But then I’m putting those desiccated morsels into my own mouth. Scraping my finger along the tin, not even bothering to use a fork. The gristle sticks in my throat; I force it down. I am revolted by myself but also starving, or remembering what it was to be starving.
What is wrong with me? What has become of me?
In the next room, a knock at the door. I shove the plates into the dry kitchen sink, trying to put myself together.
“I’m coming,” I call to Dima as the knock gets louder. “I’m sorry, I was in the ki—”
I don’t finish, because it’s not Dima. Standing in the dim doorway are three men I don’t know, two who look like brothers with flat noses and clefts in their chins, and a third, taller and thin with bags under his eyes.
“We heard there were Jews here,” says the taller of the men with flat noses. “This neighborhood is Judenrein.”
Judenrein. That was the German term. That’s why we had to leave this apartment to begin with. This neighborhood is Judenrein.
But German words can’t dictate what neighborhoods are free of Jews anymore, can they?
My mouth is dry as yarn. “Where did you hear that?”
I don’t know why I think I can buy time. They’ll learn the truth eventually. Everything about my appearance looks as though I was in a camp.
Faintly, coming off their clothes, I smell alcohol and sweat, and now my heart starts to pound. The speaker brushes past me into my own house, and the others follow, backing me farther inside. Their eyes roam the apartment, what they can make out of it in the dark.
“There’s nothing to take,” I manage. “You can see, the only furniture left is junk. And I’m the only one here.”
Stupid, I chastise myself as soon as this sentence passes my lips. I’d meant, maybe you can leave me be because I am obviously no harm to you. But now the original man’s face is leering in the lantern light at this discovery that I’m alone.
“If you’re hungry, I can—I can get you some food, maybe,” I improvise, trying to find a way to edge around closer to the door. “My friend is on his way back, right now.”
“You said you were alone, Jewess.”
“I’m alone now, but my friend will be here soon. He’s a lieutenant. In the Red Army.”
“Convenient, there’s a boyfriend now,” the dark-circled man mutters under his breath.
There’s no place I can go to maneuver myself away from all three of them. Already, the second brother has positioned himself in front of the door. The other two are still wandering about my apartment.
“There is a boyfriend,” I insist in a way that sounds so fake even I wouldn’t believe me.
I don’t see any weapons, though maybe they’re hidden beneath their jackets. Please let them just steal my things and not beat me. Please let them just beat me and not rape me. Please let them just rape me and not kill me.
Please kill me. Please just kill me. Why not; how else will this ever be over?
“I can pay you,” I offer, desperate. “For—for the trouble of having me use the apartment.”
At this, two of the men look mildly interested, so I keep talking about the money. I’ll give them everything left from what Dima provided for groceries and try to keep the large, unbroken bill from the hospital. “Just let me get it. While I’m doing that, there’s vodka in the kitchen. Nearly a whole bottle; you can take it.”
I don’t want them drinking more. But the vodka is a distraction, and I don’t want them following me into the bedroom, either. So as two of them go to the alcohol, I rush past the one guarding the door, into the bedroom, fumbling in my checked gingham cloth where I’d stuffed all the money.
From the hallway, I hear more noises, whispering. And then, one of the men calls out to the original speaker, whom I’ve begun to think of as the leader.
“Piotr.”
I peek around the corner. The men cluster around Dima’s cap resting on a chair, prominent sickle and hammer.
“I told you.” I find my voice, stepping back into the room. “His name is Lieutenant Sokolov. He works at the—he works for Ivan Kuznetsov.” I don’t know whether this name will be familiar to them, but I say it as though I expect it will.
“Shut up, Jewess.”
His voice is dismissive, but I think it mattered, what I said. The Russians are in control here now. That has to mean something.
“He’ll be back soon.” Now, I stalk toward the door as if I have more courage than I really do and hold out the leftover grocery money. “So I think you should take this and leave.”
The one named Piotr menacingly snatches the bills from my hand. “Next week. We’ll pay you a little visit next week.”
When they leave, I relock the door and then sink down against it. My thudding heart aches in my chest. My heart hurts even when it’s not beating. But that can’t be right, because my heart hasn’t stopped beating, my heart has continued beating even while the hearts of almost everyone else I ever met have stopped beating, and that is why my heart hurts.
A is for Abek.
Z is for Zofia.
I’m still on the floor twenty minutes later when Dima tries to open the door. He pushes once, twice. “Zofia?” His voice rises in panic.
“One minute, please,” I manage, raking my fists across my eyes and dragging myself to my feet. I open the door. “Some men came. I locked the door when they left, for safety.”
“What men?” He looks back into the hallway; his voice tenses and deepens. “They will come back?”
“I don’t know.”
Dima edges past me. Setting the bedroll down on the floor, he stalks around the apartment, checking to make sure the windows are locked.
“If they come back, it won’t be tonight,” I say. “They saw your cap, and it scared them.”
He finishes his window inspection. He’s still worried, but there’s a small amount of pleasure in his eyes at this last thing I said about his cap protecting me.
“I have this.” He points to the bedroll, army-issued, olive green.
“Thank you.”
“You are sure you don’t come with me?” He takes a few steps toward me, closing the space between us.
“I have to stay. I don’t want anyone to think this apartment is empty.”
“What if I stay tonight?” He’s come all the way across the room now. He strokes his index finger along my cheek. “Not in your room,” he adds hurriedly. “But, for protection.”
“I don’t know.”
“You know, my parents did not speak same language, either,” Dima says, shy-sounding. “He was a soldier, too. Already, I speak more Polish than my father. I think they are very happy now.”
“I’m sure they are,” I say quietly.
This is the first time he’s spoken so plainly about his feelings, plainly enough that I can’t pretend something has been lost in translation, or that I think his kindness is merely friendly.
I have no job. The money given to me at the hospital will run out. I am not safe here alone. Dima cares about me. He wants to protect me. All I have to do is be kind to him. All I have to do is accept this life.
Dima might care about me mostly because he rescued me. But I’m using him, too. The times I theatrically clapped my hands at the gift of lipstick. All the times I watched him swell with pride at the coos of the nothing-girls. The fact that I could leave the hospital because I was leaving with Dima.