The Woman with the Blue Star, Pam Jenoff [highly recommended books txt] 📗

I had reached the high embankment over the river, I saw boats clustered around the castle. Large crates were being carted from inside and carried up a ramp onto a boat, the heavier ones wheeled. A heist, I thought, my childhood imagination working overtime. I imagined summoning the police, being hailed as a hero for foiling the plot. The people who were taking things did not look like criminals, though. They were museum workers, stealthily slipping our national treasures from the castle in order to save them. But from what? Plunder? Air raids? The paintings were being rescued, yet we were being left behind to face whatever fate awaited us under the Germans. I knew then that nothing would be the same.

On the far side of the bridge sat Dębniki, the neighborhood where Hanna thought there might be cherries to buy. Its skyline was a mix of factories and warehouses, another world from the elegant churches and spires of the city center. I paused on Zamkowa, a street close to the river’s edge, to get my bearings. I had not been to Dębniki on my own before and it had not occurred to me until now that I might get lost. I hesitated, looking at the low building on the corner, which seemed to be a loading site for crates onto a barge that was docked at the river’s edge. It was not the sort of place I was comfortable asking directions. But there were no passersby whom I might ask and so it seemed my best option if I wanted to get to market in time to get the cherries and save Hanna. I steeled myself and started forward toward a group of men who stood smoking by a loading dock.

“Excuse me,” I said, and I saw in their faces just how out of place I was here.

“Ella?” I was surprised to hear my own name. I turned to find a familiar face: Krys’ father. His strong brow and deep-set eyes were a mimeograph of his son’s. Krys had been raised in the working-class neighborhood of Dębniki. His father was a stevedore, and his family utterly unsuited to ours, Ana Lucia had reminded me more than once. I had been to Krys’ house just a few times to meet his parents. Though he would never admit such things mattered to him, some part of him, I suspected, had been embarrassed to show me the small house on a plain street where he had been raised. I had been charmed, though, by the simple warmth of his family, and the way his mother doted on her “baby” even though he was a strapping twenty-year-old who towered over her by nearly a foot. I had loved spending time in their home, which was as welcoming as my own was now cold.

Of course, their house was still now, too. Krys’ parents had sent three sons to the war, and the older two had been killed and one was still gone. His father looked older than I remembered him, the lines in his face more deeply etched, broad shoulders stooped, hair mostly gray. Guilt rose in me. Even though I had not been close to Krys’ parents, I should have checked in on them since he had left.

But his father showed no recrimination as he stepped toward me, eyes warm but puzzled. “Ella, what are you doing here?” I started to tell him that I needed directions. “If you are looking for Krys, he will be back soon,” he added.

“Back?” I repeated the word, certain that I had heard him wrong. Had he received word from Krys? My heart skipped a beat. “From the war?”

“No, back from lunch. He’s expected within the hour.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Krys is still away at war.” I wondered if the older man was confused, if the grief and loss had teased his mind.

But his eyes were clear. “No, he’s been back for two weeks. He has been working here with me.” His voice was sure and certain, leaving no doubt. I froze, stunned silent. Krys was back. “I’m sorry,” Krys’ father said. “I thought you knew.”

No, I hadn’t. “Please, do you know where I can find him?”

“He said he had an errand. I believe it was to the café on Barska, the one where he went often before the war.” He pointed up the street that led away from the river. “Second street on the right. You might find him there.”

“Thank you.” I set off in the direction of the café, mind racing. Krys was back. Part of me was overjoyed. He was just steps away, and in a matter of minutes, I might see him. But the man I was supposed to marry had returned from the war—and had not bothered to tell me. I suppose it made sense; after all, he had broken up with me before leaving. I was just a girl from his past, an afterthought. Still, to not even tell me that he was back and safe, to leave me worrying and wondering, was outrageous. Surely he owed me more than this. I considered my options: go after him, do nothing. If he had not come to see me, I should not lower myself to chasing him. But I needed to know what had happened, why he had not come back to me. Propriety be damned. I started toward the café.

Barska Street, where Krys’ father had sent me, was near the center of Dębniki. As I made my way through the neighborhood, I noticed that the buildings here were close-set, their facades tinged with soot and pockmarked. I soon reached the café. This was not some elegant restaurant on the market square, but a simple café, where people grabbed a black ersatz cup of coffee or a quick poppy seed or sweet cheese roll before heading back to work. I scanned the patrons who stood around the few high tables on the far side of the window. I had imagined seeing