But Yona was worried, and she couldn’t stop herself. She was glad she had collected Queen Anne’s lace and smartweed along with her other medicinal supplies, but she hadn’t imagined she’d be the one needing them. She knew the herbs weren’t foolproof, and that concerned her. A pregnancy in the midst of the dark wood could be deadly to both the mother and child, and with people hunting them, the innocent cry of a newborn could betray the whole group. Quite simply, Yona could not become pregnant, and she vowed that she would be more careful in the future—if there was a future for her and Aleksander.
After that first night, without a word of conversation about it, Aleksander moved into Yona’s shelter, and every night, he slept with his arms wrapped tightly around her, as if even in sleep, he was terrified of letting her go. He continued to take a turn patrolling the grounds every third night, trading off with Leib and Rosalia, and when his side of the reed bed was empty, Yona felt a strange blend of freedom and loneliness. She still wasn’t accustomed to sharing her life, even after a few months with the group, so having room to breathe was restorative. But she missed him when he was gone and often had trouble falling asleep, because when she closed her eyes, she imagined all the terrible fates that could befall him in the dark. It was the first time in her life she had cared for someone enough to worry about such a loss; she had always known that Jerusza would take care of herself. But now she understood that love left one vulnerable. It was a feeling she didn’t like.
At the start of a frigid December, their bellies empty after a frustrating day of hunting, Aleksander whispered a reminder that Hanukkah would begin the next evening. They were lying beside each other in the dark, and she was grateful that he couldn’t see the unexpected tears that had sprung to her eyes. She knew well the story of the miracle of the ritual oil that the Maccabees had burned for eight days, but she had never known much of a celebration. Jerusza had always carved a menorah, and they’d dutifully lit candles, but they had done it quickly and quietly, and Jerusza had skipped the nights when she had other things to do. She thought for a moment of the longing she’d felt on a cold Friday night in 1931, watching from outside a window as a family celebrated the first night of the Festival of Lights. The practice of dullards, Jerusza had called it, but Yona had longed for the magic she saw reflected in the candlelit faces through the windowpane. Was it possible that she would finally learn one of the traditions she’d yearned for?
“My mother used to make latkes and sufganiyot. You know what those are? Doughnuts stuffed with jelly,” Aleksander whispered in the darkness, oblivious to her tears. Yona could hear the smile in his voice, but also the sadness, the mourning for things lost. “We would light the menorah each night, and we’d sing ‘Ma’oz Tzur.’？”
Yona knew the song from the books she’d read, and from Jerusza reciting it aloud in an emotionless monotone. It had been the closest the old woman had ever come to acknowledging a celebration. “Ma’oz Tzur Yeshu’ati, lekha na’eh leshabe’akh,” Yona murmured now.
Aleksander smiled and finished the verse for her in Hebrew, his deep voice coating the words in a haunting melody she’d never heard. “My refuge, my rock of salvation! ’Tis pleasant to sing your praises,” he sang. “Let our house of prayer be restored. And there we will offer you our thanks. When you will have slaughtered the barking foe. Then we will celebrate with song and psalm the altar’s dedication.”
Yona closed her eyes and rested her head against his chest. “That was beautiful.” She could hear his heart thudding more quickly than usual. “You must miss your family very much.”
He was silent for a moment, his breath heavy and warm, and Yona felt a tear slide from her right eye, onto the rough fabric of his shirt. If he noticed, he gave no indication. “They stole everything, Yona. Everything. How can that ever be forgiven? How can I carry anything but hate in my heart for the people who hate me, who hate my people enough to murder us all?”
The coldness in his voice made her shiver. “Maybe you can’t,” she said after a while. “Maybe you shouldn’t. Maybe we can’t rid ourselves of the things that torture us. Perhaps all we can do is move through them the best we can.”
“I don’t know how to stop it,” he murmured. “This anger.” He paused. “Sometimes I hate myself for surviving. And what do I do with that hate?”
The pain in his voice made her heart ache. There was nothing she could say to change the way he felt. Sometimes words could move mountains, and sometimes they could mean nothing at all. “There’s a reason you’re still here, I think, Aleksander,” she said much later when she had finally found the words that felt right. “You have survived because God is using you to help save others.”