The Memories We Keep. Walter Zacharius

I would have to leave as soon as I got the old woman settled. If she had no food, then maybe a cup of tea, and I’d be gone.

      “Why didn’t you answer me by the pond?” the old woman asked again. “You know, you should have said something, you gave me such a fright. I thought perhaps you…Now tell me the truth. You’re not a gypsy, are you?”

      I marveled at the irony. “Of course not, grandma.”

      The old woman retreated. “I’m sorry. It’s just that ever since the invasion, you hear all the time how—”

      We were almost at the house. “I know.”

      “When Marta comes back from the shops, it’s all she talks about. The war. The soldiers. They carry on in broad daylight with the young girls, though not Marta, of course. She wouldn’t let them touch her. But some of the loose girls, they have husbands even. Bands of gypsies roaming the countryside. Renegade Jews. It’s disgusting how they let their women—”

      I shivered.

      “You’re cold,” she said. “Why, you’re so thin you’re almost a stick. I can feel your rib cage. And where’s your coat? Don’t your parents feed and clothe you, poor thing? Or is it your husband?” We reached the steps to the house and began to climb them, though it was difficult to say who was supporting whom. “I shouldn’t ask so many questions,” the woman prattled on. “I’m just a prying old woman. But there’s a fine borscht left over from last night. You can heat some for us if you’re hungry. What did you say your name was, dear?”

      Mia. “Saskia,” I said.

      We went across the porch and entered the kitchen. In fact, Marta had made a fire this morning, and I knelt by the dying embers, tossed in a log, and blew into the hearth until it ignited. A pot of soup was suspended over the fire, and it quickly heated until the air was thick with its sweet pungency and I nearly fainted in anticipation.

      I took up a poker resting by the fireplace and poked at the log, glancing from the iron rod to the old woman’s head, then back to my white knuckles. I could do it! I thought, horrified by my own fantasy. If Marta came and realized who I was—a Jew without clothes, without food—I could murder them both. My father had been betrayed by a “friendly” Pole and then had bought my freedom dearly, perhaps with his own life. It was my duty to survive. Papa had set in motion the events that had brought me to this cottage full of warmth and steaming food and danger. Surely he—and perhaps even God—had a reason for sparing me.

      The old woman fussed with the chairs, the place setting, and the bowls until I thought I’d go mad. Finally, she let me ladle out the soup, and we sat facing each other at the table. I swallowed my first steaming spoonful, not caring that it burned my tongue and seared my throat. Nothing had ever tasted so delicious. Tears filled my eyes; my thoughts of murder were too horrible, too cruel. I lifted the bowl and poured nourishment into me. Thank God the woman was blind.

      When we had finished eating, the old woman went to a different room and returned carrying a soft flannel robe. “Wear this,” she said. “You’ll want to hang your clothes by the fire to dry.”

      “Yes.” I shook my head as if wakening from a dream. The old woman could not imagine what lay behind my clipped responses, the joy and the anguish, the rapture and the terror all colliding in my mind.

      I prayed with all my might that Marta would never return.