Chapter Eighteen

THE KNOCKS COME in the middle of the day, two days later. Three hard, two soft, three hard. I grab a kitchen knife, just in case. I ask who it is. When I hear her voice, I’m relieved and open the door. It’s the woman, one half of the couple who always come here together. Anna—not her real name. No one’s name is real. Her blond hair, which is usually pinned back and tidy, is a tangled mess. Her blue blouse with a faded sunflower print looks wilted, slept in. Her eyelids are swollen red.

“What happened?” I demand.

“Sit,” she commands. None of our usual pleasant small talk when she brings me supplies. I hold my breath.

“The day after the girls’ suicide, the Nazis burned down our headquarters and took Motyl.” She barely scrapes out the words. “Someone inside our organization betrayed us. We thought the mole was his assistant, but it wasn’t. He died in the fire.”

I left Stach’s office that same day around noon. It must have been shortly thereafter. “Stach?” I grab her hands and shake them. “Is he alive, damn it?”

Anna releases a long, heavy breath, the worst kind. She pulls her hands away, squeezes her eyes shut, and covers her mouth. “You don’t want to know.”

Interrogation. Torture. Death. The day-in, day-out Nazi specialty. I fall into the nearest chair. Stach is dead. There’s no way anyone survives that, especially those considered traitors. My vision blurs and my heart wrenches as the horrific details of my best friend’s final moments unfold. I hear Anna’s voice, but only vaguely, like random breaths moving through the air with no discernible sound. All my fault. The girls, the synagogue, Dina, the pills—every single risk Stach took for me.

“Five people died in the fire, including Darek.”

My heart feels like it stopped beating. Darek was Anna’s fake husband, who joined her when she made deliveries. Darek gave his life to help me, help us. “I’m so sorry.” Tears roll down my eyes. I can’t hold back anymore.

“He was my cousin. His real name was Stefan.” And then Anna cries too. This stoic woman who always keeps it together, who is all business and caution, breaks. I get up and comfort her. “Beasts! Animals!” she cries into my shirt, then looks up. “Motyl’s father was there, you know. He sat in that shiny black Nazi car and watched our building burn down and his son being dragged out of the building. Motyl thought no one knew who his father was, his prominent family, but we all knew. It’s his...”

Birthmark.No disguise could ever cover that.

“We had a plan,” I say slowly, the fire burning inside me, enveloping me. “Stach and I were going to—”

“Yes, I know about the plan. I am part of it too.” She points to her large purse and a wrapped package perched next to it, signaling the items meant for me. “That’s why I’m here. The plan is still going into effect tonight, only without Stach. They are going to pay for what they did to us—especially his father.”

“Anna,” I begin.

“My real name isn’t Anna.”

“Mine isn’t Irina.” We lock eyes. Same age, similar in appearance, same stubborn fighting spirit. In another life, we might have been friends.

My thoughts spin as I search her face for answers. “I must know... the little girl at the synagogue. You were the maid, weren’t you? The one who went there the next day, hid her in the closet, saved her.” I beg her with my eyes. Please tell me the truth. Tell me Dina is still alive. I need something, anything right now, to keep going.

Anna hesitates, but her blinking eyes tell me yes. But that’s all I receive. No one is to be trusted. I get it. “Jews were brought in from the ghetto the next morning to clean up the bodies,” she whispers. “Before that, I quickly hid the child in a dark closet as fast as I could. She was terrified, but not crying. Not a word. Mute. She looked haunted, in shock from all she had seen. I can’t imagine what it was like for her to wait inside that closet. Motyl snuck back into the synagogue right after the Nazis abandoned the building. I believe he got the girl out. The plan was to take her to the Bielanski Forest because it’s the closest, and then move her from there. But I don’t know what happened after that. They raided our office before Motyl could debrief me. I was on my way there to meet him when I saw the fire in the distance.”

Stach saved Dina and lost his own life doing so.

“All I know for certain is that someone from inside our organization betrayed us.” She pauses. “Like I said, we thought it was the assistant. Now we don’t know. You are not safe here anymore, Irina. They are looking for you, for the woman who gave the girls the poison. There’s a manhunt underway.” She leans in. “I admire what you did. Brave, selfless. What those monsters have done to all of us...” Her wet, red-rimmed eyes light up. “Motyl loved you. I could see it in his eyes when he spoke about you.”

Not the way you think.She presses her lips together, raises her brows. She knows that too. “Pack up your things,” she commands, switching gears, taking a quick inventory of the room. “I will take one suitcase with me now. You can retrieve it later, after tonight’s mission. You need to get out of here. Everything has been compromised.”

“Where are you taking my bag?” I ask. I know it seems insignificant given everything else, but its contents are all I have left in this world: photos, Jakub’s manuscript, Eryk’s violin.

Anna doesn’t answer. Instead, she gets up off the chair, walks to the window, pulls back the curtain slightly. I see her staring at the six inches of ghetto. “You can see it from here... that must be hard.”

“Yes,” I say. Hard doesn’t begin to describe it. I finish packing, close the suitcase, and put it aside.

She pivots slowly, gracefully, hands on slim hips. “I was once a dancer. I studied ballet. My old studio is not too far from here. The ballet mistress who owned the studio was Jewish. A few weeks after the Nazis invaded, they stormed our class, barged through the door. I have never been more terrified. We were practicing. They shot Madame Sosia dead in front of us. She had mentored me since I was a child. She was strict, difficult, brilliant, talented, and kind. We all loved her. I’m here, doing what I do... for her. She was more of a mother to me than my own.” Anna’s head dips forward, almost afraid that one truth could lead to another.

Your truth is safe with me, my eyes tell her silently. She nods back, her dusty-blue eyes sinking deeper into their sockets as she proceeds to give me detailed instructions for the mission ahead.

As I listen to the blueprint of the implausible plan, I realize that there is a good chance tonight could be my last. I point to my small suitcase in the corner of the room, already feeling the emptiness of its departure. “If something happens to me, his name is Aleksander Blonski. Please give everything to him. Tell him... that I loved him.”

“You’re not going to die tonight. It’s their turn now.” Anna’s forehead creases as she bites her bottom lip. “After you do what I’ve instructed, the driver—his name is Lukas, by the way; he’s the same driver who brought you to and from the synagogue—he will be waiting for you, and then a little later, for me. If anything happens... memorize this.” She hands me an address. “No one knows about this location, okay? I’m trusting you. It’s the ballet studio. It’s deserted and boarded up. There are blankets there, some modest supplies and food stored in the closet. Your suitcase will be there. There’s a large window that opens on the right rear side of the studio building. You will need to climb in. It’s where I still... never mind.”

It’s where she still lives, still dances.

This information is a gift, a dangerous disclosure, and we both know it. She points to the items she left for me on the table. “This is not going to be easy. Everything must be exact. Are you sure that you know what to do?”

“I’m sure.” But I’m sure of nothing.

Anna takes my suitcase, turns to go. With her hand resting on the doorknob, she gracefully twists backward and observes me one last time. Her lovely, pained face hardens into a mask. It’s us or them. I nod. I know. And then she quietly leaves. I stare at the closed door, thinking that two women who might easily have been friends, who share creative passions, have been turned into assassins, doyennes of death.