“It’s a terrible thing, no? To make this for a baby?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “The most terrible thing.”
“Don’t cry.”
She rubbed her hand across her face, ashamed of the tears that had escaped and given her away.
“Come, sit here.” He put his arm around her shoulder, guiding her to the woodpile in the trees.
“I . . . I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I . . . it’s just . . .”
“A baby died—that is a sad thing.” She felt the warmth of him as he held her close.
“Yesterday, when we saw her, lying there on the riverbank . . . it brought back memories for me.” Martha had never talked about it to anyone. Not even Arnie. For him, the death of their child had been a taboo subject. “I had a baby,” she whispered. “A little girl. But she died.”
“You have this.” He took a piece of cloth from his pocket—white cotton with ragged edges. It felt soft against her skin. When she looked up, she saw that he was crying, too. Instinctively she hugged him to her, cradling his head against her shoulder, stroking his hair. For a moment they clung to each other. It was as if they were frozen in time. He murmured something she couldn’t make out.
“What is it?” She cupped his face in her hands.
“I feel the same way—like you.” His voice was husky with grief. “I have a little girl. I think she is dead.” He gazed at the trees above her head as he told her about his daughter, Lubya, who had been three years old when he was arrested by the Nazis and transported to Germany.
“And your wife . . . ?” The word felt uncomfortable, like gristle in a piece of meat.
“I wrote letters when I worked at the airplane factory,” he said, “but nothing came from Poland.” He closed his eyes. “I made a mark on the wall for every day that passed. It grew—like a child grows. Sometimes when I looked, it broke my heart.”
Martha felt something thicken in her throat at the thought of what he must have suffered all this time. How had he remained so calm, so stoic, in the weeks she had known him? How could he have kept it all inside for so long? She should have had the courage to ask, should have admitted to herself that tiptoeing around the subject of his past was as much for her sake as for his. The truth was, she hadn’t wanted to know.
“You’ll go back? When the border opens?” She lowered her hands. Their skin was no longer touching.
“Yes. It’s what I’m waiting for. To find where they have gone.”
Martha stumbled through the door of the cabin. She needed to be alone for a while. But as she stepped inside, she heard a noise in the kitchen.
“I couldn’t eat breakfast,” Delphine called, “but I’m really hungry now.” Her head appeared around the door. “Have you had anything? Oh, Martha, you look terrible!”
Martha slumped onto one of the dining chairs. “It’s just . . . I . . . I saw the grave—for the baby. Stefan was making a cross.”
Delphine came to sit beside her. “You’re bound to be upset. Seeing him doing that—it makes it so real, so . . . final.”
“I started crying.” Martha stared at a ring on the surface of the table where something hot had marked it. “Then he got upset, too. He told me he had a daughter in Warsaw who was three years old when he last saw her. He doesn’t know if she’s still alive.”
Delphine put her hand on Martha’s. “What else did he tell you?”
“That he hasn’t heard from his wife since he was taken by the Germans. He wrote letters but . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She blinked at the mark on the table, trying to hold back tears.
“He’ll be going through hell.” Delphine’s voice was level, but it had an intensity that made Martha look up.
“I’m sorry,” Martha whispered. “I shouldn’t have spoken about it. You of all people must know how it feels.”
Delphine nodded. “The not-knowing is like slow torture. But for him, there’s an extra dimension.”
“Why?”
“His heart is split in two,” Delphine replied. “Forgive me, but I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
Martha stared, wordless, through blurred eyes.
“I thought I was imagining it at first,” Delphine went on. “But then, at the wedding . . . You looked so lovely in that dress—he couldn’t take his eyes off you.” She sighed softly. “I was so afraid for you. I thought there must be someone. I mean, everyone in this place has lost family, haven’t they? I wanted to say something to you. Warn you about . . .” She closed her eyes, shaking her head. “About . . . getting too close to him. But I just didn’t know how to say it.”