Her voice broke, and then she started to cry. That set off a chain reaction around the table. Soon even Matylda was weeping.
I wasn’t the only person in that room left feeling broken by what we had seen that day. The sound of those women weeping validated my deep, uncompromising grief.
* * *
The next day, I did not meet Sara in the lobby to catch the tram at seven o’clock. Instead, I lay in bed, curled up in a little ball, thinking about the children walking with their dolls. I’d barely slept because the image of that line of children just kept marching through my head, an endless circle of lost hope and life.
“Elz·bieta, I know you’re unwell, but you must try to eat so you can keep your strength up,” Truda said, bringing me a plate of soup at lunchtime. “Sara called from your office. She said that they are missing you very much and that they are hoping you will be back there to work tomorrow.”
“Perhaps,” I said dully. “I’m not hungry. Could I eat it later?”
I stayed in bed all day. This was something I had not had the luxury of doing after my father’s death, and certainly not after my brother died. In some way, I had some grieving to catch up on, and as I lay in bed on that rainy day, I luxuriated in it. Just after seven o’clock my door opened, and Sara stepped into my room. She closed the door quietly, then sat on the edge of my bed.
“You are sulking,” she said. “I understand why. I did my share of pouting last night, too.”
“I am grieving.”
“There were two hundred children in that orphanage.”
“Did they survive?” I asked, suddenly so hopeful that I sat up. Sara winced.
“Darling, no...” She shook her head. “No one knows for sure what lies beyond the train, but they definitely went on the train, and they aren’t coming back. Listen, I need you to understand there were two hundred children in the orphanage. That they are lost is an immense tragedy, but think about the scale of this, Elz·bieta. There are maybe fifty thousand more children in that ghetto tonight. We could not save the two hundred, but there will be others, and every life we save is a life that counts. You need to come back to work tomorrow.”
“I can’t,” I said, sinking back into the pillow. “I’m sorry, Sara. I just can’t.”
“I know we ask a lot of you, and you are but a child yourself. I know it is too much, but when I think of what the children in the ghetto are being forced to endure... Well, when I consider that, I don’t feel guilty about the things we ask of you. Besides, you are within our circle of trust, and it is a very small circle—every part counts. And besides all of that?”
She reached into her pocket and withdrew a small note that was folded tightly. She reached for my hand and pressed it into my palm.
“Do you remember the Gorka children last week? The sick baby, the young boy?”
“The angry brother,” I said hesitantly, and she nodded. I shuddered, and tears filled my eyes. “Sara, I am not strong enough to keep doing this. I thought I was, but I was wrong. I can’t.”
Sara picked the note up out of my palm and unfolded it, then rested it back in my hands.
“The Gorka children are not lost. In fact, Matylda has found a foster mother for the baby—a woman who has lost a child of her own and who has milk and food and can help that tiny babe recover. But the only way that mother connects with that baby is if we continue to do our work.”
“You can facilitate that without me,” I whispered. “I don’t even help you with that side of things.”
“You will see, Elz·bieta. What you do is just as important as the work I do, and I cannot let you give up like this. I will see you tomorrow morning in the lobby.”
“No,” I protested, but she rose, kissed my forehead and murmured, “Darling, read the damned note,” and then she left.
I stared down at the paper in my hand. The words were written in a firm, blocky fashion; even the handwriting looked to be simmering with rage. Even so, there was no denying the immense humility it had taken him to write me, and I could sense genuine remorse in the words. I pictured his little sister, and I remembered how empty her gaze had been.
Empty like my brother’s eyes after his death.
I suddenly understood the rage I had seen in Roman Gorka. I thought about that young man, trapped within the ghetto walls all but doomed, and yet still committed enough to goodness to make amends. There was nothing he could do to help his family other than convince his parents to let their children go.
But there was something I could do. I could pull myself together and go back into that ghetto to teach his little brother the Catholic prayers. I climbed out of bed and went to have dinner with my family.
“Are you feeling better?” Mateusz asked, ruffling my hair as he moved to take his seat.
“I am,” I murmured.
“Should we make some dolls later?” Uncle Piotr asked cheerfully. I shuddered involuntarily, thinking of the dolls in the hands of those children.
“I’m still tired,” I forced myself to say. “I’ll have an early night.”
The dolls had been a pure idea—an innocent gesture to benefit innocent children. Even so, I knew I would never sit with my family to draw faces onto those figures again.
Maybe I could force myself to return to the ghetto, but I would have to learn how to stop bringing the ghetto home with me or I’d never survive.
* * *
I was always nervous to do house visits, but Sara insisted we call on the Gorka family on our way home the next day, to tell them the news about the placement she’d found for baby Eleonora.
“Thank you for coming back,” Maja said, offering us a shy smile as she let us into the apartment.
The last time we visited, the other families in the apartment had been occupied with tasks in the kitchen and courtyard. Today, there were people everywhere, and I was struck by the thought of all these people trying to live in this tiny space. An elderly woman sat on a cushion on the floor, watching as three children squabbled over a little ball. Two frail and elderly men were reading, and through the open kitchen door I saw two middle-aged women sitting at the table, talking.
I reached into the hidden compartment of my bag but found I only had two dolls. I sighed and withdrew my hand, but just then, Sara reached into her own bag.
“I need to empty the compartment in my bag,” she murmured, shuffling around in it, then handing me a chunk of bread and three dolls. I took the gifts across the room to the children and crouched to their level.
“Hello,” I said. “Would you like a gift?”
I broke the bread up into three pieces, and the children immediately took their share and stuffed it into their mouths.