B O O K S B Y

Lori L. Lake

====================

The Milk of Human Kindness:

Lesbian Authors Write about Mothers & Daughters

Stepping Out: Short Stories

Different Dress

Gun Shy

Under the Gun

Have Gun We’ll Travel

Ricochet in Time

Romance for Life

Advance Praise for Snow Moon Rising

“Lori Lake is one of the best novelists working in the field of les-

bian fiction today.”

~Midwest Book Review

“Snow Moon Rising provides nail-biting action, strong emotional

impact, and a judicious balance of suspense and breathing space.

People of older generations will remember the era and relate

closely to it, but Snow Moon Rising should appeal to anyone with

an appreciation of history, belief in the sustaining power of love,

and a vested interest in tearing down the walls of prejudice.”

~Nann Dunne, author of The War Between the Hearts, and editor/

publisher of Just About Write e-zine (www.justaboutwrite.com)

“Snow Moon Rising is a book that shines. It shines with love—for

family, for friends, for lovers. It shines with compassion for

people caught up in the convulsions of war and for the forgotten

victims of the Holocaust. It shines with humanity. The

characters, the story, the emotion, tragedy upon tragedy all

leading eventually to a triumphant of human spirit – all flawless.

Lori Lake has reached beyond herself and written a modern

classic.”

~Ruth Sims, author of The Phoenix

“Magnificent storytelling! Snow Moon Rising is an epic

historical saga with rich, well-rounded characters and a plot that

totally captivates. Following the story of two families brought

together by war and tied together by love and friendship, it’s

about two women who find the strength to survive and to love.”

~Verda Foster, author of Graceful Waters and The Gift

Snow Moon Rising

Lori L. Lake

Regal Crest Enterprises

Nederland, Texas

Copyright © 2006 by Lori L. Lake

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, trans-

mitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including

photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the publisher. This is a work of fiction

set within the context of actual historical time. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, busi-

ness establishments, or events is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-932300-50-5

First Printing 2006

9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Cover by Donna Pawlowski

Published by:

Regal Crest Enterprises, LLC

4700 Hwy 365, Suite A, PMB 210

Port Arthur, Texas 7764

Find us on the World Wide Web at

http://www.regalcrest.biz

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgments

Every book presents its own unique difficulties, and this one

was no different, turning into an unexpected marathon that has

lasted nearly four years. Thanks especially to Betty Crandall, Ellen

Hart, Patty Schramm, Katherine Smith, and my lovely partner

Diane for cheering me on through a race I thought would never

end. For early manuscript advice, a hearty thanks to the following:

Brenda Adcock, Betty Crandall, Kim Miller, Patty Schramm,

Katherine Smith, and Jane Vollbrecht. Also, Betty Crandall, Nann

Dunne, and Patty Schramm did careful readings of the revised

manuscript, for which I am grateful.

Marvelous proofing was completed under dire pressure by

Brenda Adcock, Betty Crandall, Nann Dunne, Verda Foster, Ann

German, Tama Huang, Joyce McNeil, Mary Phillips, Patty

Schramm, and Ruth Sims. Thank you all for your attention to

detail.

A big thank you to editor Jennifer Knight for astute attention

to substantive and structural issues, and to Nann Dunne for

amazing work on the line edit. Thank you to Donna Pawlowski for

yet another exceptionally beautiful cover, both back and front.

Individual thanks go as well to:

Caro Clarke—for so generously sharing her vast knowledge

about WWII and for supplying the much needed statement, “Well,

Lori, you do realize that some people actually lived through the

war.” Without that comment, I might still be floundering.

Bonnie “Berlinpup” Glaenzer—for info on Poland, France, and

Germany, and for German translations. Thank you for being the

eyes and ears over a land I hope to one day visit.

Patty Schramm—who read every version and heard about

every incarnation of this large and complicated book but never lost

enthusiasm for the story. I’m gonna love ya forever for that, pal!

I hope I haven’t forgotten anyone. Many people have

encouraged me over the last four years, and without that interest

and support, I might never have made it through this long journey.

Thank you to everyone who sent good wishes or said prayers. I

needed them!

If your curiosity is piqued by this story, at the back I’ve

included a guide to the Roma Moons and a Select Bibliography of

books about the Roma.

Happy Reading!

Lori L. Lake

Snow Moon, 2006

Dedication

To the women who remember the early part of the 20th Century

but especially to my octogenarian friend

Betty J. Crandall

who brightens my life on a daily basis

And with respect and awe for my septuagenarian friend

Nann Dunne

who really knows her way around words

and generously shared her talents

And in memory of my mother

Sylvia Palm

who didn’t make it out of her sixties

but will always be remembered with love

Chapter

One

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

HER HEART POUNDING, Mischka lay in bed and held her

breath, straining to listen. The sound, whatever it had been,

didn’t come again. But something had awakened her. She

remembered that visitors had come to stay. Was one of them up

so late?

She gazed across the dim room. A tiny shaft of light slipped

through the slightly parted drapes at the window, barely enough

to see by. She fumbled for her wire-rimmed glasses on the

bedside table.

There it was again—a whumping sound. It came from the

kitchen. Careful not to wake her partner, she slid out of bed,

pausing for a moment to be sure she could trust her arthritic

knees. She found her slippers and eased them on, then shuffled

to the door where her terrycloth robe hung. Freshly laundered, it

smelled like roses. She snugged the belt around her waist and

crept out of the bedroom.

Moonlight shone through the bay window at the far end of

the living room. In the bay alcove, a kneeling form with broad

shoulders showed in dark relief against the window. His right

hand, gripping a half-glass of milk, rested on the sill. As

Mischka drew nearer, she saw by the shock of white-blond hair

that it was Tobar. Her relationship to him was complicated and

made more sense when diagrammed on paper, but she

considered him her grandson. He was family; that was all that

counted.

She wondered why he was awake after midnight. Unaware

of her approach, he made a sniffing noise, and she stopped

halfway across the room. She reached out and steadied herself

against the rough material of the couch arm, all the while

wondering if she should intrude on him.

When she was much younger, Mischka believed in a free

2 Lori L. Lake

exchange of thoughts and ideas and emotions. Everyone should

feel the love, enjoy the exhilaration life afforded. She smiled to

think how naïve and full of zest she had been then. Into her early

teens, she had maintained such innocence. But eventually reality

hardened her, and over time she came to realize that each soul

needs its own private place and solitude to nourish both joy and

pain.Tobar was young, but from what she’d seen the night before,

when he and his family arrived, he carried more than his portion

of sadness. She’d been curious then, but who was she to pry?

Perhaps she should spirit herself away and let him have his

peace and quiet.

She stepped away from the sofa, not making a sound, but

somehow the boy sensed her presence. He turned. “Mom?”

“No, it’s me. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sure.” He sniffed again and wiped his face on the

sleeve of his white t-shirt.

Mischka heard the bleakness in his voice and instead of

retreating, she strode across the room, shifted the nearest easy

chair so it faced the window, and sank into it. “Were you having

trouble sleeping?”

“A little. I’m not tired at all. The time change is weird. My

body still thinks it’s seven hours earlier.” He took a sip of the

milk. “I was thirsty, though.”

“I’m glad you located the milk. We laid in quite a supply for

you and your family. Would you like me to make you some toast

or find you a fritter?”

“Oh, no, that’s okay, Beebee Mischka. I’m not that hungry.”

In the silver light, she could see the misery etched into his

face. His blond hair was tousled, his bangs falling into his eyes,

and the sadness came through to her. She envied his ability to

kneel on the carpet so casually. His limbs were long and lean, the

muscles not filled out yet, but the promise of a handsome

physique was apparent. He had just had his fifteenth birthday

and had already grown much taller than Mischka.

“You look so much like your grandma’s brother Emil.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you most certainly do.”

“I don’t remember him very well. What was he like?”

She looked at Tobar closely, and it was as if she were

meeting Emil as the boy she had never known. “He was brave.

He was strong in all ways, the most important gajo in my life.”

“Gajo?”

“Means he was not Roma. I was younger than you are now

when first I met him. He was a soldier then.”

Snow Moon Rising 3

Tobar set his empty glass to one side and leaned forward,

his forearms on the windowsill. Outside, the wind blew cold and

blustery, and a rime of frost encircled the window frame.

Mischka rose with effort and peered up at the night sky.

“Soon the snow will fly. Look how icy the world has become.”

She pointed. “And see the snow moon as it waxes.”

“Why is it a snow moon when there isn’t any snow?”

“There will be, soon enough. Many of the Roma moons are a

time to prepare and plan. During Snow Moon, we ready

ourselves for the winter. November is the month of my birth.”

“What’s the Christmas moon called?”

“Oak. But it has nothing to do with Christmas. The moon

cycles are older than this society and its holidays. They are

timeless. You are born in April, correct?” When he nodded, she

said, “Seed Moon. Time to plant, time to think of tending fields.

We don’t follow the moon as we used to. Big buildings block it

from our sight. But a very long time ago, we did.”

“I wish I lived then instead of now.”

“It was a hard time. You are better off now, with food and

clothing and a roof over your head. There was no chance for

education then, and there was war. You are so lucky now to have

a good school.”

“I hate school.”

Surprised, Mischka said, “But your papa says you are a

wonderful student, very smart.”

“It doesn’t matter how smart I am. I hate the new school in

Germany. I want to go back to the one in Norway.” His voice

sounded weary, like an old man’s.

