among the friendly banter. I recognized a few of the people from around the ghetto, but they looked like entirely different people from the somber characters I had seen on the streets. Here, they were energized, talking and laughing with friends as though at a party a million miles from the ghetto.
A few minutes later, someone rang a small bell. As if on cue, everyone quieted and gathered around the table to find seats. Marta led me to two empty places at the end of the table by the front door. Looking around, I counted at least eighteen people. It seemed there would not be room for so many, but everyone jostled and squeezed in. We stood shoulder to shoulder with the others at our respective places in silence.
The door at the far end of the room opened and two men entered. One was stocky and appeared to be in his early twenties, the other slightly taller and older with a trim goatee. They stood at the places that had been left empty at the head of the table. A young woman standing beside the older man lit the candles. The gathering watched in silence as she circled the flames with her hands three times, reciting the Sabbath prayer.
“That’s Alek Landesberg,” Marta whispered, gesturing toward the older man. “He sort of leads this group.”
“Shalom aleichem,” the man began to sing in a rich baritone, and the group all joined in the traditional welcome to the Sabbath. I looked around the table. The faces had been unknown to me an hour ago. Now, bathed in candlelight, they looked as familiar as family. As they sang, their voices rose and formed a tapestry that seemed to separate this place from the horrible, desolate world outside. Tears came to my eyes. Marta, noticing my reaction, squeezed my hand.
When the song was over, we sat down and Alek raised a rusted wineglass and said the kiddush blessing. He then said the motze over the challah before sprinkling salt on it, cutting it and passing it around. The bread was clearly not from the ghetto kitchen; it had a thick crust and a soft inside that reminded me of father’s bakery. As soon as the plate had passed by, I regretted not managing to take an extra piece to take to my parents. Then several girls stood and went to the kitchen and emerged with steaming pots, from which they ladled generous spoonfuls of chicken stock, carrots and potatoes into our bowls. My stomach rumbled. This, too, was obviously not ghetto food.
Throughout the meal, people chattered nonstop. They were friendly, but self-absorbed, and there were many inside jokes, teasing and nicknames that no one bothered to explain to me. I listened with interest as Marta talked over me with the girl to my right about various boys, and then debated with two boys to her left whether the United States would enter the war. I did not mind that no one addressed me directly or asked me questions. At the head of the table, I could see the man who had chanted the prayers looking in my direction. He whispered something to the stocky, younger man on his left. I could feel my cheeks growing flushed in the crowded, too-hot room.
After dinner, as the girls served strong, black coffee in cracked cups with mismatched saucers, a young man produced a guitar and began to play. People pushed back from the table and reclined in their chairs, looking as happy and relaxed as though they were at a spa in Krynice for a summer holiday. We sang and listened for hours to the Yiddish and Hebrew songs, including some that I had not heard in years. Finally, when Marta and I dared stay no longer for fear of the curfew, we thanked the others and left.
From that night onward, I returned to the apartment on Josefinska Street every Friday. I tried to shrug off the guilt I felt at not spending the Sabbath with my parents. For those brief few hours each week, I could forget where I was and all that was going on around me. Shabbes dinner became the highlight of my week.
One Friday night, when I had been coming to Shabbes dinner at Josefinska 13 for about six weeks, Helga, the woman who cooked the dinner each week, approached Marta and me as the evening was ending and we were putting on our coats. “Alek would like to see you,” she said, addressing me.
My stomach jumped. Marta flashed me a questioning look. I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “You don’t have to wait for me,” I told her. The woman gestured toward the door at the back of the room. I approached nervously, wondering if perhaps I had done something to offend Alek. But when I knocked on the half-open door, he waved me in affably.
The back room was less than half the size of the front, with a small table covered in papers, a few chairs and a cot. “Emma, I’m Alek,” he said warmly, extending his hand. I shook it, surprised he knew my name. Alek introduced the man who had been seated beside him at dinner. “This is Marek.” The other man nodded and, gathering a stack of papers from the table, excused himself from the room. “Have a seat.” I perched on the edge of the chair Alek had indicated. Up close, I could see the dark circles and fine lines around his eyes. “I apologize for not introducing myself sooner, but I have had pressing business.” I wondered what kind of business one could have in the ghetto. “Emma, let me be blunt.” He lowered his voice. “We have a mutual friend.” His eyebrows lifted. “A very close friend. From the university.”
Alek knows Jacob, I realized, my heart leaping. I was unable to control the flash of recognition that crossed my face. Then, regaining my composure, I started to protest. “I … I don’t know what you’re …
“Don’t worry.” He raised his hand to silence me. “I am the only one who knows.” He continued, “I heard about you from him some time ago, saw your picture.” I blushed. He was referring to our wedding photo, the same one that Krysia had hidden. I knew Jacob had a copy, but I didn’t realize he had shown it to anyone. Did he still have it? I wondered. How long ago had he shown it to this man? “He asked me to keep an eye out in case you arrived here,” Alex explained. “I didn’t know who you were until you came here recently. We do the same work, you see, your friend and I.” I realized then that Alek was also part of the resistance movement.
“Have you …?” I didn’t dare to finish the question.
“We occasionally have word from him, usually through our messengers, since of course he cannot come to the ghetto. I will send word that we’ve made contact and that you are all right.”
“Please, it would mean a great deal to me.” He nodded. I hesitated before speaking again. “Can I help, too … with the work, I mean?”
Alek shook his head firmly. “I’m sorry, but no. Our friend thought that you might ask, and he made it very clear that you were not to become involved. He is concerned for your safety.”
“I wish he was a little less concerned with my safety and a little more with his own.” I was surprised at the forcefulness of my own words.
Alek eyed me sternly. “Your husband is a great fighter, Emma. You should be very proud.”
“I am,” I replied, chastised.
“Good. For the time being, I will respect his wishes and keep you uninvolved. But—” he paused, stroking his goatee “—you are your own person, and if you wish to help, the time may come when you can be of use to us. As you can see, many women are involved.” He gestured to the larger room and I realized for the first time that the others at the Shabbes gathering, including Marta, were actually part of the resistance. “Meanwhile, you are always welcome here. Of course, the others cannot know who you are—your marriage must remain a secret. I just wanted to make contact and let you know about our connection.”
“Thank you.” I grasped Alek’s arm, a wave of relief and gratitude washing over me. He nodded and smiled warmly, then turned back to his paperwork in a manner that, while not rude, told me that our conversation was over and it was time for me to go. I crossed back through the apartment and out the door, almost dancing. Alek knew Jacob and he knew about our marriage. For the first time since my husband had disappeared, I did not feel completely alone.
CHAPTER 4
The Monday after my conversation with Alek, Marta appeared at the orphanage as my shift ended. I was not surprised to see her; she had dropped by almost every day in the time since we’d become friends. “I have to return the kettle to the kitchen,” I told her. Each morning, the central kitchen in the ghetto delivered a large vat of soup to the orphanage for the children. The broth was always