Mrs. Bau, who had lost both of her parents to disease at an early age and had few other relatives, soften and decide to forgive Marcin for the sake of her son.
I quickly understood why Jacob adored Krysia—her mix of elegance and unpredictability was irresistible. The child of diplomats who had refused to consign her to boarding school, Krysia had grown up in places I had only read about: Rome, London, Paris. When she married Marcin, they settled in Kraków, and while he continued to travel and perform, Krysia made their home in the city. Their two-story apartment on Basztowa Street quickly became a hub for the city’s cultural elite, with Krysia throwing lavish parties at which she introduced some of Poland’s most promising artists and musicians to those who would become lifelong sponsors and patrons. Yet despite her prominent social role, Krysia shunned convention: she could just as easily be found in one of Kraków’s many cavernous brick cellar taverns, drinking shots of ice-cold potato vodka and debating politics late into the night, as attending the opera or a charity ball.
Krysia and Marcin remained childless; Jacob once told me that he did not know whether this was by choice or by nature. Marcin had died in 1932 after a two-year struggle with cancer. After his death, Krysia sold their apartment in the city center and retreated permanently to their weekend home at Chelmska. There, Krysia mixed solitude with sociability, enjoying the quiet of her garden during the week while continuing to throw dinner parties for those who came to call on the weekends. It was to this house that the stranger was now taking me.
Soon the forest path began to slope downward and the trees grew thinner. A few minutes later, we emerged from the woods. Below us lay the farmhouses of the Chelmska neighborhood. As we started down the road, a rooster’s crowing, then a dog’s bark cut through the silence, threatening to betray our presence. The stranger placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and we froze behind a large bush until the noises subsided. Looking carefully to make sure the way was clear, the stranger led me across the road and around the back of one of the larger houses. He knocked on the door, almost inaudibly. A second later, the back door opened and there, in the dim light, stood Krysia Smok. Before her larger-than-life presence, I felt shamed by my worn clothes and unkempt hair, but she reached out and drew me through the door and into her arms. Her scent, a mix of cinnamon and apples, reminded me of Jacob.
“Kochana,” she said, stroking my hair softly. I stood in her embrace without moving for several moments. Then, remembering the stranger, I turned to thank him, but he was gone.
“Are you tired?” Krysia closed the door and drew me up the stairs into the parlor to a seat beside the fire. I shook my head. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared and I could hear her footsteps as she climbed the stairs to the third floor, followed by the sound of running water overhead. I looked around the room in bewilderment. On the mantel over the fireplace, there were several framed photographs. I stood and walked toward them. Jacob as a child. Jacob and I on our wedding day. Jacob. It was so strange being there without him.
A few minutes later, Krysia reappeared. “You need a warm bath,” she said, placing a large mug of tea on the low table in front of me. “I’m sorry we had to do it this way, there was no choice.”
I buried my head in my hands. “My parents …”
“I know.” She came to stand by my side, and her spicy scent wafted over me once more. “There was no way to get all of you out together. They will be happy to know that you are safe. And we will do what we can to help them from outside.”
I began sobbing, the months of despair catching up with me at last. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, ashamed. Krysia did not reply but simply put her arm around my shoulder and led me upstairs to the bathroom, where fresh nightclothes had been laid out beside the steaming water. When she left, I undressed and stepped into my first real bath in months. I scrubbed from head to toe, washing my hair twice, and lingered until the water had gone cold and brown with dirt.
When I emerged, relaxed and almost too exhausted to stand, Krysia led me to a bedroom. I stared in amazement at the vase of fresh gardenias on the nightstand: did such things really still exist in the world? “Sleep now,” she said, turning back the duvet to reveal crisp white sheets. “I promise that in the morning, I’ll explain everything.”
After months on my straw ghetto pallet, the thick mattress and soft linens felt like a dream. Despite all that had happened that night, I fell quickly into a deep sleep.
I awoke the next morning, confused. Looking around the elegant bedroom, I wondered for a second if I was back in the room I had shared with Jacob at the Baus’. Suddenly, the events of the night before came rushing back to me. I’m at Krysia’s, I remembered, looking out at the forest and wondering how long I had been asleep. The sun was already well across the sky. I went downstairs to the kitchen where Krysia stood at the stove. “I’m sorry to have slept so long,” I apologized.
“Sleep was exactly what you needed. That, and a good meal.” She gestured to a platter of freshly cut fruit on the table. “Sit down.” I sat, hoping she could not hear the loud rumbling of my stomach. She placed a glass of orange juice, thick with pulp, before me. “I am told that your disappearance has already been explained to your parents, and that another girl is taking your place at the orphanage so you will not be missed.” I was both relieved and intensely curious: how did Krysia know such things?
I hesitated, wanting to ask her about Jacob. “The Baus?” I inquired instead, when she had set a plate of eggs in front of me and sat down.
Krysia shook her head. “I heard from them about two months ago. Nothing since. They are fine, although living not in Fania’s usual style.” I detected a wry note in her voice. I nodded. Polish money, even a great deal of it, surely would not go that far in Switzerland, and I knew that much of the Baus’ wealth was inaccessible to them because of the war. “They wanted to contact you themselves, but they were afraid to draw attention to the fact that you were related.”
“Their home …” My stomach twisted at the thought of their grand home.
“It was occupied by a high-ranking Nazi official last spring. The Baus know, or have guessed.” She placed her hand over mine. “There was nothing you could have done to stop it. Now eat.” I obeyed, forgetting my manners and washing down enormous bites of eggs and fruit with mouthfuls of juice. But as I savored the meal, my stomach twisted at the thought of my parents, left behind with only ghetto rations.
“Your name,” Krysia began when I had finished eating, “is Anna Lipowski. You were raised in the northern city of Gdansk but your parents died in the early days of the war and you have come to live with me, your aunt Krysia.”
I stared at her in astonishment. “I don’t understand …”
“You are to live as a gentile, outwardly and openly,” she replied matter-of-factly. “It is the only way. It is impossible to hide Jews in the city, and the countryside is even worse. You are fair-skinned and can easily pass for a Pole. And with the exception of your former coworkers at the university, whom you will avoid, anyone who would have known you as a Jew is gone from the city.” Her last words rang in my ears. Kraków had so changed, I could pass as a stranger in the place I had lived all my life.
“Here are your papers.” She pushed a brown folder across the table to me. Inside were an identity card and two birth certificates.
“Lukasz Lipowski,” I read aloud from the second one. “A three-year-old?”
“Yes, I understand you’ve been eager to help in Jacob’s work.” She paused. “Now is your chance. There is a child who has been hidden in the ghetto for months. He has no parents. He will be brought here to live with us and … to the outside world, he will be your little brother. He arrives tonight.” I nodded slightly, my head spinning. Twenty-four hours ago, I was living in the ghetto with my parents. Now I was free, living with Krysia as a gentile and caring for a child.
“One other thing.” She pushed a smaller envelope across the table. I opened the clasp, and a gold chain with a small gold cross slithered out onto the table. My hand recoiled. “I understand,” she said. “But it is a necessary precaution. There is no other