No one was at the pump, so it took no time to fill the pail, but as I lugged it home I had a new appreciation for my sister. My hands ached with the weight of the pail, and by the time I got home, my knees were bruised from it knocking into them. Maria might be fearful of walking Krasa the two kilometres to the pasture, and thank goodness she was, because I wouldn’t last a day doing her chores.
I set the pail down in front of our door and stretched the kinks out of my back. I was about to go in when I noticed Dolik, lost in thought, sitting cross-legged on the front step of his house. I walked over and sat down beside him.
He glanced at me and nodded, but didn’t say a word. We sat there silently for long minutes, with me sitting so close to him that I could feel the warmth of his breath. It wasn’t necessary to ask his thoughts. I knew what they would be.
“It’s not your fault,” I said, reaching my hand over to his and giving it a small squeeze.
“That’s easy for you to say,” he murmured, pulling his hand away.
“You tried to tell me it wasn’t my fault when Uncle Roman died,” I told him. “You were right, but I was too upset to believe it.” I reached into my pocket and drew out Mr. Kitai’s eyeglasses.
He snatched them from my hand. “Where did you get these?”
“Where do you think? I had to see for myself,” I said. “I was hoping that the Commandant had just tried to scare us, and that the men were still alive.”
“But they weren’t,” said Dolik. It was a statement. “I went there too, for the same reason.”
“Last night?”
He nodded.
I told him about the Volksdeutche sorting through the clothing.
“Harvesting clothing from the dead,” said Dolik. “Is that all we’re worth?”
Maria was still rubbing the sleep from her eyes when I came back into the house with the water. Her face broke into a broad grin. “Thank you, Krystia. That was sweet of you.”
Mama filled the kettle. “Why were you out so early, Krystia?” she asked. “I’d rather that you didn’t while it’s still so dark.”
“We have a new problem,” I said, sitting down at the table. I told them about Marga’s threat. “And it’s so unfair,” I said, “because she only knew about the extra cow because I gave them milk.”
“It was a kind act,” said Mama. “Maybe another kind act will soften her opinion.”
She took down a willow basket from the shelf. “Maria, can you collect the eggs? And Krystia, can you milk Krasa now, please?”
Half an hour later, Mama assembled a food basket: two fresh chicken eggs, a container of milk, plus a jar of blackberry jam and another of strawberry. “Take this to Frau Schneider and see if you can win her sympathy.”
I carried the basket to Auntie Iryna’s old house and tapped on the door, hoping that Frau Schneider, and not Marga, would answer.
No such luck.
Marga opened the door just a bit and stuck out her nose. “What do you want?”
“Is your mother home?”
“She wouldn’t want to see you.”
The door opened wider and Frau Schneider stood behind her daughter. “Krystia,” she said, looking at the basket in my arms. “Come in.”
My stomach did a lurch as I stepped in and realized what these two were dressed in. Marga wore the baker’s white trousers and shirt. Frau Schneider wore the dogcatcher’s grey shirt and brown trousers. Looking at them made me think of vultures, picking at scraps from the dead.
As I took a deep breath and stepped inside, I realized that they didn’t need the items I had brought. A large sack of flour and a smaller one of sugar sat on the table. There were tinned items as well, all stamped with German labels: Schweinefleische, Schmalz, Kaffee.
“I came to apologize,” I said, thrusting the basket into Frau Schneider’s arms.
She set it onto the table, taking the eggs out first, then removing the cloth. “How thoughtful of you,” she said, holding the jam jars up to the window light. “Milk too. I know you don’t have much to share.” She regarded me with a puzzled look. “What do you have to apologize for?”
“There was a cow in your shed before you arrived,” I said.
“That second cow we saw you with,” said Marga, crossing her arms. “You stole it from us.”
“That’s quite enough, Marga,” said Frau Schneider. “Krystia, what is it that you’d like to apologize for?”
“This house was my aunt’s, and the cow was hers too, but the Commandant forced her out and told her to leave everything in the house.”
“She must have done something bad to deserve that,” said Marga. “She should have done what the Commandant said.”
It was hard not to be angry at Marga’s words, but what good would it do? I raised my eyes to Frau Schneider’s and said, “The reason my aunt was forced out is because the Commandant didn’t want a whole house used by just one person when there were many refugees coming into our town. Auntie Iryna’s son and husband had just been killed by the Soviets, so she was suddenly on her own.” I purposely didn’t mention Borys — still living but in hiding.
“Then you’ve lost family, just as we have,” said Frau Schneider, her eyes filling with tears. “Where did your aunt go?”
“She’s with us,” I said. “The cow is in the country. I brought you eggs and milk and jam by way of apology.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” said Frau Schneider. “But how kind of you to think of us.”
Marga’s expression was hard to read. Would she still tell the Commandant about us? I took a deep breath and forced myself to be brave. “If you or Marga told the Commandant what we did, we could be punished.”
“My dear girl,” said Frau Schneider. “I would never say such a thing to the Commandant. You were so kind to us when we first came to town, offering us milk, and now coming here and telling us outright about the cow. That takes courage. It doesn’t matter, anyway, because I wouldn’t want my daughter out on her own to take a cow to pasture while there’s a war on. And the Volksdeutche Liaison Office acts like a welfare agency, supplying us with all that we need.”
I thought back to the day before. The uniformed man organizing the newcomers to dig the grave pits, organizing them to sort the clothing. This was their welfare agency? To watch as others were killed and then steal their things?
Marga remained silent as her mother spoke, but her brow was furrowed.
“What about you, Marga?” I asked. “Do you forgive my family for taking the cow and chickens?”
She didn’t respond.
Frau Schneider regarded her daughter. “You wouldn’t bring this up with the Commandant, would you, Marga?”
Marga stared down at the dirt floor and her face flushed pink. “No, Mutter, I wouldn’t,” she finally said.
“Good,” said Frau Schneider. She looked from her daughter to me. “Shake hands, girls,” she said. “We’re in the midst of war, but all the more reason for human kindness.”
I reached out my hand and gripped Marga’s, but she gave me a quick, limp handshake in return.
I was about to leave, but Frau Schneider put her hand on my forearm. “I have something for you.”
She took a tin of pork from the kitchen table and placed it in my basket. “Thank you, Frau Schneider,” I said. “That is most generous of you.”
As I walked home, I puzzled over the enigma that was Frau Gertrude Schneider. It was thoughtful of her to give us pork, and good to make Marga promise to keep our secret from the Commandant, yet it was not a kind woman I had seen the day before, coldly sorting through the clothing of murdered Jews. And it wasn’t a kind woman who could so easily wear the clothing of the dead. I would step lightly around Marga — and also Frau Schneider.