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We pass through the high center arch of the Sukennice, the massive yellow mercantile hall that bisects the square. It is still several blocks to Nowy Kleparz, the outdoor market on the far northern edge of KrakÃ³w's city center, and already I can feel Lukasz's gait slowing, his tiny, thin-soled shoes scuffing harder against the cobblestones with every step. I consider car-rying him, but he is three years old and growing heavier by the day. Well fed, I might have managed it, but now I know that I would make it a few meters at most. If only he would go faster. "Szybko, kochana," I plead with him under my breath. "Chocz!" His steps seem to lighten as we wind our way through the flower vendors peddling their wares in the shadow of the Mariacki Cathedral spires.
Moments later, we reach the far side of the square and I feel a familiar rumble under my feet. I pause. I have not been on a trolley in almost a year. I imagine lifting Lukasz onto the streetcar and sinking into a seat, watching the buildings and people walking below as we pass. We could be at the market in minutes. Then I stop, shake my head inwardly. The ink on our new papers is barely dry, and the wonder on Lukasz's face at his first trolley ride would surely arouse suspicion. I cannot trade our safety for convenience. We press onward.
Though I try to remind myself to keep my head low and avoid eye contact with the shoppers who line the streets this midweek morning, I cannot help but drink it all in. It has been more than a year since I was last in the city center. I inhale deeply. The air, damp from the last bits of melting snow, is perfumed with the smell of roasting chestnuts from the cor-ner kiosk. Then the trumpeter in the cathedral tower begins to play the hejnal, the brief melody he sends across the square every hour on the hour to commemorate the Tartar invasion of KrakÃ³w centuries earlier. I resist the urge to turn back to-ward the sound, which greets me like an old friend.
As we approach the end of Florianska Street, Lukasz sud-denly freezes, tightening his grip on my hand. I look down. He has dropped the last bit of his precious ice-cream cone on the pavement but does not seem to notice. His face, already pale from months of hiding indoors, has turned gray. "What is it?" I whisper, crouching beside him, but he does not re-spond. I follow his gaze to where it is riveted. Ten meters ahead, by the arched entrance to the medieval Florian Gate, stand two Nazis carrying machine guns. Lukasz shudders. "There, there, kochana. It's okay." I put my arms around his shoulders, but there is nothing I can do to soothe him. His eyes dart back and forth, and his mouth moves without sound. "Come." I lift him up and he buries his head in my neck. I look around for a side street to take, but there is none and turn-ing around might attract attention. With a furtive glance to make sure no one is watching, I push the remnants of the ice-cream cone toward the gutter with my foot and proceed past the Nazis, who do not seem to notice us. A few minutes later, when I feel the child breathing calmly again, I set him down.
Soon we approach the Nowy Kleparz market. It is hard to contain my excitement at being out again, walking and shop-ping like a normal person. As we navigate the narrow walk-ways between the stalls, I hear people complaining. The cabbage is pale and wilted, the bread hard and dry; the meat, what there is of it, is from an unidentifiable source and already giving off a curious odor. To the townspeople and villagers, still accustomed to the prewar bounty of the Polish country-side, the food is an abomination. To me, it is paradise. My stomach tightens.
"Two loaves," I say to the baker, keeping my head low as I pass him my ration cards. A curious look crosses his face. It is your imagination, I tell myself. Stay calm. To a stranger, I know, I look like any other Pole. My coloring is fair, my ac-cent flawless, my dress purposefully nondescript. Krysia chose this market in a working-class neighborhood on the northern edge of town deliberately, knowing that none of my former acquain-tances from the city would shop here. It is critical that no one recognize me.
I pass from stall to stall, reciting the groceries we need in my head: flour, some eggs, a chicken, if there is one to be had. I have never made lists, a fact that serves me well now that paper is so dear. The shopkeepers are kind, but businesslike. Six months into the war, food is in short supply; there is no generous cut of cheese for a smile, no sweet biscuit for the child with the large blue eyes. Soon I have used all of our ration cards, yet the bas-ket remains half empty. We begin the long walk home.
Still feeling the chill from the wind on the market square, I lead Lukasz through side streets on our way back across town. A few minutes later, we turn onto Grodzka Street, a wide thoroughfare lined with elegant shops and houses. I hesitate. I had not meant to come here. My chest tightens, making it hard to breathe. Easy, I tell myself, you can do this. It is just another street. I walk a few meters farther, then stop. I am standing before a pale yellow house with a white door and wooden flower boxes in the windows. My eyes travel upward to the second floor. A lump forms in my throat, making it dif-ficult to swallow. Don't, I think, but it is too late. This was Ja-cob's house. Our house.
