The Other Girl. Pam Jenoff

the stars she had seen from the loft. She wondered again where Piotr might be, whether he had shelter or was sleeping out in the cold. Her concern for him felt real but distant. Should she be sadder about Piotr’s absence, like her mother-in-law? Maria scarcely knew her husband, and his touch was still that of a stranger. She hadn’t had time to decide how she really felt.

      In fact, she hadn’t wanted to accept Piotr’s proposal at all. She smiled, remembering how he had begun finding excuses to come by her father’s stables. The sudden interest of a boy she had known vaguely since childhood had surprised her. Now she glanced back at her reflection in the front window of the house quizzically, wondering why he had chosen her. Though she had Mama’s high cheekbones and delicately sloped nose, it was as if Papa’s pale coloring had put a dull filter atop them, a jarring contrast to her thick, dark hair. Piotr’s attention had been unexpected, like a small gift for no particular occasion. She knew, though, that he had already been engaged once to a former classmate, Ruth Nowak, something he’d dismissed vaguely as having “not worked out” when she’d asked. Maria hadn’t wanted to take from the other girl or be Piotr’s second choice.

      Maria’s hand traveled reflexively to her stomach, and a flicker of warmth and excitement passed through her. She had only been early on in her pregnancy so had not told Piotr about the child before he had left. Not that she thought he would have been upset. She had mentioned starting a family once in passing. “When we have children... That is, if you want them...”

      He’d shrugged and said, “I suppose.” To him, a wife and children were like livestock or other belongings one simply had. It was his indifference to the idea that had stopped her from sharing the news with him. He would know, she had decided, when he came back. He had to come back. It was not a particular emotional attachment to him. Rather, she could not imagine what her life might look like if he never returned.

      That she was pregnant was not surprising. Piotr had come at her nightly without fail. Sometimes in the pale gray of early morning she had found him lifting her nightgown a second time or even awakened groggily with him already inside her, his movements building to a rough, repetitive thump that had made her cringe and hope that his parents would not hear. It had not been his desire for her, she suspected; sex had been a new toy to him and he simply could not get enough of it. Maria had found it mildly interesting—perhaps she might even like it one day if he would slow down.

      Was it supposed to be more? Maria’s mind reeled back to a day many years ago when she had accompanied her father on an errand to Krakow. As they’d passed through a busy commercial neighborhood on the outskirts of the city, she had glimpsed an older boy with dark eyes leaning out a second-story window. Their eyes had locked and he had taken her in with a long soulful look that had seemed to pull at her insides beyond anything her twelve-year-old mind could comprehend. With Piotr, she had felt nothing like that tug.

      Her mother had sensed her uneasiness the night before the wedding. “Love grows,” she’d offered unbidden as Maria had packed for her new home. But with whom? she had wanted to ask, thinking of the stack of letters she had found years earlier buried deep in her mother’s cedar chest. They had been written in a flowing script that was not her father’s and they had spoken words of love to her mother, painting a picture of a vibrant and adored woman Maria did not quite know. The letters, signed only with the initial “J,” had seemed surreal. Maria had gone back a second time weeks later to reread them and try to understand. But when she’d looked in the chest, they were gone.

      She wished that she had asked Mama about them before leaving. Her eyes traveled across the village, which sloped at a crooked angle below. She glimpsed her childhood home on the far edge, the familiar yellow light burning behind the curtains in the window. It was smaller than the Adamczyk house, but it had been cozy, with something delicious usually cooking in the oven and Papa’s violin music enlivening the long winter nights. A wave of yearning washed over her. Despite the sadness that had seemed to swallow her mother over the years, Maria had been happy at home. She had not wanted to accept Piotr’s proposal or leave at all.

      But that had all changed a few months earlier, before the wedding. One evening when she had been out tending to the livestock, Maria had noticed something odd at their neighbors’ house: the front door was ajar and no lights were on, even though the sun had set. “Something must be wrong at the Bukowskis,” she had told her father breathlessly when she had gone back inside.

      “Oh?”

      Maria had described to him what she had seen. An unusual expression had appeared on her father’s face and she’d wondered if it had been a mistake to say anything.

      The next morning, she had awakened to a clatter and run to the window. Police were at the Bukowskis’ house. She had heard glass shattering inside, then a piece of a chair had sailed through a broken window. Maria had begun dressing to go find her father. As she’d reached the top button of her blouse, her hand had frozen in midair. She’d suddenly recalled a day weeks earlier when she had been passing through the village and had seen her father talking to a policeman in an alleyway, heads close.

      Alarmed, she had hurried to him. “Papa, is something wrong?”

      He had waved her off. “Everything is fine. I’ll be home shortly.” She had turned and started to walk away. Then she had stopped again and looked back slowly over her shoulder with a sense of unavoidable dread. The policeman had been handing money to her father.

      Remembering the exchange as she’d watched the police raid the Bukowskis’ house, Maria’s heart had raced. They had appeared too quickly after Maria had told her father about the house for it simply to have been a coincidence.

      She had waited until the police had gone, then stormed to the yard where her father stood. His fingers, which had always seemed magical for the music they could make, had been jamming money into his pocket. “How could you?” she had demanded.

      He’d looked at her levelly. “We must protect ourselves in these times.” He had not tried to deny what he had done.

      “By staying out of things,” she’d countered. “Not by bringing trouble for others.”

      “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.” He’d turned back to chopping wood.

      The next day she had agreed to marry Piotr. There weren’t so many options for young women, especially with all of the men called up to the front. And knowing about Papa’s betrayal, she could no longer have remained at home. Within the week, she had left her parents’ house for good. They had not come to the wedding, nor spoken to her since. Though her mother seldom left the house anymore, Maria had hoped that she might bump into her father in town. It would be worth the awkwardness to see him once more. More recently others in the village had disappeared, though, and she wondered if her father had something to do with that. Her anger and betrayal rose once more as she remembered. Perhaps it was for the best that they did not meet again.

      From behind the woodpile came a shuffling sound, jarring Maria from her thoughts. She jumped and, recalling stories of wild animals, lifted the ax that leaned against the side of the barn.

      A child, no older than ten, appeared in the moonlight. Maria lowered the ax. “Hello,” she said softly. Though the child’s hair was hidden beneath a cap and the scrawny figure was nondescript, her delicate features marked her as female. “Are you lost?” Maria did not recognize her from the school where she had once taught. “It’s all right,” she said when the child did not answer. The girl’s eyes darted back and forth, as though seeking an escape. “What’s your name?”

      “Hannah.” The girl faltered, seemingly waiting to be told she was wrong. “Hannah Stein.”

      “You’re a Jew?” The girl nodded. There were no Jews in Biekowice, but Maria had seen them on the trips to Nowy Sacz with her father. Nothing about the girl’s appearance, though, would have given her away. “You’re not from these parts.”

      “I’m from Lipnik.”

      Maria recognized the name of the village to the east, no bigger than her own. “That’s nearly forty kilometers from here.” She noticed