She longed to take him into her arms, this boy-child whose

voice and demeanor and blue eyes reminded her so much of

Emil, but she had only begun to reacquaint herself with him after

an interlude of nearly four years. His father and mother taught

English and German in various countries around the world and

had just moved to eastern Germany. Each posting usually lasted

two to four years before they moved on. Though of course he

remembered his great-aunt, Beebee Mischka, she wasn’t yet sure

that the childhood connection had survived. “Is it the

coursework? The teachers?”

He didn’t answer right away. He leaned toward the window

until his forehead came in contact with the cold glass and let out

a sigh. “I miss my life. I miss my friends.”

“Someone special?”

“Yes. A girl I liked a lot. Nobody likes me at the new school.

They make fun of me, call me names.”

“Names? Why? What names?”

4 Lori L. Lake

Tobar turned to look up at her, his fists clenched and his

face full of fury. The silver light drenched his face nearly white.

She was struck once more with how much he resembled Emil,

and a strange tearing in her chest made her feel as though she

might cry.

“They make fun of my name. Toe in the Bar, they say. Toe

Jam. Toe Head. You’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto Brain. Stuff

like that.” He brought his fists up to his eyes and held them

there so his next words were muffled. “Jeez, I hate my name.”

“Oh, my. I see.” Mischka sank back into the easy chair and

thought of the man for whom Tobar was named. Wide red smile.

Black beard. Crinkling, happy eyes. Such heft and size. An image

came of him standing motionless, arms out from his sides, his

face marked with anger but showing no fear as he spoke his last

words. She cut off the memory. She didn’t want to remember

that. Not now.

She took a deep breath and looked toward the clock above

the end table. Nearly one a.m. but she wasn’t tired, and the boy

needed something from her. “Do you know anything at all about

Tobar, son of Chal and Elena?”

He shook his head. “Only that he was someone Uncle Emil

and Grandma knew. Grandma told me once they named me after

him because he was strong and brave and was Uncle Emil’s best

friend. Oh, and that he died too young. I don’t know what

happened to him.”

“Nobody knows much.” She paused to think, and her next

words came out in a whisper. “Nobody except me.”

Frowning, Tobar turned and sat back on his heels, his left

arm stretched out along the windowsill. “Tell me about it, will

you, Beebee?”

Mischka gazed at his face, at intent eyes and a mouth set in

anger. He’s only fifteen years old, she thought. Too young for

the weight of the world. As if to emphasize her concern, he

scooted over close to the chair and leaned into her legs, his blond

head near her knee. She reached down with a stiff hand and

ruffled his hair. He was still just a boy.

“Beebee, if there is some reason I should like this awful

name, I want to know. Otherwise, when I grow up I’m going to

change it.”

“To what?”

“I don’t know—maybe Bruce Wayne or Han Solo.”

“Who are they?”

“What? You don’t know about Batman? Or Star Wars? ”

His tone was so incredulous that she had to smile. “Hmmm,

yes, I have heard of them, but I know little.”

Snow Moon Rising 5

“You gotta see the movie, and then you’ll know what I

mean. At least those guys are cool. If I had a name like Luke

Skywalker, nobody would make fun of me.”

Mischka sighed. To tell, or not to tell? Would his parents

approve? “Aren’t you tired?”

“No, not at all. Back home it’s seven hours earlier.”

“Oh, yes, I see. This is a story, Tobar, that I cannot tell fast.

But I guarantee you that the men and women in it were much

braver than your Bruce Wayne or your sky heroes. And the story

is real. It’s true. Not made up.”

“All right! That’s what I want to hear.” He popped to his

feet and took her hand. “Let’s go over on the couch.”

Mischka let him pull her up, feeling every bit of the ache in

her hips and knees, and she followed him to the couch while she

had second thoughts. He settled in the middle, turned, and sat

Indian-style, his face eager. She grabbed for the afghan lying

across the back of the sofa and placed it over her lap with

enough left to flap over onto his legs.

“I still get nightmares from parts of this,” she warned.

“Tell me,” he said in a firm voice.

Unsure where to begin, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Memories surfaced, and pictures rose up from hidden recesses,

not in the sepia tones she so often remembered, but stark, bright,

vital, and as colorful as modern photographs. She cleared her

throat.

“When you first come into the world, Tobar, if you have a

kumpania—an extended family that loves you—you have no idea

that anything terrible can happen. Bad things don’t have the

same effect when there is so much love and care surrounding a

child. Much later a person begins to understand the world is not

a very nice place and everyone does not survive. This is,

perhaps, the end of childhood. I don’t want to end your

childhood with sad stories, but remember, after darkness there is

always light. Just like after the moon disappears, the sun always

rises. Yes? You can remember that?”

He nodded solemnly, and she stepped back into the past.

Chapter

Two

Southern Poland, September 1918 (Barley Moon)

FACES AROUND THE roaring campfire were dappled in

flickering orange and yellow and white light. Voices rang out in

harmony, singing a Roma nonsense song for the children.

Overhead, a canopy of partially denuded oak tree branches

formed a variegated pattern through which the light of

September’s Barley Moon shone. Tilting her head back, Mischka

saw traces of moonbeams among the thick branches. The sight

made her happy, and when she looked again at the singing

people all around her, she felt contented. All was right with the

world. In the nine years of her life, she had always been most

comfortable at the fire circle, huddling with the other children

and listening to the jokes, songs, and conversation of the adults.

Tonight, she sat cross-legged on the ground beside her

father’s left leg. He rested upon a fallen tree trunk next to her

mother, who was clapping excitedly to the music. Nadja and

Mimi, two special friends from their leader’s family, were so

close at Mischka’s left that she could feel warmth from Mimi’s

body along her side. Somewhere in the large circle of people,

Mischka’s brothers Gyorgy and Stevo were singing. Gyorgy’s

bass voice always sounded slightly flat. In the distance beyond

the fire, she heard Stevo’s high tenor, always on key, but he was

hidden somewhere in the crowd.

If Mischka were an eagle sitting on a tree branch above, her

eagle eye would see a circle of fifty men, women, and children—

and two dogs—around the fire. A dozen nickering horses, two

goats, and eight tents, punctuated by vardos— traveling

wagons—in various stages of disrepair, formed another wider

circle some twenty feet behind them. The occasional cluck of a

chicken came from a coop in a smaller dogcart parked closer to

the fire than the other vardos.

The new encampment bordered a sleepy Polish town. They

Snow Moon Rising 7

had reached it only yesterday, and everyone’s spirits were high.

They hoped to stay for some time to replenish supplies and

prepare further for their southern journey to warmer climes. The

stream ran clean and cold, and much wildlife had already been

captured to cook or to make jerky. Dinner had been unusually

varied: pulled pork, green chili stew with chicken, cooked

cabbage, floury bread, and applesauce. Everyone around the fire

had a full belly.

As the song ended, Stevo rose and lifted a scarred guitar

above the heads of those seated. He moved to a place near

Mischka’s mother.

Stevo’s best friend Tobar called out, “Sing a fighting song

for me.”

“No,” another voice said, “let’s sing something in rounds.”

Stevo laughed. “No, no, no. Tonight I have something new.”

He put his foot up on the trunk of the fallen tree a few feet from

Mischka and strummed the guitar, then began a sweet melody.

The children loved him, for he often composed songs

especially for them. Some of his ditties were clever, some

naughty. Many he had been singing since he was a small boy.

The second son in the Gallo family, Stevo was the middle child,

and while his older brother Gyorgy drew respect for his physical

strength and stamina, Stevo often got teased for being a dreamer.

He was also a favorite of the adults—especially the young

women. Though only age sixteen, with his dark, soulful eyes and

a ready smile he had already captured the heart of more than one

young girl. His tenor voice shifted from humming into words.

I look at the moon up above

I sing a song to my long-lost love

I sing in tones of—

“Essen,” a loud voice shouted. “Gebt mir sofort was zu essen!”

Stevo broke off the song, his mouth open. Out of the corner of

her eye, Mischka saw a dark figure come hurtling from outside

the circle. At the same time, one dog growled and the other

barked frantically.

A pale-faced scarecrow of a man stood next to the fire, his

eyes wild as he spun ‘round and ‘round, flinching, and looking

as dangerous as a wild boar. The dogs advanced, barking

viciously, their faces and fangs monstrous in the firelight. The

stranger held his right arm out straight and at first Mischka

thought he was pointing a sharp stick. Then it registered. He has

a gun! The man holds a gun. A thrill of fear coursed through her,

and she sat glued to the ground, hardly breathing.

8 Lori L. Lake

The man wore dark boots, tattered stockings, and the

shabby, unbuttoned remains of what appeared to be a German

soldier’s uniform. As he spun about in a strange, herky-jerky

fashion, mothers and fathers pushed their children behind them

or off to the side. Mischka’s father shifted above her, but the tree

trunk prevented him from doing any more than sheltering her

behind his legs.

One of the biggest men, Tobar, put his hands up, palms out,

and shouted over the barking, “Please, put the weapon away,”

but it was clear the soldier couldn’t comprehend Romany. The

madman roared out further guttural words with a raspy voice

Mischka didn’t understand. She felt her father’s leg move. She

gasped when he rose and stepped forward.

“Papa,” she said, fear in her voice. “Be careful, Papa…” and

then her mother’s warm arms pulled her up and held her close.

In an authoritative voice, Mikhail said, “Soldat! Wir haben

etwas zu essen. Frieden. Frieden.” He turned and gestured toward

the barking animals. “Tobar! Stevo! Call off the dogs. They’re

scaring him.” Immediately the shepherd dogs were pulled from

the middle of the circle, but Mischka could still hear them

growling ominously.

