“Maybe I will. I told Mama we wouldn’t be long, and we still have to stop by the butcher shop. At this rate, we won’t be home until curfew.”

Mr. Niemczyk cleared his throat in response to our raised voices, but he knew why we’d come, so I imagined he knew what we were trying to do. As if to placate the clerk, I flashed a winning smile at him—though I didn’t miss the aggravated glances from the Volksdeutsche—then picked up a black homburg and shoved it into Irena’s hands.

“Here, buy this one and let’s go.”

She pushed it away. “No, I don’t like that one.”

“Settle down and do not tamper with the merchandise,” Mr. Niemczyk spoke up, but our volume only escalated.

I waved a frustrated hand at the fedoras. “Pick one of those and stop being so particular.”

“Stop being so damn annoying.”

“You’re the one wasting our entire day because of a stupid boy!”

Over our dispute, I caught a few indistinct mutters from the Volksdeutsche; then the man handed his neckties to Mr. Niemczyk and shook his head in refusal. Motioning for the woman to follow, he led the way to the door.

“Forgive the disturbance,” Mr. Niemczyk said, stretching an apologetic hand after them.

When the little bell over the door ceased jingling, Irena and I fell silent. Alone at last. We waited another moment, making sure no one else was coming in, then hurried to the counter.

“Sorry we cost you a customer,” she said, giving me a pointed look. From her handbag, she produced an envelope and a copy of the Biuletyn Informacjny and passed both to him.

As he folded the resistance newspaper, opened the envelope, and pulled out the stack of zloty, Mr. Niemczyk shrugged. “If I forfeit a sale to protect you and your work, it’s an honor.”

She eyed the door before leaning closer to him. “The baby?” she murmured. A note of concern laced her words, absent her usual sharpness.

“Better,” he replied with a smile. “He’s filled out a little, and my children adore him. After I use this money to purchase goods on the black market, we’ll be able to feed him even more.”

I exchanged a relieved glance with Irena. Mama had dropped off the Jewish child in question, and upon her return later that night she’d paced around the living room, fretting about how thin he was. The positive report would ease her concerns, knowing the funds enabled Mr. Niemczyk to utilize the secret civilian market to support his family with more than the paltry rations and goods the Germans allotted.

Mr. Niemczyk dipped his head toward the door. “Run along before you scare off any more of my customers.”

“I’ll handle scaring off one more for you,” Irena said. She turned to me, her eyebrows raised. “Anything else you’d care to say about Patryk?”