1 Chapter 1

Elwira Malinowska stood at the window of her home, 16 Podwale Street, and watched the sun’s rays travel up the fa?ade of the white house across from hers, making the geraniums burn in their window boxes. A horse and cart, laden with fresh produce, slowly clattered below on the cobblestones. She put up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare, and then turned away. How many times had the doctors warned her about exposure to sunlight? Elwira reached up and pulled the drape until it covered the window.

It was 1939, a spring morning in April, and the city was Warsaw. It was peaceful and quiet, five months before the soldiers would invade, then occupy the city. But that assault would not be peaceful or quiet. It would be sudden, full of fire and light and death. A Blitzkrieg, they would call it.

Elwira went back to bed, switched on the lamp, and waited for Raz. She put on her dark glasses with the thick lenses and held the face of the small clock up to her eyes. Six forty-five. Soon she would be with Raz, the woman she loved, and for now, nothing else mattered.

Before Raz came into her life, Elwira felt more of an observer than a participant in life, as if she were cast in a play and present on stage but given no lines. She thought of her childhood, of the endless dinner parties her parents gave for friends and relatives, and how she’d escaped the tedium in her father’s study. Elwira would spend hours there, sitting in the dark by the window, watching people pass below on Podwale, never wishing for or wanting companionship. But then Raz came to work for her father, and Elwira’s life suddenly became divisible by two: the time before Raz and the time after.

A light tapping, and Raz breezed in with their breakfast tray balanced on her hip. She wore her brown hair shorter now. She told Elwira it made her look younger than her thirty-five years, but Elwira thought the haircut was the result of a silly comment she’d made over a strand of gray she’d discovered while brushing her friend’s hair.

Raz put down the tray on the bureau and began smoothing her apron over the plain black skirt. She adjusted her white cap in the mirror. “The tea’s not as strong as you like, Wira.”

“Never mind.” Elwira patted a spot beside her on the bed. “Come sit with me.”

“The armies are coming,” Raz said. “The Gazeta’s headlines—”

“Nonsense. They will not come.” Elwira, like many Catholics, believed the Pope would intercede on behalf of Poland and stop the German aggression. With Britain and France pledging support, what could possibly go wrong?

“You look the part today,” Elwira said. “Right out of an Agatha Christie.”

“Isn’t that the idea?” Raz made a half curtsy. “Just a glorified servant in your lovely home, madam.” She waved her hand, taking in the expensive paintings, the crystal sconces and chandelier, and family czaczkas

“You can be cruel,” Elwira said. “Come over here.”

Raz took her hand and sat on the edge of the bed.

The clock in the hall struck the hour. There was plenty of time. There was always plenty of time for each other.

“We need not play this game when we are alone, Raz.”

Raz made a move to rise, but Elwira drew her back and kissed her on the lips. “Nothing is planned for today. We needn’t hurry.”

“Shall I open the drapes a little?” Raz asked.

“No, I’ve just closed them.”

“All right. But—”

“What?”

“You really should pay more attention to the news, Wira.”

“There you go ruining our morning again, our best time together. Try not to worry needlessly.”

“I should be worried. We all should,” Raz said, then returned Elwira’s kiss.

“I’m not the worrying type. Besides what happens to others can never—”

“What? Happen to you? To us? You forget, Wira, I am not to the manor born like some. I am common, one of the ‘others’ you speak of.”

“A commoner?” Elwira said and turned away to hide her smile.

“Yes. I am common.”

“There is nothing common about you, Raz. Don’t worry. You will be safe here with me. We both will be.”

“I can tell, Wira. You try to hide it but you areworried. You won’t admit it but you are and who wouldn’t be?” Raz released herself from her lover’s embrace and went to the bureau. She picked up a slice of toast from the tray, nibbled on it, and then waved it toward Elwira. “Want some?”

“No to the toast and no to being worried.” Elwira stood and put on her dressing gown, and then she walked to the makeup table, sat before the mirror and started in on her hair. Always one hundred strokes in the morning and another hundred at bedtime.

“I love your hair,” Raz said. “Want me to brush?”

“I’m fine.” Elwira took a handful of her long, white hair and continued to brush it gently while counting aloud.

Raz turned down the bed and tossed the pillows on the floor.

“Leave it, Raz. You are not a servant in this house. We are even partners. In everything.”

Raz put her hands on Elwira’s shoulders, bent close, and then whispered softly under Elwira’s counting, “Then why am I dressed like this, madam?”

“Appearances,” Elwira said, not losing count, “and stop calling me madam!”

Raz laughed.