The soldier let out a sigh. His pistol arm dropped slowly.

Mikhail advanced toward him, continuing to say “Frieden.”

Intuitively Mischka knew it meant something calming.

“Welcome,” her father said in Romany, then, in the strange

tongue Mischka knew she had heard before but didn’t quite

understand, “Willkommen.” With a sweep of his arm, Mikhail

said, “Welcome to this circle of peace. Frieden. Peace!”

The soldier said, “Frieden? Hilfe?”

“Ja!”

The intruder’s legs gave out, and he fell to the ground,

nearly rolling into the flames. In an instant, Gyorgy, Tobar, and

two other men grabbed the soldier’s limbs and dragged him

away from the fire. Mimi and Nadja’s father, Gunari, who was

their leader, dove into the fray and emerged from the huddle

gripping the pistol. In the confusion, Mischka slipped from her

mother’s arms and moved closer so she could watch the leader

pull at the gun’s mechanism. It made a clicking sound, and then

in exasperation, Gunari said, “This stupid fool had no bullets in

his gun!”

The murmur of voices rose, and various adults shouted

comments and questions.

“What do we do with him?”

“We ought to shoot him with his own gun.”

“What did the gajo want?”

Snow Moon Rising 9

“Who is he?”

“What did the gajo say?”

Mikhail held up a hand. “Before he fainted, this man asked

for hilfe, for ‘help.’ Before that, he demanded food. I think he’s

weak from hunger, perhaps sick from some ailment, too.”

Gunari said, “Carry him over to my vardo. We will minister

to him there. And we need for someone to keep a watch on him

through the night to see that he does no further harm.”

Mischka squealed out, “Me! I will. Gunari, I shall keep

watch.” Quiet snickers and loud guffaws burst out, and she felt

her face flame.

Her father put a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you,

Mischka, but Gunari is thinking more of large, strong men just in

case the soldier attempts some harm. Besides, you need your

sleep. You can help in other ways in the morning.”

She backed away, her face burning with embarrassment, and

watched as they carried the man away. All around the circle,

people spoke with excitement, and Mischka tried to listen to

everyone at once. Soon, Mimi sidled up and slipped her cool

hand into Mischka’s. Knowing that they’d be banished to bed

before too long, Mischka allowed Nadja and Mimi to lead her off

to their bedrolls, happy that she could hear what was going on

much better from her sleeping spot under her family’s vardo,

adjacent to the vardo of Gunari’s family.

BEFORE THE COCKS crowed, long before even the slightest

hint of dawn marked the sky, Mischka awakened and stared

blearily at the underside of the wagon above her. Mimi lay on

one side and Nadja on the other, both with their heads buried in

their bedrolls. Warm and cozy in her blankets, Mischka turned

over and peered into the darkness toward Gunari’s vardo. All

was quiet. Across the encampment, in the center of the clearing,

warm embers glowed from last night’s fire. During the night,

one of the women always rose to tend the fire—usually more

than once. Sometimes soft voices wakened Mischka, but usually

she slept through it. She would take her turn at fire watch

eventually, but for now, at age nine, she wasn’t expected to bear

such responsibility.

She ran her tongue over the spot where her eyetooth should

be. Her adult teeth were inching in, and she pressed her tongue

against the sharp edges. A part of her wished her teeth would

never grow in because now she could make a louder whistle than

any of the boys. She knew that wouldn’t last, though.

Half asleep, she lay on her stomach, hearing and feeling it

10 Lori L. Lake

growl insistently. To take her mind off her growing hunger, she

thought about the wild man and wondered if he were crazy—

somehow unbalanced. Who would be so foolish as to charge into

a circle of so many people and threaten them with a gun? She

didn’t know how many bullets the pistol could hold, but even if

it were loaded and he shot all the bullets, he couldn’t kill

everyone. The men in her kumpania would never have let him get

more than one shot off. Besides, the soldier was small and weak

compared even to young men like Stevo and Gyorgy. She

thought Tobar could crush him with one large hand.

Above her, the wagon shifted and creaked. She heard a soft

thud then saw her mother’s boots and long skirt as she moved

toward the fire. Luminitsa, called Lumi, carried two large water

jugs, one on either side of her belly, which was still distended

from a recent stillbirth. Mischka understood that the baby her

mother had carried had somehow died, but she didn’t know why

it had happened yet again. Lumi’s last three pregnancies had

ended the same way. Mischka was glad to see that her mother’s

sorrow had lifted in the last few days, but she was still not back

to her old self.

Lumi was usually the first in their family to rise. With

smooth steps, she moved past the fire and through the grove of

plum trees. The dikla knotted on her mother’s head was the last

thing Mischka saw before she disappeared from the dim light.

Beyond the trees, the ground sloped to the river. Lumi would

wash up there, then move upstream and gather water for

cooking and dishwashing.

Mischka turned on her side and slipped back to sleep. Then

the first cackling noises of the morning came from the chicken

coop, and her eyes popped back open. The two roosters vied for

the most irritating call as the chickens hopped around in their

wood cages and made squawking noises.

Thin light permeated the campground as Lumi made her

way through the plum trees again, lugging the now-full jugs.

From the corner of her eye, Mischka caught sight of several other

women emerging from their vardos or tents. They greeted Lumi

with a wave and disappeared into the stand of plum trees just as

her mother had.

Lumi set down the jugs by the fire near several coffeepots

and moved off to gather wood from the edges of the clearing to

build up the fire and begin the day’s cooking. They had set up

camp so quickly the night before that much work still needed to

be done. Later in the morning, Mischka and most of the other

boys and girls would collect kindling and fallen branches. The

older boys and men would chop up fallen trunks and put it all

Snow Moon Rising 11

under dry cover. Wood detail was one of Mischka’s favorites.

She loved to walk among the trees.

Once the fire was glowing, Lumi strolled back toward the

wagon. She stepped up on the wooden stair, and the vardo

shifted as she rooted around for something. Mischka heard her

father’s deep voice rumble above. Her mother whispered back,

then stepped away from the wagon carrying the coffee grinder

and an apron to cover her long, flowing skirt.

For as long as she could remember, Mischka had watched

her mother make coffee before the men awakened. While the pot

heated on the fire, Lumi ground the coffee and then added it to

the boiling water. She squatted by the pot and watched the

coffee cook, preventing it from boiling over and squelching the

fire. A rich, aromatic smell wafted toward Mischka, and now she

knew she was awake for good. From the bottom of her bedroll,

she retrieved a pair of brown woolen pants, socks, and a sweater,

and wriggled in her warm pouch to put them on. She slipped

from the heat of her bed into the cool September air and reached

for her leather boots.

They had become tight. All she had to do was say

something, and another pair would be found for her, but she was

unhappy that these would soon be too small. They were the first

pair of boots made especially for her. Instead of Mischka

wearing hand-me-downs from the other children, Gyorgy had

cobbled the boots to fit her feet exactly. It had been a lot of work,

and she was not sure he would want to go to the time and

trouble again—but then, perhaps he would. In another moon

cycle, snow would fly, and if they didn’t get a lot farther south

soon, they would all have a great deal of unproductive time on

their hands while waiting for winter to pass. Gyorgy might

consent to making her a new pair then. She hoped today the

weather would warm up so she could go barefoot, but that

remained to be seen.

She crawled from under the wagon, and the crisp morning

air tickled her nose. With slow, quiet steps, she wandered past

the opening of Gunari’s vardo, but the curtain was closed, and

she couldn’t see in. Silently she cursed her bad luck. The soldier

could have died in the night, for all she knew. She hoped not, but

who could she ask? Sighing, she turned and strolled toward the

fire. Two full days passed before she found out more about the

strange man.

Chapter

Three

Southern Poland, September 1918 (Barley Moon)

THE FIRST TIME Emil Stanek woke in the night, his head

pounded and he was disoriented and woozy. Awareness

returned bit by bit, and he discovered he lay on his side,

wrapped in blankets. His stomach hurt. His ribs ached. His hand

throbbed. The familiar feel of socks and boots on his feet was

gone, but even barefoot, he was toasty warm in his undershirt

and coat, blankets bundled around him. The confines of a small

room swam into his vision, and he gradually recognized he was

lying on the floor of a dimly lit wagon. A foggy lantern hung in

one corner beyond his feet, and the slight amount of light it cast

hurt his eyes.

Emil sat up, but a dark-haired figure at the rear of the

wagon raised a hand when he tried to rise. “Nah, nah, nah.

Shhh…”

The man was so big that his over-sized boots touched the

wall of the wagon on the right while his upper torso lounged

against the wall on the left. One ham-sized hand reached for a

mug that sat on a long shelf running along the edge of the

wagon. He passed the mug to Emil, who accepted it after a brief

hesitation. The lantern shed such feeble light that Emil couldn’t

see the contents, but he detected a spicy aroma. Heart beating

fast, he poked his tongue down into it, and the moment his

tastebuds touched the thick, warm broth, his stomach erupted

into flips. Without further suspicion, he sucked in one mouthful,

then another.

Once he had slurped through half of the rich, garlicky

liquid, he found chunks of vegetables on the bottom. He bit into

a marble-sized piece and sighed with gratitude. Peppers…and

chicken! The fragrant stew disappeared as fast as he could chew

and gulp it down. He wanted more, but didn’t know how to ask

or whether it would be an acceptable request. After all, he had

Snow Moon Rising 13

not been very mannerly upon first introduction to these people.

