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

She was smart, I could tell, in a way that reminded me of my friend Miriam. “How do you know so much about the stars?”

“I love all the sciences, and astronomy is one of my favorites. My father and I used to go onto the roof of our apartment building to see them.” There was a look of sadness in her eyes. She had a whole life before the sewer, now gone.

“Your father, he isn’t with you in the sewer?”

She shook her head. “He died right after we escaped the ghetto. He drowned in the sewer waters shortly after we fled.”

“Oh!” I had not imagined water wide or deep enough to drown in beneath the ground. “How awful. My father died during the war, too. I’m sorry to hear about yours.”

“Thank you, and yours as well.”

“Ella?” a voice called behind me.

I turned, stumbling as I tried to stand back up quickly. I had not expected to hear my own name in this faraway part of town. I froze, praying the girl had scampered from view.

Then I turned to see Krys.

“Krys.” I was caught off guard by the unexpected meeting and a dozen emotions seemed to cascade over me at once. Happiness and the rush of warmth I always felt when I saw him. Anger and sadness as I remembered how he had broken up with me, all that was no longer between us. And surprise: how had he found me here?

Krys helped me to my feet. He looked more handsome than ever, a bit of stubble lining his strong jaw, blue eyes twinkling beneath a low-brimmed cap. His hand lingered awkwardly on mine, sending a current of electricity through me. Except we weren’t that way at all anymore, I remembered. The rejection washed over me anew. I took a step back. I had left the house hurriedly for my errand. My hair was not at all what it should be, my dress soiled at the hem from where I had knelt. I looked away, not meeting his eyes.

“This is an odd part of town for you,” he remarked. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” I said, stalling for time. Then I remembered my errand from the previous day. “I came for some cherries my stepmother needed.” The excuse was implausible since it was Sunday, but it was the best I could do.

“Doing Ana Lucia’s bidding?” He smiled. “That’s odd.” My dislike for my stepmother had been a joke between us many times. Now it seemed too personal, not his place.

“I was just trying to be helpful,” I said coldly, not wanting to laugh with him anymore.

“I can help you find some,” he offered.

“That isn’t necessary. I’ll manage,” I said, holding together my pride. “Thank you.” There had been a time when I could have accepted his help, but now that seemed like another life.

He looked down, shuffled his feet. “Ella, about yesterday... I wish you would let me explain.”

“That’s all right,” I said quickly, cutting him off. “I’d rather not.” The last thing I wanted was a long list of excuses as to why his new life no longer included me. Krys had not changed his mind. Rather, he was just trying to justify his decision not to be with me anymore. Discussing it further was a pain I didn’t need.

We stood looking at one another for several seconds, neither speaking. His eyes traveled over my shoulder. Following his gaze, I could see that there was a Polish policeman on the corner, watching us. “You need to take care, Ella,” Krys said. “Things are dangerous on the streets and getting worse.” He was still concerned about me; that much was clear. But not enough to want to be together.

“We should go,” I said.

“Ella...” he began. But what else was there to say?

“Goodbye, Krys.” I turned away from him, not wanting to watch as he left me behind once more.

8

Sadie

When the man appeared above the grate and started talking to the girl on the street, I jumped back into the shadows. Ella, he had called her. The name rolled off my tongue like a musical note. I was not able to hear the rest of their conversation, but I could tell from her expression and the way that they stood close to one another that she knew him well and liked him—or once had anyway.

As I watched them, my eyes fixed on the cross around her neck, which marked her as a Catholic Pole and magnified the differences between us. I remembered then the exact moment as a child that I realized we were not like everyone else. I had been five and shopping with my mother at Plac Nowy, the open-air market that served both the Jewish and non-Jewish residents of Kazimierz. It was late April and the third day of Passover. We had cleared the hametz, the bread and other leavened foods that were forbidden during the eight days of the holiday, from our kitchen. As we passed the bakery, though, fresh bułeczki sat temptingly in the window. “But it’s Pesach,” I had remarked, confused as I eyed the rolls.

Mama explained to me that only a small percentage of the Polish people were Jewish. “The others, they have their own holidays and customs. It’s a good thing,” she added. “Imagine how boring the world would be if we were all the same.” But I wished I could be like the other children my age and eat pastries whenever I wanted, even during Passover. It was then I understood for the first time how very different we Jews were from the rest of the world, an early preview of the lesson I would learn all too well when the Germans came. Now as I stood in the sewer, staring up at beautiful Ella With The Cross, I felt that otherness more than any other time, even during the persecution and suffering of the war.

Finally, the man walked away. A few