The Woman with the Blue Star by Pam Jenoff (read e books online free TXT) 📕

back at me with her clear, unblinking gaze. Babies weren’t really supposed to be able to see you the first few months, Mama said. But whenever I drew near, my sister’s eyes found mine and held. We had an instant connection. I was the one who could soothe her when she was tired and cranky, or when Mama tried to nurse her but was dry.

I studied my mother. Despite the difficult childbirth, Mama had seemed to draw strength from the baby after she was born. She was filled with purposefulness at taking care of her. She moved through the routines of feeding and changing the child, as though we were back at home and not in a sewer where she had to wash the same two dishrags that served as diapers over and over again.

While Mama finished nursing, I walked from the chamber. Saul had gone for water a bit earlier and I hoped now that I might see him returning. But the tunnel echoed with emptiness. It had rained heavily the previous night, but the storm had been mercifully short so we didn’t have to worry about another flood. I could not imagine how we would survive such an ordeal again, with a baby to keep afloat on top of everything else. The rain had stopped entirely now, and the early-morning clouds had cleared. Sunshine came through the slats in the sewer grate, causing the stones that lined the tunnel to sparkle like the beach at low tide that I’d seen just once when Papa had taken us to the Gdańsk seaside on holiday. It was not Ella’s day to visit and I wondered what she was doing, and if she was glad to be free of her obligation to me.

Inside the chamber the baby began to cry, her wails echoing through the tunnel. I raced back inside to help. Mama walked the floor, swaying from side to side, trying to soothe my sister, who had grown colicky after eating. I took her from Mama and held her close. Even through the stench of the sewer, her sweet baby scent endured. Her weight filled my arms. She gazed up at me, seemingly soothed. She might have been my own child; I was old enough. I drew her close and whispered to her. I told her about our old life and about the things we would do after the war. I would take her to the places Papa and I had gone and breathe light into the city for her the way he had me. She listened, seeming to understand my words.

Cradling the baby’s neck gently like Mama had shown me, I shifted her to my other shoulder. As I did, the receiving blanket we’d put her in when she was born slipped away and fell to the ground. “No!” I cried as it landed in a puddle of water by the chamber door. I reached for it quickly, but it was too late. Filthy brown water seeped into the fabric. The corner of the blanket was stained brown now. Mama took the blanket and tried to wring it out, but it was stained forever. I waited for Mama to berate me, but she did not. Instead, she looked at the blanket, resigned. Then she began to cry, great heaving sobs, as all of the pain of losing Papa and the birth and everything else came out at once. I felt guiltier about soiling that blanket than I had about almost anything in my entire life.

But there was no time to worry about the blanket. The baby opened her mouth and it was as if she was trying to tell me something. Then she let out a bloodcurdling wail and her cries ripped through the sewer, seeming to reverberate against the walls.

“Here, let me,” Mama snapped, taking my sister from me. Suddenly I felt as if I had done something wrong and caused the baby to cry. “Shh,” she soothed, a note of urgency in her voice. Across the chamber, Pan Rosenberg watched us with a grave expression. I remembered his somber mood the night my sister was born. A crying baby, especially times like now when we most needed to be silent, made it more likely that we would be discovered and brought danger to us all.

Wanting to help, I reached out to stroke the baby’s head to soothe her. Usually she loved my touch. This time, though, her face turned purple and she began to scream. “Don’t,” Mama snapped, yanking the baby away from me. I stepped back, stung by her rebuke. Still, I could tell that she was not angry with me, just tired and frustrated and scared. She sank down to the edge of the bed, still trying to calm the baby. My sister cried heedlessly, knowing no need but her own.

Mama and I were so busy trying to quiet the baby that we didn’t hear the footsteps until they were right next to us. I looked up. Bubbe was standing above us. She knelt down and took Mama’s hand.

“She can’t stay,” Bubbe said gravely. The three words cut through the chamber. “The baby has to go.”

“Go?” I stared at her in confusion, certain that the old woman, who had seemed more confused of late, had finally lost her mind. My sister was three days old. Where did she expect her to go?

Pan Rosenberg walked over and I expected him to contradict his mother, or at least soothe her. “You are risking all of our safety,” he said, agreeing with his mother. “This cannot continue.” I could not believe that the Rosenbergs, who had become our close allies and, I thought, friends, were saying such things. I looked for Saul, but he was nowhere to be found.

“There isn’t anywhere to go,” Mama protested, shaking off Bubbe’s hand. “You can’t possibly expect us to leave.”

“We’re not asking you to leave,” Pan Rosenberg said, and for a moment I hoped this was all a misunderstanding. “But a child