He wiped his lips on the back of his right sleeve and met the

Gypsy man’s eyes, then looked away in embarrassment.

The man said, “Dosta puyo? ” and waited. Emil stared at him.

The man frowned. “Komi? ”

Still, Emil had no idea what to say so he handed the mug

back. The huge fellow nodded, then folded aside a heavy curtain,

poked his head through, and spoke a torrent of foreign words in

a loud voice.

He should make his move now. Emil imagined himself

leaping up and across the wagon to launch himself out the back.

He could roll and be up and running before this giant of a man

knew what happened. But no, he was barefoot and barelegged.

He also had a fever. The cold ground and chilly September

weather would slowly sap away his strength, and before he

made it to safety, he would freeze to death. His shoulders sank,

and in despair, he wondered how to get out of this mess. Who

were these people? The stew was a kindness, but was he safe?

Oh, God, he thought, what had he gotten himself into?

Two nut-brown arms bearing a flat wooden board reached

through the back curtain, and the Gypsy man took the board and

passed it to Emil saying, “Bogacha. Puyo. ”

Emil accepted the wooden slab, surprised to see that the

foot-square cutting board was finely crafted with a soft finish.

On it sat the mug from which he had eaten before—again filled

with that delectable stew—and some chunks of what looked like

floury bread. The Gypsy man rolled to his side and then up on

his knees to lean across the length of the wagon. He pointed at

the bread and said, “Bogacha. ” He looked at Emil and his eyes

widened as he pointed to the stew: “Puyo. ” His large finger

pointed again at the bread, “Bogacha,” and back to the stew,

“Puyo.” Emil nodded and smiled. “I understand. Puyo. Bogacha.

Chicken pepper stew and bread. Thank you.”

The Gypsy man patted the flat of his broad chest and said,

“Tobar.”

Emil introduced himself the same way, adding, “German.

I’m German. You are Gypsy?”

Tobar’s eyes narrowed and his entire countenance changed.

In a hissing voice, he said, “Roma!” Even on his knees he

towered over Emil, who couldn’t prevent himself from cowering

as he pressed the wooden tray tightly against his thighs and

waited for a blow that never came. Tobar growled, “No Gypsy!”

At this point, Emil expected Tobar to lash out or take the

food away. Looking the dark man in the eye, he said. “I

apologize.” He patted his chest, “Emil—German,” then pointed

14 Lori L. Lake

to Tobar. “Tobar—Roma.”

Tobar smiled broadly, the apology apparently accepted, and

Emil shuddered with relief. That was one mistake he wouldn’t

make again. As he focused once more on his stew, he hoped

there wouldn’t be too many of these terrifying lessons while he

was accepting the hospitality of the Roma.

THE SECOND TIME Emil awakened, it was as though he

were being sucked up into a nightmare vortex in hell. Fire.

Bright lights of explosions. Screaming men. He heard his own

voice and felt the rat-tat-tat of his heart, which he first thought

came from a German Maxim machine gun.

Pressure on his left leg brought him fully awake. Tobar’s big

mitt had hold of his calf, and he spoke words Emil didn’t

understand. The tone was comforting, reminding him of his

father sitting at his bedside when he was ill as a small boy.

Gradually, the staccato of his heart slowed to a normal pace.

The pain in his right rib was acute, so Emil shifted carefully

to the left, turning his hips, and pulling his knees toward his

chest. Tobar gave his foot one final pat, then let go, and in

moments, Emil was drifting again. His last thought was that he

wasn’t hungry for the first time in many nights.

The third time Emil awakened, he lay on his back and bright

light poured into the cave of the wagon. As though from far

away, a soft babble of voices ranged back and forth over his

head—on the left, a deep rumble of words; on the right, a higher,

softer woman’s voice.

Surely he was dying—perhaps dead. They must be

conferring about disposing of his remains. He could not force

himself to care. His skin didn’t feel sufficient to hold him, and

with each breath, he became lighter, as though ready to leave his

unresponsive body. His lungs burned so badly that he nearly lost

consciousness. Shivering and racked with coughing, he couldn’t

prevent tears from oozing out and dripping down his cheeks in

runnels of heat. Soft hands touched his forehead, his face, his

chest. Someone removed the bandage on his left hand. A woman

half-sang soothing words in soft tones. Something hot and flat

was pressed inside his shirt, and he passed out.

A FAINT LIGHT sliced in through the crack of curtain at the

rear of the wagon, and Emil heard cocks crowing. He sat up,

feeling muzzy-headed and confused. His tongue was as dry as a

log. Coughing and clearing his throat, he realized he was as

Snow Moon Rising 15

thirsty as he had ever been. More coughing brought up phlegm.

He picked up a rag lying next to him and spat in it. His hand

throbbed, and he touched the smooth material wrapped around

his palm. Someone had changed the makeshift bandage. He

closed his hand, not quite into a fist. Without his little finger, it

was never going to be the same, but perhaps he would not lose

the hand after all. He no longer felt fire and sharp tingling from

his palm and up his arm, only an uncomfortable pulsation.

He was alone. In Tobar’s place sat a pile of clothing. Emil

found a button-up shirt, knickers-length pants, undergarments,

and long socks, darned many times. But no shoes or boots.

The back curtain whisked open, and a vaguely familiar-

looking man leaned into the wagon and smiled through his thick

beard. “Droboy tume Romale.” In German, he said, “That basically

means good morning. Are you feeling better?”

Emil hesitated, then said, “Yes, sir.”

“Are you as crazy today as you were that first night?”

Blushing, Emil shook his head. “No, sir. I am not. I

apologize—”

The man cut him off with a wave. “My name is Mikhail

Gallo, and I believe I’m the only one here who speaks sufficient

German for you to communicate. If you stay with us, you must

learn the Romany language.”

Emil gulped. “Stay?”

“Why, yes. You are a man in trouble, are you not?”

Emil sat, swathed in blankets, wondering if he had talked in

his sleep. “How do you know that?”

Mikhail raised his hands, palms up. “I know a man in

trouble when I see one. Besides, you are a soldier, and soldiers

do not travel alone so far away from the battlefield unless they

have a problem.”

Emil let out a groan. He didn’t wish to think of battlefields,

nor of trenches and mud, of screaming, nor of flying body parts

after bombs crashed down upon him. He didn’t ever want to

think of any of it again, but this man would expect it. He met the

other man’s eyes. “You would not believe me if I told you.”

“Si khohaimo may patshivalo sar o tshatshimo. That means

‘there are lies more believable than the truth.’ You will tell us

more after we breakfast. First, you must gather your things.”

Mikhail slung a green knapsack over the wagon’s gate. “We

found this pack down near the river.”

“Thank you. There’s not much in there.”

“I saw that.” He gestured away from the wagon. “In a few

minutes, the women will be done washing at the river, and you

and I shall go to wash. Wait here.”

16 Lori L. Lake

He disappeared, then returned a moment later and offered

Emil a mug. “It’s only coffee, but it’s warm and contains some

milk. Your response, in Romany, is gestena. That means, simply,

thank you.”

“Gestena, Herr Gallo.”

“No ‘Herr’ or ‘Master’ here. You know me by Mikhail, and I

know you by Emil, if I may?”

“Yes, sir—I mean, yes, Mikhail. Gestena, Mikhail.” He took a

sip of the coffee, and it was like nothing he had ever tasted

before. The coffee flavor was there, but so was a pungent

sweetness and some sort of strong spice. Though hot enough to

bring tears to his eyes, he couldn’t keep from slurping at it as he

discovered he was, again, ravenous.

“I shall return in a few moments. Please do not speak to

anyone until we are around the fire to eat. In fact, disregard the

entire kumpania until you have washed.”

“All right, Mikhail.” Emil was more than glad to steer clear

of the rest of the group. His mouth tasted like he had dined on a

dead dog, and from sweat and illness, his body smelled like one.

Mikhail disappeared, then strolled by a while later and

tossed boots into the wagon. Emil, who had by then drained his

coffee, scrambled forward and grabbed at the black boots.

Though barely recognizable, they were his. Someone had worked

saddle soap and boot blacking into them. The leather, which had

been stiff and dry when last he wore them, was now soft again.

After pulling on the clean pair of pants, he slipped his feet into

the boots, leaving them unlaced. Dressed in his dirty shirt and

soldier’s coat, he would make his way to the river to wash up,

but once there, he planned to change into the new set of clothes.

Today, he was a new man.

MISCHKA FINISHED EATING the porridge in her clay bowl

and waited for her father and Gunari to return from the river

with the strange man. Not a single boy was anywhere to be seen.

It wasn’t fair. Even the small boys could go down to the river to

watch the soldier, but she was stuck here, feeding and watering

the chickens. Most days it was merely an inconvenience to be a

girl; today it was a true impediment.

Mischka twisted a piece of leather to release the slatted

wooden door, and Khania, her pet chicken, squawked and

stepped out of the cage. She had trained the little hen from birth,

and as far as Khania was concerned, Mischka was her mother.

The chicken allowed Mischka to pick her up and cradle her in

one arm as the girl set about letting all the chickens out. Their

Snow Moon Rising 17

wings were clipped to prevent them from flying away, but

Mischka didn’t think they would ever go far. They knew a good

meal when they saw it.

“Chook, chook, chook,” Mischka said. The last chicken

popped out of the coop. She hurried to clean out the soiled

straw, then scattered feed, knowing that at any moment the men

could return. She didn’t want to miss one minute of watching

them eat breakfast.

