Mother Matylda accepted the small paper. “May God grant her health and a long life,” she murmured as she unfolded the paper and placed it on the table. I strained my eyes to glimpse its contents. In Mrs. Sienkiewicz’s elegant script was a list of names, and one stood out to me. Stanisława Pilarczyk, my mother’s alias.

The paper stayed on my mind as we returned to the Sienkiewiczes’ apartment. Irena tossed her coat over the back of an armchair and dropped into it, paying me no heed. My feet felt three sizes too big for my shoes, so I curled my toes to alleviate the throbbing. We must have walked eight kilometers. I wasn’t sure why she was opposed to streetcars.

“You keep messages in your bra?” I asked at last.

Irena studied her nails. “All resistance girls have padded bras with pockets in them.”

“And that’s your method for smuggling information to religious sisters?”

“I’m taking advantage of the gifts God gave me.” Irena looked up long enough to smirk at me. “You should get a bra like that, you know. Does that bother you? Because if you’re too prudish to hide information wherever necessary, you might as well quit now.” She chuckled as she kicked off her oxfords and tucked her feet under her in the chair.

I’m glad you find yourself so amusing, I thought, though I didn’t voice the words aloud. Instead I moved closer to her chair, but she got up and crossed toward the mantel. “You gave Mother Matylda a coded message, didn’t you?”

“Figure it out, if you’re so damn smart.”

“You’re supposed to be teaching me, and you’re doing a terrible job.”

“I am teaching you. I told you about the bra you’ll need to wear, and I’m telling you to figure out the message for yourself.”

With a huff, I paced around the room and settled beside the writing desk in the corner. A thin film of dust covered the typewriter, as if it hadn’t been used in a few days, and a paperweight rested atop a stack of papers. I picked up a pencil and tapped a finger against its dull point. Rather than running errands with a helpful resistance member, I would be carrying out mine in Irena’s difficult company.

“Irena.” When she heard her real name, she glared and returned to her chair, and I enjoyed my small victory before continuing. “Tell me why Mother Matylda was creating baptismal certificates and why my mother’s alias was on that paper.”

“Good Lord,” she muttered, but she shooed me into the chair across from hers. “How the hell do you expect the sisters to disguise Jewish children without certificates? They have to prepare the documents so resistance members can smuggle children from the ghetto.”

“Mama is taking a child to the sisters?”