Between kisses, he whispers my name, whispers for me to come to America with him and leave all of this behind. A familiar longing pierces the comfort of his embrace and the tingling warmth his fingers send across my skin. Longing for him, longing to be something other than what I’ve become, a thing created by that place. The loud voice interferes, telling me to ignore the little voice, and I’m tempted to listen to its deafening cries. But the little voice knows best. So much of me remains scattered, a jumble of chess pieces on a board where strategy has come apart, leaving confusion and chaos in its wake. Sorting through the mayhem is a challenge only I can overcome.

Once more, I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes. How I wish things could be different.

“You know, Maciek,” I murmur, “I think Americans have post offices.”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest and vibrates against my ear. “Is that so?”

“I can’t be certain, but it’s a strong possibility.” I lift my head to look at him. “Maybe I’ll write to you someday. But if I do, and if you receive my letter and don’t respond, that’s rude, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll write back. It’s rude to disrespect a girl’s wishes.”

I pull his lips to mine once more. The loud voice makes one final attempt, reminding me how easy it would be to never let him go.

I gently release him. Instead I cling to this moment and the promise that, someday, perhaps I’ll find the next.

Once Mateusz is gone, I stay where I am, looking at the letters tucked into the corner of my valise. He really isn’t a stupid boy after all.

Chapter 37

Warsaw, 7 May 1945

IRENA WARNED US that Warsaw wasn’t the same, but no warning could have prepared me or Hania to return to what’s left of our city. Buildings that were once grand and ornate lie in crumbles of dust, ash, brick, and glass while other ruins have been cleared, leaving gaping holes. The emptiness reminds me of the hollow spaces in our bunks following selections. The streets, once thriving, are all but abandoned—the result of countless civilian deaths, deportations, and escapes. Warsaw has been almost obliterated.

Of course my city is beaten, bruised, nearly destroyed. Even if I had found the justice I’d sought, finding it would not have buried the past as I had hoped; now I face my past and present. Those who made Warsaw beautiful—made it my home—lost their lives. My actions ripped the beauty from my life and left me in ruins just as bombs, bullets, and blood ravaged my city. The home I left no longer exists; it has become a reflection of the life I created.