She wondered what Gunari would do with the wild man. A

tiny village nearby would likely take him in. He could also stay

with the kumpania. A fair number of runaways had joined their

caravan over the years. Her own father had, in fact, run from an

oppressive foster family when he was only fourteen, and Palko,

who had been the leader before Gunari, had adopted him as his

own. After she finished putting new straw in the coop, Mischka

raced across the clearing, taking an alternate path down to the

river so as not to run into the boys and men. She had never

washed her hands and arms and face so quickly in her life.

Before most of the other girls and women arrived, she was

drying her hands with a cloth hanging on the branch of a

sapling. She ran back up the slight incline, burst into the

clearing, quickly located the soldier, and skidded to a stop. She

wanted to watch his face, to see whether she could detect guile

in his heart. Her father, when pressed, had told her earlier in the

morning that the man was not an evil spirit. He had merely been

ill and hungry. She wished to determine for herself if this was

so. Mischka’s mother and the other cooks served the men first,

then the children and themselves. Mischka squatted far enough

from the fire to avoid the heat, but close enough to see the

soldier’s face. Holding her bowl of scrambled eggs and lamb to

her chest, she propped herself against a fallen tree trunk, and

studied him as he ate. Since he didn’t speak their language,

various of the women began speaking of him as though he

weren’t there.

Gunari’s wife Tshaya said, “He seemed a lot larger when he

burst upon us.”

“It’s true,” Jeta said.

Mischka’s Aunt Patia said, “He’s not so much now, is he,

Lumi? Your Stevo is bigger than he is.”

“You have to remember how he startled us,” Lumi pointed

out. “And the gun—well, that would make Lenner look big.” The

women tittered.

“He’s not so bad looking,” Jeta said. “Perhaps, if he’s a good

18 Lori L. Lake

man, he might be interested in Drina or Tawni.”

Both girls were of marrying age, but their parents had yet to

find husbands for them. At the next big summer encampment,

many marriages would be arranged. Mischka thought that no

one would be interested in Tawni, who was petulant and cranky

most of the time. Mischka wouldn’t be sad to see her go and

hoped someone would come up with a dowry for her. Tawni’s

cousin, Drina, was a different story. No one ever knew what she

thought or felt as she was so quiet all the time. She went about

her business, doing her work, keeping her own counsel. It

seemed to Mischka that Drina spent more time talking to the

horses than to human beings.

She would marry Drina, Mischka thought, but there wasn’t

enough gold in the world to make her marry Tawni. Upon

reflection, it occurred to her that in six or eight years, she would

be expected to accept a suitor from the pool of boys, not the

girls. She frowned, dropped her spoon in the empty bowl, and

looked around the fire at the boys. She would never marry

Boldor or Zurka. Maybe Milosh—but not his brother, Cam.

She and Cam had a contentious competition. He had been

born half a year after her, but he tried to act like her superior.

She could run faster, throw more accurately, and pin him to the

ground any time they wrestled. He didn’t take too kindly to her

besting him.

She rose and took her bowl to her mother. “Do you want

more, my little Mischka?” Lumi asked.

“No, Mama, but thank you. It was good, and I am full.”

Lumi smoothed thick black curls off Mischka’s forehead.

“You must be growing, child. You eat as much as me.”

“Soon I will be as tall as Papa.”

Lumi laughed. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We’ll just wait and

see.”Mischka leaned into her mother, her head against Lumi’s

arm. “Mama, what will happen to the man?”

“I don’t know. That is up to Gunari to decide. Do you have

any thoughts to share?”

Mischka shook her head. “He doesn’t seem like a bad man.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Chapter

Four

Southern Poland, October 1918 (Blood Moon)

THAT HE COULD speak so little Romany embarrassed Emil.

Of course he had been trying to learn the language only for a

fortnight. He clutched at the words, the intonation, the phrasing,

but most of it ran through his mind like dreams that flit away

upon awakening. He didn’t know why it was so difficult. After

all, he was conversant in French, knew a smattering of Polish,

and his German syntax and usage had been perfect in school.

Though he tried hard to understand what the talkative troupe

was saying, their words ran together in one fast, long string. To

make matters worse, half the time, three or four were talking at

once, and then he was lost completely. Mikhail had to translate,

which made Emil uneasy. If he didn’t learn the rudiments of the

language soon, he worried they would put him out.

Then Mischka took him under her wing. At first, he held

himself aloof from the women and children, but Mischka was

relentless. After a time, he came to understand that she wanted

to teach him Romany nearly as much as she wanted to learn

German. He thought it odd that this slim, dark-haired girl was

named Mischka, which meant “Little Mikhail.” But she idolized

her father, and the name suited her. She also looked exactly like

him, though softer and much leaner.

She was an unusual child, different from the others in the

kumpania. Today she stood beckoning him from across the

clearing. Her black, wavy hair hadn’t been tamed in days. A hint

of gold, nearly lost in the tangle of hair, glittered in earlobes

pierced by hoop earrings. Dressed in boots, brown breeches, and

a long-sleeved yellow blouse stained with fruit from the morning

breakfast, she looked like a wild boy. If her hair were cut short,

he would have a hard time guessing she was a girl, but that

would change, of course, as she grew into a maiden.

She opened the coop and tossed out a chicken. “Look,” she

20 Lori L. Lake

said to him in German. “Khania.”

He knew the word meant chicken. He’d eaten a lot of it

lately. “Khania. That means chicken in German.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Khania is her name, her

own special name.”

“Ah, I see. You named your pet chicken ‘Chicken.’” He

grinned and pointed toward the shepherd dog frolicking with

the boys on the other side of the clearing. “Is the dog’s name

‘Dog’?”

A look of sheer delight came to her face. “Spike! The dog is

Spike!” Now it was his turn to laugh. She had learned the

German word for dog and easily constructed a sentence. With

her free hand, she pointed beyond him at the forest. “That is a

tree.” Next to the cooking pots over the flames, she said, “Fire.”

He strode toward the chicken coop, indulging her, as they

exchanged words in both German and Roma.

He tried not to laugh, but he, too, felt the glee that she

displayed. Mischka was one quick study. If she was going to

work so hard to learn his language, he was definitely going to

learn hers.

“Stop,” he said. She stood by a huge bay mare. He pointed at

the dark horse and in Romany said, “Grai.”

“Pferd!” she said back in German, excitement in her voice.

He gestured to her, and as she drew closer, he pointed to his

left hand, but before he could say anything, she said, “Hand!”

Her black eyes shining, she advanced, grabbed for his left hand.

“Bad hurt.” She traced the scar on his palm and shook her head

sadly at his lack of a little finger.

“Yes,” he said. “Ouch.”

She gave him a beseeching look, but he chose to ignore it,

not wanting to explain how he’d lost his finger and permanently

scarred his hand. The skin was still tender and his grip

uncertain. A heavy weight settled in his stomach, but when he

met her eyes, he could tell she wasn’t pressing him.

They continued around the clearing naming everything in

sight, much to the amusement of Mischka’s mother, Lumi, and

her Aunt Patia. When he or she didn’t know a word in the

other’s language, they stopped to figure it out, then repeated it

over and over, and he had no doubt she would remember it. He

decided he had better pay close attention or this young girl was

going to get the best of him.

Mischka’s father emerged from the forest, followed by

Gunari and two older men, Nicolae and Nanosh, whom Emil

didn’t know very well. Mikhail came toward the coop as the

others headed toward the fire. In German, he said, “I see my

Snow Moon Rising 21

daughter is keeping you busy, Emil.”

“That she is, Mikhail. I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

“Yes, she picks up words very quickly. Already she

understands some of your German. She knows a smattering of

Hungarian, many Polish words, and even some French, though

she has never been to France yet. Right, my Mischka?”

She squinted up at her father, a wide grin revealing her two

half-grown front teeth. “Oui, Papa.”

MISCHKA HAD NEVER been fonder of wood detail than

during the late October days. She hastened through the trees,

picking up sticks and chunks, keeping busy as she worked hard

to memorize the various moon celebrations. October was Blood

Moon, a time to remember all that the Old Ones, alive and dead,

had passed on to the wanderers who were left behind. For her

mother and father, their parents, her grandparents’ parents, and

back further than she could logically understand, travel had

been a way of life. She knew that in one day, depending upon the

terrain, the troupe could cover fifteen miles—or as little as four

or five if the ground was rough or an axle broke. She couldn’t

comprehend that the Old Ones had traveled thousands of miles.

But the Blood Moon occupied only one part of her mind

today. She also dwelt on the fire that burned about a hundred

yards from the regular campsite. No small children were allowed

to sit at the ceremonial fire, and the older girls and women were

required to stay around the main fire where they talked and

laughed as they prepared the coming meal. Mischka’s older

brothers were allowed, as were Tobar and any other young men

who were interested.

Every young man was acutely interested.

Mischka wished she could attend, especially tonight, when

Emil would be answering some of the questions everyone

wanted to ask. The thought stayed with her as she finished wood

collection, and when no one was looking, she crept to the east

and doubled back and around, inching along from tree to tree

until she was within earshot of the ceremonial fire.

