Yona felt tears in her eyes as she nodded. The nun, solid in her Catholic faith, was as spiritually far from Jerusza as one could get. And yet they’d both been on the same journey to understanding.
“I don’t know where you’re coming from, or where you’re going,” the nun continued after a moment. “But there is a room in the attic. Won’t you stay for the night, at least?”
Yona’s heart skipped. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly—”
“It is probably dangerous to ask you to remain here. But it is not for my benefit. Or for yours. It is for the child. I may need your help.”
Yona bowed her head. The nun was right. She couldn’t leave without making sure the girl had a chance to live. “Yes, of course.”
“Good.” The nun stood and patted Yona’s hand. “Do not be afraid to ask your questions. But you must always be sure your heart is open to hear the answers.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Yona slept fitfully on the wooden floor of the church’s small attic, somewhere beneath the steeple and the cross that stood above it. It was the first time in more than two decades that she’d spent the night anywhere but the woods, and the stillness of the air and the quiet of the old building made her uneasy. Twice she stood up to leave, but each time, she could smell Anka’s blood on her own clothes, and she reluctantly lay back down.
She found herself thinking of the last time she’d slept under a real roof. She had been just two years old when Jerusza took her, and perhaps it was the sudden, drastic change that had ensured some of her memories of her life before the woods were frozen in her mind forever. She could see moments like distant photographs, always just beyond her reach. Her mother’s dark curls. The sharp angles of her bedroom walls. The smooth lines of her father’s face. She traced those lines now, a familiar rhythm, and she fell asleep still thinking of the parents she had once known, a world and a lifetime away.
Long before dawn, she rose and made her way in silence down the ladder to the church’s vestibule, then down to the basement, where the girl was hidden. Sister Maria Andrzeja was there with her, fast asleep in a chair beside the child’s small cot. The little girl was asleep, too, her chest rising and falling steadily, and Yona could see that some of the color had returned to her cheeks. If they could stave off infection, she might well pull through. But then what? Where would the poor child go?
Yona laid a hand on Anka’s forehead and was heartened to find it warm but not hot. She was a fighter, even if she didn’t know it yet. But she would need more to survive, the kind of care that Jerusza had taught Yona, and the nun had mentioned that the sisterhood’s supplies of medicinal herbs were running low.
Yona slipped out before Sister Maria Andrzeja awoke, making her way out of the church and into the still, predawn morning. The nun would likely have told her it wasn’t safe to venture into the forest, but she didn’t know that Yona could move with the wind and disappear into the trees. She didn’t know that without the forest, Yona couldn’t breathe.
The setting moon was still bright and full, lighting her way, though the horizon hadn’t yet begun to pale. Not a single light burned in the village; not a candle flickered. In the stillness, it felt deserted, otherworldly. In the forest, even if you couldn’t see them, you could always hear the animals moving, burrowing, settling, awakening. Here, though, it was as if the whole town were holding its breath, waiting.
As she made her way toward the town’s edge, which blurred with the forest, she saw two German soldiers at a distance, smoking on a street corner, the tips of their cigarettes tiny sparks in the darkness. She hugged the shadows, moving in silence, and just before she reached the comfort of the trees, she spotted a dozen more young soldiers in a cluster, all of them wearing swastikas on red bands around their arms. She drew closer, but they didn’t notice her. She, however, could hear them talking in low, somber tones. She strained to hear what they were saying, but they were moving away, and she dared not follow. A chill ran through her as she finally moved into the trees and saw hundreds of bullet casings on the ground, and a huge swath of freshly turned dirt several yards away. It took her a few seconds to realize it could only be a mass grave, and she choked on the bile that rose suddenly in her throat. She could almost hear the spirits reaching out to her, begging her for help. Her heart thudding, she turned, her eyes blurred with tears, and ran for the woods.
In the next hour, as dawn arrived reluctantly, she gathered yarrow, linden flowers, burdock, and Saint-John’s-wort, greeted the awakening birds like old friends, picked ripe berries and fat porcinis to eat, and, with her knife and a bit of quiet stillness, killed a fat hare to make a rich soup for the nun and the child. She had seen it in their faces; both were starving. The little girl, in particular, would not survive without sustenance. She tucked the supplies into the deep pockets of her dress.