Chapters (47)
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Chapter 5
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Epilogue
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgments
- P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
- About the Author
- About the Book
- Miscellaneous Facts and Info
- About the Publisher
“Nine months. Jakub’s birthday is in March, so he’s about to turn four, and Adam is fourteen months.” A sudden realization seemed to hit her, one I imagined she’d dwelled on so often before, but with fresh pain each time. “My son is growing from a toddler to a little boy, and I missed my baby’s first words, his first birthday . . .” After a moment, she took a calming breath. “I’ll never forget the night they were taken. It was late Saturday evening, the twelfth of April. We had one final Sabbath as a family. The rest of us were arrested a week later.”
The date stood out in my mind. Something important had happened on the twelfth of April. It was a date I’d promised myself I’d remember because it was the day I completed a resistance errand by myself for the first time. I had delivered papers. Mama was supposed to have joined me, but I’d gone alone because she’d gone to the ghetto.
I sat up a bit straighter, reminding myself to breathe. It was a coincidence, that’s all.
“What about the person who took your children?”
“They went with a woman I’d met a few times, and I had friends who let her take their children. She persuaded me into letting my boys go. She was kind and friendly, but I don’t know much personal information aside from her name. I doubt it was her real name, but she went by Stanisława.”
A resistance woman named Stanisława who rescued children on the twelfth of April. The same alias Mama used, the same night she went into the ghetto.
“What did Stanisława look like?” I kept my voice light. If my suspicions were wrong, I didn’t want to get Hania’s hopes up. After all, I was sure plenty of resistance women went by that alias and had gone into the ghetto that evening.
“She was a Gentile and older than me by ten years or so. Average height, blond hair, beautiful. She wore a wedding band, so I assume she was married.” Hania was quiet for a moment. “Once, she said she had a son a bit older than Jakub, my three-year-old.”
At the time, Karol would have been four years old. “Did Stanisława say anything else about her personal life?”