Eight men, heads of the families, were seated on logs and

stumps that formed a circle. Emil sat with them. Slightly behind

the older men, a dozen young men sat cross-legged. Wineskins

and tobacco changed hands, and much light-hearted teasing

went on, particularly toward Gunari’s adult son, Bersh, who was

struggling with discipline for his little son, Lennor. The six-year-

old had recently wandered away by himself without permission

and fallen into the remains of a dead skunk. Everyone could tell

22 Lori L. Lake

when he was in the vicinity. For a moment, Mischka thought she

smelled the sour odor, but then she decided she was imagining

it. Gunari said, “Let’s get to the business at hand. Mikhail,

would you be so kind as to exchange places with me so you can

sit next to our young friend and translate?” The leader patted

Emil on the thigh, which seemed to surprise the soldier. From

her post behind a tree and shrouded in low brush, Mischka saw

he looked nervous.

“It’s time for you to tell your story, Emil.” Gunari took a

deep draw from his homemade cigarette and passed it to his left.

“Tell us of the land from which you come and the cataclysmic

events that have brought you to us.”

Emil blanched and looked down into the fire, then around

the ring at the calm faces there. Beyond Gunari sat Gyorgy and

Tobar. He met Tobar’s eyes, and Tobar nodded in

encouragement.

Gunari said, “Don’t worry, young man. Just start at the

beginning, perhaps with the circumstances of your birth.”

Emil hesitated, as if to gather both his thoughts and his

courage. “I was born in 1899 in a farming village outside Reims,

in the Champagne-Ardennes region of France.” He looked

around the circle, then at Mikhail. “Do they know where that

is?” Mikhail shrugged. “We have rarely traveled that far

northwest, but I will try to make it clear to them.”

“All right then,” Emil continued, pausing every few

sentences for Mikhail to relay his words. “My father’s parents

were German and French. They lived in France, in a city called

Reims, for many years until they died. My mother is German,

from the Strausbourg region. Her parents still live in Germany.

The first time I remember visiting them, I was five. That was just

after my brother Hans was killed when a coach and horses ran

him over in Reims.”

A chorus of voices rang out. “So young.”

“Dreadful misfortune.”

“That is a terrible thing to happen to a child.”

“Yes, it was,” Emil said. “My sister, Pauline, who we

nicknamed Pippi, was born when I was six. Shortly after, my

father fell ill and could no longer work the farm. We moved from

Reims to live in Germany, near my mother’s parents. It was

difficult for me at first. I didn’t know the language, and I didn’t

have near the skills for learning it that Mikhail’s daughter

Mischka seems to have.”

Mischka smiled with delight at the unexpected praise and

Snow Moon Rising 23

crawled closer to the group, not wanting to miss a single word.

“I, of course, learned German rather well after all. I was

fond of school, so much so that I determined to be a teacher of

history and geography. Then two years ago my father died,

leaving my mother, sister, and me alone. We had some money,

but not enough. My mother is a fine seamstress, and my sister

and I did whatever work we could. But then the officials came

and took me into the military.” He shuddered. “I thought the

training phase was barbaric, but it was nothing compared to the

infantry. We were transported east, far into Poland, and then

marched miles and miles over hills and through forests, lugging

equipment and supplies, stopping in villages and seizing their

stores. We finally came to the front and settled there, under fire.

When we advanced, we dug ditches and foxholes and made them

our homes. By the time a fortnight passed, much of our

battlefield had been bombed. I spent more time helping to carry

the dead and injured than actually shooting.”

He shuddered again. “After a time, I don’t even know how

long, I knew that there was no way I would get out of the war

alive. We were strafed and shelled, and one by one, my comrades

died ugly, horrifying deaths. The rain poured down, the skies

bled upon us, and I stopped caring whether I lived or died.”

Emil’s face twisted in pain. He gestured toward the

wineskin Gunari held loosely in his lap. “Would you mind, sir, if

I had a little of that?”

Gunari hefted the wineskin into the air over the fire. Half-

standing, Emil caught it with shaking hands and settled back

into his place. After taking a couple of deep pulls, he passed it to

Mikhail then stared vacantly into the fire for a moment. When he

spoke again, his voice was calm and mechanical.

“Then came the worst day. Bomb after bomb fell.

Explosions and debris. Blood and dirt and body parts. So many

bombs from such tiny little craft.” He sighed. “I had already sent

goodbye letters to my mother and to little Pippi, my sister. We

held our position, praying that reinforcements from the north

would come in time. They did not. Once, I looked up, and

through the smoke, I could see the outline of the pilot in a British

aeroplane. And then more bombs fell and there was

screaming…someone crying for help. An officer’s head blew off,

and I screamed out myself. Gunfire took the rifle right out of my

hands. The barrel was ruined, so I picked up the dead officer’s

pistol. There was so much roaring and rumbling and flames…”

His voice was filled with bewilderment. “So much fire. I don’t

know how that could be, since we were up to our ankles in water

and mud. But the fires of hell sprang up all around me. I crawled

24 Lori L. Lake

to the end of the foxhole. They were all dead. To a man. Dead.”

Panting as though he were about to pass out, Emil said, “I

crawled out of the foxhole and ran away from the shooting until

I came to a stand of trees. The noise of the aircraft above was

deafening. I looked back and saw a bomb falling. It blew my

foxhole to pieces. All I could see was a huge crater and—and—”

He leaned forward and looked like he was going to pass out.

Mischka felt sick for him. She almost wished she were not

hearing this story, but at the same time, there was no way she

could creep away and not hear the end.

Mikhail handed the wineskin to Emil again, and he downed

a sizable gulp. When he started to hand it back, Mikhail shook

his head. “No, you keep it. You need it more than any of us do.

Please go on when you’re ready.”

Emil sat for a moment, the wineskin clutched to his chest,

then said, “You can’t imagine how it was—like I’d been

transported into a strange nightmare. The dust and dirt rained

down like a blanket of fog. I fled through the forest…tripping

over logs…slipping in mud. I didn’t even know my little finger

was gone and my palm was chewed to the bone. When I noticed

blood dripping all over the place I took off my pack, found a

handkerchief, and bound it up. I threw out everything I didn’t

need. All I kept was rations and a shirt and socks. And then—I

just ran.”

He paused, looked around the circle. In a bitter voice, he

added, “I kept on running like the coward I am. Days I hid and

slept. From dusk until dawn I kept moving, continually orienting

myself into Poland as far away from battle as I could. I don’t

know where I thought I would go. Who would want a man like

me?”

He passed on the wineskin and waited for Mikhail to

translate. To Mischka it seemed that Emil’s sorrow carried

through the forest to her, where it lodged in her throat and chest

like a heavy stone.

“After a time, I had consumed all the meager rations in my

pack,” he said. “Then I ate berries and used the gun to shoot

whatever I could. I had some sort of hedgehog on a spit once. It

was bitter and tough, but I had to eat. And then I ran out of

bullets. I may be wrong, but I think I had traveled for ten—no,

perhaps eleven—days without anything more than apples,

plums, dying berries, and stream water. The nights were cold

and so damp, and I lacked warm clothes. By the time I

discovered your camp, I was out of my head from pain and

hunger and lack of sleep. Perhaps you will one day forgive me

for my terrible behavior.”

Snow Moon Rising 25

He hung his head, and all was silent around the fire for a

few moments.

Mario, partially blind and the oldest man in the troupe,

cleared his throat. In a slow, deep voice, he said “Jek dilo kerel but

dile hai but dile keren dilimata.”

Mikhail nodded. “He says ‘One madman makes many

madmen and many madmen makes madness.’”

“Is he speaking of me?”

Mikhail smiled. “No, of course not. He is speaking of those

who make war and send young men to their deaths. You have

emerged from madness, Emil. To do anything but run away

would have been foolhardy. You are alive now because you were

smart enough to flee.”

Mario spoke again, “Kon del tut o nai shai dela tut wi o vast.”

“Just so you know, Mario tends to speak in riddles and

adages,” Mikhail said. “What he is saying now is, ‘He who

willingly gives you a finger will also give you the whole hand.’ I

think what he is getting at is that you have given up a finger for

the madness of the war, and it is not cowardice that you did not

give the whole hand. You were prepared to fight and die. You

bore the horror as long as you could, and then you decided

‘Enough!’ None of us—” he swept his arms out in front of him

“—faults you for what you have done.”

Speaking in Romany, he spent a minute relaying this latest

part of the conversation. All around the circle the men grunted

their assent. If she could have, Mischka would have leapt up

from her hiding place and added her own agreement. Wisely, she

kept out of sight.

Gunari tapped some tobacco into a scrap of paper and

carefully rolled a cigarette and twisted the ends. He struck a

match on his shoe and lit the cigarette, sucked in a deep pull,

then rose and passed it to Emil. “Now I believe I understand

your nightmares, soldier. Were I you, I, too, would dream as you

do.” He paused. “What you need is a woman.”

All around the circle the men grinned. Emil hung his head

again, and Nicolae swatted him on the shoulder, obviously

teasing him, though it was clear Emil didn’t understand his exact

words.

“Well,” Mikhail said, “without a woman, we can always sing

some of your pain away tonight, Emil. We will drink more wine

and get out the violins and guitars and bells and every rhythm

instrument we own.”

One of the boys, Branko, called out, “Mulengi Djilia! Brigaki

Djilia! ”

Mikhail laughed. In German, he said, “Branko is calling for

26 Lori L. Lake

dirges and sorrow songs. Don’t ask me why, but that’s what he

likes. I was thinking more in terms of Patshivaki Djilia—

friendship songs.”

Mischka wasn’t sure what Gunari meant about Emil needing

a woman, but she knew that she would one day be a woman. As

it was, she was currently a girl. She decided right then and there

that Emil could count on her. If he needed someone female, she

filled the bill.

