She was at the door in seconds, sleep rumpled and alarmed.
“Elz·bieta? What is it?”
“Roman. He’s here, but he’s injured.”
“Here?”
“In our apartment. He’s unconscious.”
“How did he find us?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. Sara slipped back into her room, but only to pull a dressing gown over her nightgown and to scoop up her medical bag from beside her bed.
“I hope you realize what this means. We’re going to have to tell your parents the truth.”
“I know.”
“They’re going to kill me,” she said, sighing. “Piotr is going to kill me.”
“Me, too.”
In silence now, we slipped back across the hall and into my own apartment. The entire room had been rearranged. The coffee table was pushed closer to the sofa, and a bucket of soapy water and some towels rested on top. Beside this was a glass of water and a spoon. Our armchairs were moved out of the way, over toward a window, giving Sara space to work.
“I tried to give him some water,” Truda explained, motioning toward the spoon.
“I’ll need scissors,” Sara said briskly, as she dropped to her knees beside Roman and tenderly pushed the hair back from his forehead. She paused, then her voice was thick with tears as she whispered, “You poor boy. What have you seen and done in these weeks?”
Sara once told me that I would need to pray for her because she no longer had it in her to do so. Watching her tend to Roman now, I took it upon myself to pray harder than I had ever prayed in my life, asking for her to be granted the wisdom to help him, asking for protection for our whole family while Roman was in our home.
While I prayed, it occurred to me how proud I was to be a part of this family—a transplant, but a lucky one. I had been ripped from one family that cared for those around them and placed in another. For all of his bluster, it didn’t seem to occur to Uncle Piotr, or even Truda and Mateusz, that we could turn Roman away. I knew that all across Poland, there were other families who would have reacted very differently. Even those who cared may not have cared enough to take the risk. Others would have immediately called the Gestapo.
Truda returned with a pair of scissors, and Sara used them to cut the scrap of filthy fabric of Roman’s shirt, exposing a gaping wound on his upper arm.
“He has been shot,” she said, then she clucked her tongue. “This is a bad wound, and it seems that he’s been through the sewers. He needs a surgeon.”
She paused for a moment, then began firing off orders.
“Elz·bieta, bring everything to the bathroom—the soapy water, the towels, the scissors. Get me more towels, too. Line the bath with them. Mateusz, when she finishes, carry him in and lay him in the bath. Truda, the water is a good start but we’re going to need more than that to rehydrate him—get some sugar and salt and bring it all to the bathroom.”
“And me?” Uncle Piotr prompted her. Sara looked up at him.
“Get dressed,” she said, in a tone that left no room for argument. “You’re going to fetch the surgeon.”
* * *
Our bathroom was small, and we wouldn’t all fit. Sara asked me to assist her, but Truda insisted that she do it. I didn’t argue. Truda knew nothing of the things I had seen in the ghetto and probably thought I’d be shocked by the wound.
She and Sara got to work, sponging Roman’s body, trying to clean what they could of the wound, spooning water into his mouth and trying to rouse him enough to swallow it at regular intervals. Every now and again, I would hear Roman cry out, and inevitably I would hear Sara and Truda frantically hushing him.
We were lucky that our apartment building was small and that the closest adjoining apartment was Sara’s. We were also unlucky in that there were four other apartments on the floors beneath us. It wouldn’t take much for the sound to travel down.
Mateusz and I waited in the hallway outside the bathroom. We had closed the door to contain the noise, but the silence in the hallway was tense.
“You are going to have some explaining to do,” he said, after a while.
“I know,” I muttered.
“We need to get him help and then get him out of here. Then you and I and Truda are going to sit down to talk.”
“I know.”
“How do you even know—” he started to say, and then he broke off, drew in a deep breath.
“I had to do something,” I blurted. Mateusz closed his eyes, as if the words caused him physical pain. “I couldn’t do much, but an opportunity arose, and I took it, because once I knew what was happening, I had to do something. I could not have lived with myself if I hadn’t.”
“What was it you did?” he asked, his gaze pained. “Who is this man? How does he know where we live?”
“I...”
My eyes stung, and then tears began to roll down my cheeks. I could do nothing to stop them. Knowing that the time was coming when Truda and Mateusz would know the extent of my deception left me sick with anxiety.
The door opened, and Sara and Truda appeared, each drying their hands with a towel. Sara was pale and her gaze serious. I wiped at my eyes with the back of my hand.
“How is he?” I croaked.
“The bullet is lodged deeply in his arm. I think it may have hit the bone so there’s nothing more I can do until the surgeon arrives. Roman has lost a lot of blood, and that is even more dangerous than it would have been because he is desperately dehydrated and so malnourished.” She drew in a deep breath and then looked at me. “Elz·bieta, you are going to stay with him and continue to encourage him to drink the salt and sugar mixture I have made. Spoon the water into his mouth, then massage his throat to encourage him to swallow. He needs to rehydrate. This is our priority.”
“Are you leaving?” I asked her anxiously. She shook her head, then looked at Mateusz and Truda.
“No. But your parents deserve an explanation. I take full responsibility for this, so it should be me who provides it.”
“Come,” Truda said and sighed. “I’ll make us some coffee.”
* * *
Roman lay limp in the bathtub. He was covered by a blanket, except for his right arm which rested upon it, the wound oozing through bandages. He was cleaner than I had ever seen him. His head was resting on a folded towel, his face tilted toward me, his eyes closed and his mouth slack.
“I’m so glad you’re alive,” I said as I sat on the floor beside the bath and took the spoon. “I missed our conversations.” I drew in a deep breath, then stared at his wan face as I whispered, “I missed you.”