I met Jacob eighteen months ago while I was working as a clerk in the university library. It was a Friday afternoon, I re-member, because I was rushing to update the book catalog and get home in time for Shabbes. "Excuse me," a deep voice said. I looked up from my work, annoyed at the interruption. The speaker was of medium height and wore a small yarmulke and closely trimmed beard and mustache. His hair was brown with flecks of red. "Can you recommend a good book?"
"A good book?" I was caught off guard as much by the swim-ming darkness of his eyes as by the generic nature of his request.
"Yes, I would like something light to read over the week-end to take my mind off my studies. Perhaps the Iliad, ?"
I could not help laughing. "You consider Homer light read-ing?"
"Relative to physics texts, yes." The corners of his eyes crin-kled. I led him to the literature section, where he settled upon a volume of Shakespeare's comedies. Our knuckles brushed as I handed him the book, sending a chill down my spine. I checked out the book to him, but still he lingered. I learned that his name was Jacob and that he was twenty, two years my senior.
After that, he came to visit me daily. I quickly learned that even though he was a science major, his real passion was poli-tics and that he was involved with many activist groups. He wrote pieces, published in student and local newspapers, that were critical not only of the Polish government, but of what he called "Germany's unfettered dominance" over its neighbors. I worried that it was dangerous to be so outspoken. While the Jews of my neighborhood argued heatedly on their front stoops, outside the synagogues and in the stores about current affairs and everything else, I was raised to believe that it was safer to keep one's voice low when dealing with the outside world. But Jacob, the son of prominent sociologist Maximillian Bau, had no such concerns, and as I listened to him speak, watched his eyes burn and his hands fly, I forgot to be afraid.
I was amazed that a student from a wealthy, secular family would be interested in me, the daughter of a poor Orthodox baker, but if he noticed the difference in our backgrounds, it did not seem to matter. We began spending our Sunday af-ternoons together, talking and strolling along the Wisla River. "I should be getting home," I remarked one Sunday afternoon in April as the sky grew dusky. Jacob and I had been walking along the river path where it wound around the base of Wawel Castle, talking so intensely I had lost track of time. "My par-ents will be wondering where I am."
"Yes, I should meet them soon," he replied matter-of-factly. I stopped in my tracks. "That's what one does, isn't it, when one wants to ask permission to court?" I was too sur-prised to answer. Though Jacob and I had spent much time together these recent months and I knew he enjoyed my com-pany, I somehow never thought that he would seek permis-sion to see me formally. He reached down and took my chin in his gloved fingers. Softly, he pressed his lips down on mine for the first time. Our mouths lingered together, lips slightly parted. The ground seemed to slide sideways, and I felt so dizzy I was afraid that I might faint.
Thinking now of Jacob's kiss, I feel my legs grow warm. Stop it, I tell myself, but it is no use. It has been nearly six months since I have seen my husband, been touched by him.
A sharp clicking noise jars me from my thoughts. My vi-sion clears and I find myself still standing in front of the yel-low house, staring upward. The front door opens and an older, well-dressed woman steps out. Noticing me and Lukasz, she hesitates. I can tell she is wondering who we are, why we have stopped in front of her house. Then she turns from us dismis-sively, locks the door and proceeds down the steps. This is her home now. Enough, I tell myself sharply. I cannot afford to do anything that will draw attention. I shake my head, trying to clear the image of Jacob from my mind.
"Come, Lukasz," I say aloud, tugging gently on the child's hand. We continue walking and soon cross the Planty, the broad swath of parkland that rings the city center. The trees are revealing the most premature of buds, which will surely be cut down by a late frost. Lukasz tightens his grip on my hand, staring wide-eyed at the few squirrels that play among the bushes as though it is already spring. As we push onward, I feel the city skyline receding behind us. Five minutes later we reach the Aleje, the wide boulevard that, if taken to the left, leads south across the river. I stop and look toward the bridge. Just on the other side, a half kilometer south, lies the ghetto. I start to turn in that direction, thinking of my parents. Per-haps if I go to the wall, I can see them, find a way to slip them some of the food I have just purchased. Krysia would not mind. Then I stop—I cannot risk it, not in broad daylight, not with the child. I feel shame at my stomach, which no longer twists with hunger, and at my freedom, at crossing the street as though the occupation and the war do not exist.