“One more thing,” Gunari said. “About these nightmares.

Some nights they cause you to disturb the camp. I think they will

decrease over time, but until they do, there is no use in your

needless suffering or in the waking of the kumpania. Tobar—and

Kako’s sons as well—are light sleepers. I propose each night you

place your bedroll near one of these young men. They can take

turns beside you, and if you call out in the night, they can wake

you to let you know you are safe. How is that, boys? Would you

do that for Emil?”

Tobar said, “Of course,” and the other young men echoed

his agreement.

Mischka longed to dash into the circle and inform them all

that she, too, would sleep next to Emil and soothe his

nightmares, but she restrained herself. The eight men in the

inner circle rose. Her eyes widened. If she didn’t leave soon she

would be caught. Already Nanosh’s sons were tramping in her

direction, and she knew they were seeking a private spot to

relieve themselves.

She wormed her way backwards, crawled behind another

tree, and slithered into a patch of brush and away from all of

them. Cloaked in the forest, she walked a long way, threading a

path through brush and over fallen logs until she looped around

west to the stream. She squatted on well-worn stones next to the

water and tried to understand the meaning of war. She knew

what death was and how the body of the person or animal joined

the earth while most spirits returned to live again in some other

form. She also understood killing animals for food. Though she

hadn’t yet wrung a chicken’s neck, her mother had explained

that it must always be done with respect for the creature and

only when the animal’s meat was needed.

She understood anger and how one person could enrage

another. Many times she had had to stop herself from tackling

Cam and bashing his head in. The few times they had tussled,

though, she hadn’t actually wanted to do more than hurt him

enough to make him stop his teasing. Whoever struck first was

usually sent to the tent to cool off for hours, which was a worse

punishment than teasing.

Snow Moon Rising 27

But that was different from gathering together all the men of

a town and going after another town. What could be so

important that men would use guns and aeroplanes to kill one

another? The worst violence that Mischka had actually seen

happened on the road when a Polish horseman started an

argument with one of Nanosh’s sons, claiming that someone had

thrown something at his horse. He dismounted and pushed

Simionce to the ground. When Gyorgy intervened, the Pole had

slammed a fist in his face. Gyorgy struck him back, and suddenly

there was blood everywhere and a pile of men on top of the Pole.

When they let him up, he got on his horse and called them “dirty

Gypsies” and other names. He rode away screaming that he

hated them.

At the time, she had thought the man mad, like a dog bitten

by a skunk with rabies. No sane person would attack a group of

others—it made no sense.

But she did understand hatred. Often, as they traveled

through towns, people called out rude names and shook their

fists in the air. She didn’t know what her kumpania had ever done

to deserve that, and it occurred to her that perhaps wars were

fought over the same mistaken kind of hatred. Perhaps Emil and

the gajos had done nothing to deserve the treatment they got.

After all, how could Emil have done anything wrong? He was

her friend.

Chapter

Five

Southern Poland, October, 1918 (Blood Moon)

THE WEATHER GREW colder, and Mischka was happy they

were ready to move south. After a hasty breakfast, the kumpania

packed up and prepared to leave. From their time at the clearing,

they had gathered two cartloads of wood, six metal containers of

drying deer jerky, a variety of fruits, and enough stewed rabbit

to last days. Although they had often stopped over the years in

the nearby Polish town, Gunari decided not to go there after

scouts came back and reported that they saw soldiers in the

distance. Gunari’s decisions were usually sound, and it was rare

that any of the men disagreed. Occasionally one of the wives

brought a vision or dream to her husband who then relayed it to

him. More often than not, Gunari listened to the man and took

heed of the woman’s advice or intuition. This time, there was

nothing to share.

Mischka worked quickly to stow the chickens in their coop

on the dogcart. Her pet hen, Khania, complacently allowed

Mischka to put her in the coop, but the two roosters were less

than cooperative. Mischka was pecked twice before she got them

tucked away. The hens with the new chicks were no trouble, but

one hen persistently eluded Mischka. After a time, she grew so

frustrated that she just wanted to kick the squawky little

chicken, but she couldn’t get close enough for that. Finally, she

closed up the coop, helped her mother carry the last of the

cooking pots to the vardo, and climbed in.

Wagons packed, tents stowed, children accounted for, and

all but one chicken collected, the caravan pulled away from the

clearing and rolled slowly down a narrow track. Their leader sat

in the front wagon urging on his two horses. The Gallo horses

and vardo, sixth in line, rolled merrily along pulling the chicken

coop behind. Mikhail and Lumi sat up front to guide the horses,

and Mischka lounged on the rolled-up tent in the back, eating a

Snow Moon Rising 29

thick slice of bread covered with honey. The other two vardos

trailed them, followed by the people who chose to walk. At this

slow pace, not much dust rose, but once they got into flatter, less

rocky land, it would be no fun to walk in the wake of the

churning wooden wheels.

They had progressed less than a quarter mile when Mischka

heard a cackle. A white bundle of indignant hooting streaked by,

low to the ground. She rolled her eyes and sighed. That cursed

chicken. If she ever got her hands on—

“Mischka!” Her father’s voice was sharp.

“Yes, Papa?”

“Why is that chicken loose?”

She scooted forward on her knees toward the flap at the

front of the wagon. “Papa, I hate that chicken. Every day I chase

her. Every day she dodges me. She is more work than she’s

worth. I couldn’t catch her this morning, so I left her behind.”

Mikhail handed the reins to his wife and turned in his seat

to look down into the darkened opening. In a firm voice he said,

“We leave no one behind, Mischka, not even a being no more

significant than a chicken. You will get out of this vardo now and

find that chicken, even if it takes you days. We will all wait.” He

reached up high, to a nail set into the wood of the wagon, and

removed a whistle strung on a leather cord. He blew two short,

high-pitched blasts as Lumi slowed the horses. The caravan

ground to a halt. Mikhail hopped down and gave a wave to

Corin ahead of him. “No problems, my friend. Just a lost

chicken.” Corin passed the word to Kako ahead of him, and the

news spread about the kumpania.

It took her five minutes to corner the stray hen, and only

with the help of Emil, Branko, and Tobar was Mischka able to

capture her. Red-faced and angry, she stuffed the chicken into

the coop and looped the door shut. When she climbed up into the

back of her family’s vardo, her father grinned down at her

through the open flap.

“We might have to get a leash for that one, ay?”

She settled onto the rolled-up tenting, her face set in

embarrassed indignation.

“Tut, tut, Mischka. You are more like that chicken than you

would care to admit, and we haven’t leashed you yet.”

Her mother called out, “Though sometimes we’d like to,”

laughing as she said it.

As he turned, Mikhail said, “And we don’t ever plan to

leave you behind.” He blew three short toots on the whistle, and

the caravan moved on.

30 Lori L. Lake

THEY CONTINUED AT a leisurely pace for the rest of the

day, passing two bands of Polish travelers. The first group

hurried by, barely giving them a wave, but in the forenoon, they

came to a talkative bunch made up of six young men on

horseback. A hearty-looking lad named Budzyn, who said he

hailed from outside Jaroslaw, led the conversation with Gunari,

Mikhail, and Koloro, who spoke the most fluent Polish. Budzyn

was so friendly that the Romany leader asked the young men to

join them for a meal.

In short order, the horses and wagons were pulled to the

side of the road, and the men set out rugs to sit upon while the

women prepared a cold repast. The Poles contributed a

gunnysack full of pears and apples, and when everyone had

slices of fruit and pieces of lamb jerky and bogacha bread with

honey, Gunari asked their guests, “What news have you of the

war?”

“Depending on the side you favor,” Budzyn said, “it is

either very good or very bad. The Germans were prevailing, but

the Allied forces are winning now. Many terrible battles have

occurred. You may have heard that in mid-summer, the Russian

tsar and all of his family were assassinated by Russians.”

Gunari said, “Tsar? Their leader and all his family have been

killed?” Budzyn nodded and Gunari shook his head and relayed

the information in Romany.

Mikhail said, “I could understand the political overthrow—

even the killing—of the leader, but to kill his family, too? That’s

barbaric.”

Budzyn went on. “The British and French and their Allied

forces are driving out the Germans. It’s only a matter of time,

and the war will be over. The western front crumbles. Too many

have died. The support for the Germans has disappeared.”

“How is it you men have avoided the soldier’s role?” Gunari

asked.

Budzyn grinned, showing crooked white teeth. “Poland is a

land divided. The Germans have conscripted many into their

army. We do not share their political views. We went north, to

Prussia, and worked in a factory there.”

“I see,” Gunari said. “We must admit to sharing your point

of view. The Roma are a people unto themselves, too. We’re not

considered a part of the nationalities among whom we travel,

and yet we are partly descended from all these nationalities.”

“We understand,” Budzyn said. “In Prussia, Gypsies—or as

you say, Roma—are persecuted and, in fact, outlawed. Special

laws against your people have been passed. You have to have a

permit to travel there, and it’s no longer safe. You would do well

Snow Moon Rising 31

to avoid that country.”

“We became aware of these new laws some years ago,”

Mikhail said. “We avoid Prussia and all other lands where we

are mistreated. We have an old saying, ‘Bury me standing—I’ve

been on my knees all my life.’ My people have never been well-

respected, I’m sad to say. Thank you for your concern.”

Obviously seeking to break the tension, Budzyn elbowed the

man sitting next to him. “Rakoski here has come into some

money from his family. We may all end up working for this

famous new Polish robber baron.”

