She joined Irena in the kitchen, and I concentrated on the muffled conversation carrying through the walls, on Irena’s complaints that she’d be encumbered by me, a child.

Mama sat with her lips pressed together while I placed my teacup on the silver tray and ran a finger over the sofa’s floral upholstery. Irena’s disparaging gaze and caustic tongue would place me under constant scrutiny. She’d analyze me the way I analyzed a chessboard, seeking weaknesses to inhibit my opponent. I didn’t intend to lose to her. As an established resistance member, she had the initial advantage, but she’d need more than that to overcome me.

After Mrs. Sienkiewicz coaxed Irena back into the living room, Mama embraced me, her grasp tight, breaths unsteady. I inhaled her familiar scent—geranium, her favorite flower. When she kissed the top of my head, the tautness in her body eased.

“Be careful,” she whispered as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, probably to distract me from her glassy eyes.

Mrs. Sienkiewicz wrapped a comforting arm around Mama’s shoulders and led her from the apartment, off to complete their own resistance errands. The door closed with a gentle click, and a tense silence hung in the room until Irena broke it.

“Don’t expect a damn thing from me. The work comes first, not the people.”

“Glad I can count on you, Irena.”

“It’s Marta, you idiot.” She pulled her false work permit and Kennkarte from her handbag and waved them to emphasize her alias. We exchanged identification documents. “Helena Pilarczyk,” she said, reading mine aloud. It was a good name. I liked it—not as much as I liked Maria Florkowska, but I liked it. Irena snatched her card, shoved mine into my hands, and left without waiting for me.

“What’s our first errand?” I asked as I hurried to match her long strides.

“If I wanted you to ask questions, I would’ve said so.”

A knot of anger tightened in my stomach, but I stayed silent. We walked past dilapidated bakeries and battle-scarred churches, bare parks and meager storefronts. Some fought for a semblance of their former splendor; others had given up. The crowd swelled as we moved toward the city center. I expected Irena to lead me to a streetcar so we could make the journey in half the time, but she didn’t. She darted down the street and wove in and out among passersby; whether or not I kept up didn’t seem to matter.

At last we turned on to Hoża Street, one of my favorites due to its multitude of trees, covered with green leaves and vibrant blooms during springtime. A few buds were cautiously starting to emerge, but maintaining Irena’s pace didn’t leave me time to admire them. I followed her toward a cluster of buildings, the provincial house of the Franciscan Sisters of the Family of Mary. Irena bypassed the black gate nestled within the redbrick wall, stopped before a small wooden door, and pressed the doorbell.