“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “She saved me. Only now I’m here and she isn’t.”

“It isn’t your fault,” he said, staring hard off into the distance and blinking back tears. “You did everything you could. She loved you, you know. She would be glad to know that you are alive.”

“But she isn’t!” I exclaimed, my sorrow bursting forth then. He drew me close and let me cry into the front of his shirt, heedless of the filthy water that soaked through.

“We should go,” he said gently a moment later.

“No.” I knew that he was right. But I was not ready to leave her behind. I turned back toward the entrance. We should be leaving together.

“We can’t stay here,” he said firmly. “She would want you to do whatever you had to in order to live. You know that, don’t you?” I did not answer. “Don’t let her death be for nothing.” He pulled me up the riverbank. It was hard for me to walk, the thought of leaving her too much to bear. But she was gone. And staying here was not going to bring her back. Reluctantly, I let him draw me away from the exposed riverbank toward safety, but every step felt like a betrayal of the friend I left behind.

As we neared the street, I looked up at the tapestry of stars in the night sky. They seemed almost blue and it was as if there was one for each of the souls who had been set free. I saw her in the stars above and I knew that it was important that I go on for both of us. I could see it now, the constellations we had seen together that night, beckoning and leading me home.

When we reached the foot of the bridge, I looked back over my shoulder. Kraków, the only city I had ever known, sat shrouded in darkness, except for the sky, which burned pink along the horizon to the east. War still raged, my hometown under siege. And I was abandoning it. My guilt rose.

No, not abandoning, I corrected myself. I was leaving, but I would find a way to fight and honor her memory.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, putting my hand in his. Our fingers tightened around one another’s and together we took our first step toward freedom.

Epilogue

Kraków, Poland
June 2016

The woman I see before me is not the one I expected at all.

As I near her table, I study the woman, who has not yet seen me. Though she must be over ninety, her smooth skin and perfect posture make her look much younger. She has not succumbed to the short hair of old age as I have, but wears her white curls in a high messy bun that accentuates her cheekbones and other strong features. She is, in a word, regal.

Still, close up there is something different about her than I expected. Something familiar. It must be the anticipation, I tell myself, the searching and waiting. The moment I have dreamed of for so long is finally here.