise.” Ruth pulled away.

Then she turned and disappeared into the woods.