Half an hour later, Lukasz and I reach Chelmska, the rural neighborhood we have come to call home. My feet are sore from walking along the uneven dirt road and my arms ache from carrying the groceries, as well as the child, for the last several meters. As we round the corner where the main road divides in two, I inhale deeply; the air has grown colder now, its pureness broken only by an acrid hint of smoke from a farmer burning piles of dead winter brush. I can see the fires smoldering across the sloping farmland to my right, their thick smoke fanning out over the fields that roll like a gentle green lake into the horizon.
Posted April 14, 2008
firs of all sorry for my english - its not my native language. thats true - i couldnt put down that book... but it just made me angry to be honest. author made so much historical mastakes! for example - Poland was fighting with Germans for a month, not for two weeks (like France). Emma/Anna is buyng oranges or drinking orange juce all the time - dureing war in Poland it was almost impissible to buy bread - what about oranges!!! author is writening also about fridges - first fridge in Poland was made in 1956!so long after the war... next thing - the Resistance movement - the book says that there was only Jews fighting for freedom, what about the Poles? in the book ther is only one polish freedom fighter and many Jews. in reality it was just opposite. i understeand that its kind of historical fiction but its just sooo unreal that it hurts, especialy that Pam Jenoff was vice consul in Cracow - she should study some more history beafore writening that book. shame...
15 out of 17 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 12, 2009
This book was a great read. I was able to read it and not worry about setting it down and not be able to pick up where i left off. I really enjoyed this.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 28, 2013
Posted October 6, 2012
I was excited to get this book. I ordered it new, but when it was delivered, I was disappointed to see that it was a very used copy. I returned it to my local store. The sales person thought I had ordered it used and started to challenge my return, but fortunately I saved my receipt and showed him it was ordered NEW. I have since re-ordered another new copy and will wait for that delivery. I have never had this problem before from B&N.....as I have ordered MANY books from them, and am well aware when I am buying a used book. Normally I wouldn't have a problem w/a used book, but I want what I paid for. My low rating on this purchase is solely based on how B&N handled my order and my return. It has nothing to do w/the book itself.
1 out of 7 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 30, 2009
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I really enjoyed this book. I love reading historical fiction and this book talked about something that I never have read about and that was the Resistance. I think the book moved with great speed even thought the ending did not do the ending justice I wanted to know more. I wanted to know what happened so I guess I hope she writes another book to put my mind at ease with the main character.
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 17, 2009
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Posted December 27, 2013
This story had so much promise but came up a bit short in the end, in my opinion. I wonder what factors led to the author cutting it short. That said, the writer definitely has a knack for telling a story which, combined with such an interesting theme, made this book enjoyable.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 26, 2013
An easy read that I finished very quickly, partly because of it's lightness and partly due to my interest in how the story would resolve. I loved how the characters were believable, no one was perfect and the ending wasn't exactly a "happy ever after" for all involved (not to give away spoilers). However, I felt as if the author took advantage of such a dark time and place in history. I felt the author's attempt at acknowledging the horrors of the holocaust, but those details were brushed over too quickly. I couldn't help but to feel that the author used the holocaust in order to tell a good romance, and that really bothered me.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 2, 2013
Posted December 1, 2012
Posted November 15, 2012
While a sad story, it was quite enjoyable. A nice novel based on dreadful history. The book should have been edited more closely - perhaps by a Polish speaker. The mistakes in the few Polish words and names that were used would have been easily caught by someone who knows the language.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 30, 2012
I liked this book, but felt that it was too short. There were so many places where the author could have expanded on the plot and provided more character development. The interaction between the kommandant and his assistant could have progressed at a slower pace, adding more tension and excitement to the relationship. Having their relationship continue, would have provided much more for the plot. But instead the novel stopped rather abruptly leaving me wanting so much more. I read the follow up to the book - The Diplomat's Wife and it rarely touches on the main characters from this book. I still give the book 4 stars, because it kept my attention and it was interesting.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 9, 2012
I really enjoyed this book. I found it at my library. I purchased The Diplomat's Wife a couple days ago (on my Nook) and I just finished it. Couldn't put it down. I'm happy I accidentally read them in that order because that's the order they are supposed to be read in. I wish it was more obvious in what order to read the other books. I guess I'll have to google it.
All around great book. I also like that the love scenes aren't porno crap. Tastefully done.
Posted July 3, 2012
Posted November 14, 2011
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Posted June 11, 2011
No text was provided for this review.
Posted March 9, 2011