Rakoski laughed and made a circular motion near his temple

with his index finger. “The man’s gone crazy. My grandfather

has died and left me, the only grandson, a house and farm. These

miscreants have agreed to help me work it. I am no robber

baron.”

Gunari smiled. “Don’t worry. We didn’t see you as such.

You have a long distance to travel now?”

Budzyn nodded. “Yes, we are traveling carefully, though,

working hard to avoid conflict. Please do not mention our

passage.”

“We will keep this visit among ourselves,” Gunari said.

Koloro, who had been busily translating, asked a question of

his own for the first time. “You say the war is soon over. When?”

Rakoski said, “In the letter from my family, my father said

that many predict by year’s end.”

Mikhail translated this information for all the travelers, and

the Roma let out a whoop of excitement. Mischka understood

this announcement—whatever madness had caused Emil so

much pain and suffering was ending. She looked for him and

saw with surprise that he was no longer sitting with the group.

She moved from her cross-legged position and up on her knees

to survey the area. In the rear of the caravan, she saw him with

Drina, sitting on a log by the last vardo. Mischka was torn

between curiosity about what had drawn him away and the

desire to listen to more of what the Polish men had to say. When

Budzyn spoke next, she turned her attention to the group.

“Many of the villages ahead are tolerant of your people, but

I would suggest you send a vanguard to ascertain this. You will

also find another caravan ahead of you perhaps some seventy or

eighty miles. I don’t know if you will catch up with them, but

they, too, were kind to us.”

Gunari said, “It is our pleasure. Latcho drom, meaning we

wish you a safe journey.”

The men rose and shook hands. Budzyn beckoned to Gunari,

and the elder followed him to his horse. “Perhaps you could use

32 Lori L. Lake

this?” He withdrew a six-inch jackknife from the depths of a

saddlebag.

Gunari’s eyes lit up. “It is fine!”

“Yes, it is,” Budzyn said. “I have more than one. This is

what we made at the factory.”

Gunari opened the first of two blades and touched the edge

to his thumb. “Very sharp. Very fine. Gestana. Thank you. Let us

give you sufficient food for your journey.”

Following the final exchange of gifts, the Poles headed

north, and the kumpania resumed their southern trek.

After the first mile, Mischka grew bored. She slipped over

the wagon’s gate and onto the narrow running board, let go of

the vardo, and leapt into a patch of weeds off to the side. She

landed and rolled, popping up before her mother had even

noticed her absence. Grinning mischievously, she stepped out of

the weeds and brushed twigs and moisture from the seat of her

pants. Her body was alive with heat. All around the air smelled

sweet, and she heard the cry of a hawk. Far above and off to her

left, a woodpecker made a rat-tat-tat sound into the wood of a

tree, and when she licked her lips, she could still taste honey

from a slice of bread she’d eaten earlier. Her stomach was

pleasantly full.

Out loud in Romany, she said, “Magical.” Then with a smile,

“Magique.” She skipped a pace. “Mágikus.” Another pace.

“Zauberisch. Magical, magical, magical,” she said in every

language she knew.

She jogged toward the rear of the procession, wondering

how to say ‘magic’ in Polish. No matter how hard she willed the

word to surface in her memory, it would not. She decided that no

one had ever told her that word, and she wished she had thought

of it when Budzyn and his Polish friends were still there.

Perhaps it was a word her father or Gunari might know. She

resolved to ask when she got the chance.

She found her brothers leading horses, as were Drina and

Emil. Cam and Milosh rode the horses Gyorgy and Stevo led,

and Mischka held back her disappointment. How did Cam get

there before her? His vardo was ahead of her own parents’ and

she hadn’t seen him slip away. Oh, well, she could ride one of

the other mounts. Emil held the reins for a big, black bay named

Harman as he and Drina walked down the middle of the road.

Harman’s brother Samuel, who looked almost exactly like him,

walked sedately along the edges of the road ahead of four roans.

When Mischka asked if she could ride Samuel, Emil hoisted

her up onto the tall horse, all the while smiling warmly at Drina.

Mischka landed with her face in Samuel’s mane and the

Snow Moon Rising 33

front of her pressed against his broad, warm back. She squeezed

with both legs and arms and let out a humming noise of pleasure

as she sat upright, hoping Samuel understood from her hug how

much she liked him. “I love to ride a horse,” she sang in a

droning voice.

Emil gripped her calf and said, “You are happy.”

“Tak. Ja. Oui.”

In German, he said, “You are incorrigible, Mischka.”

“I don’t know that word.”

“You are that word.” He let go of her calf and left her

wondering.

THE CARAVAN WOUND its way down an incline as the

warm sun gradually receded, dropping low behind the trees.

Some time earlier, they’d spied a grove far down in the valley,

and Gunari now led them toward the spot, which everyone

agreed was less than an hour away. Mischka saw children

playing in a field outside a small town they were passing and

asked if the caravan could stop. She longed to go ask the

children how to say ‘magical’ in their tongue, but had to satisfy

herself with waving at them as the convoy moved on.

She glanced over at Cam. He looked tired. His eyes drooped

and his body sat like a sack on top of the stallion he rode. Milosh

had dismounted at the last little village and retreated to a wagon

for a nap. Mischka refused to miss out on anything, so she

ignored her increasing fatigue. Emil and Drina still walked

beside Samuel, and Mischka was surprised to hear the gentle

murmur of Drina’s shy voice, and especially surprised that she

was speaking to Emil, not to a horse. She tried to hear the

conversation, but their voices were too soft.

Ahead, some of the men were singing, and their happy

voices floated back. Mischka thought she heard drums, but the

beat wasn’t right. She had never been able to carry a tune, but

her rhythm was good, and whoever was keeping time was

terribly off. For a moment, she wondered if it was Cam, but then

she realized that the drumming was not coming from ahead of

her at all, but from behind and it sounded a lot like fast-moving

horses.

She glanced toward Cam. He was fully awake now, and they

both turned and gazed back. Two men on horseback approached

at a gallop. Before she could think to say anything, the men,

dressed in gray-green soldiers’ uniforms were upon them. Their

horses skidded to a stop, and a fair-haired young man holding a

rifle dismounted.

34 Lori L. Lake

The other soldier, a man so fat that his belly lapped over his

belt, stayed on his horse and said in Polish, “You will stop.

Now.”

Mischka understood the insistent man as did her brothers

and Tobar, and they slowed the horses to a halt. In broken

Polish, Stevo said, “What is the trouble, officer? How can we

help?”

The man on horseback said, “We have a report that you are

harboring army fugitives. You criminals will stop immediately.”

The caravan continued rolling. From her perch, Mischka

looked ahead. She could hear the singing voices wafting away as

the wagons moved on, and it was clear that no one up ahead

knew what was happening.

The man on the ground leveled his rifle at Stevo, who stood

slightly ahead of Tobar and Gyorgy with his hands up, palms

facing out. “Stop the caravan and bring us all of your young men

and the coward malingerers.”

Nobody understood the meaning of his last two words. He

shouted again, and Mischka looked around, her heart beating

madly. She didn’t know what to do. Emil stood behind Samuel,

shielding Drina, out of sight of the soldiers. The stallion shifted

and Mischka realized Emil was bringing him around as the

others gradually moved the Roma horses closer together.

The man with the rifle continued to shout commands, then

he said to Stevo, “You will kneel. Kneel! Hands behind head!”

Mischka’s beautiful dark-haired brother sank to the ground.

She opened her mouth to shout, but Tobar, wide-eyed and with

his own mouth gaping, caught her eye and shook his head

emphatically. She prayed to the goddess of the moon as the

soldier held the muzzle to Stevo’s head saying over and over,

“Where are they? Where are they?”

The soldier on horseback said, “Private Chudak! Wait.” He

nudged his horse and came closer. Waving a big hand and

pointing toward Emil, he said, “You! Behind there. You come

out. Her, too. Bring out the girl.”

Drina stood in Emil’s shadow, peeping around his shoulder.

The horses nickered and moved uncertainly. The soldier paid no

attention to Mischka or Cam, perhaps because they were clearly

small children.

Emil strode forward. “Stop this. These people have done

nothing wrong.” His Polish was halting, but Mischka and the

soldiers understood him clearly.

Private Chudak said, “You must be a deserter. You aren’t

one of them, and you speak Polish with a German accent. All of

these people are cowards. Where are the young men? They will

Snow Moon Rising 35

become soldiers. And where are the others?”

Emil said, “Others? There are no others.”

“Liar! You will explain fully or I will shoot this man. You

have to the count of three. One, two—”

Chudak’s rifle made a clicking sound as he shifted and

pushed the gun closer to Stevo’s head. A flash of movement…a

throaty shout…he pulled the trigger…a roar blasted so loud it

hurt Mischka’s ears.

Emil screamed. He and the private gripped the rifle between

them, shouting. Emil brought his knee up. His opponent

shrieked and lost his grip with one hand, but he didn’t let go. He

bent and charged head first into Emil, and they tumbled to the

ground.

Tobar and Gyorgy sprang into action. As the mounted

soldier reached for a gun in a holster on his hip, Tobar grabbed

his leg and pulled. The horseman lost his balance, and the men

dragged him to the ground near Emil and Chudak. He rolled to

the side. Tobar’s fist crashed into the side of his head. The big

soldier barely paused.

Chudak and Emil still struggled. Emil wrested the rifle

away, and the soldier struck him in the face. Emil raised the gun

to protect his head from a second blow. Chudak knocked him to

the ground and kicked and punched him.

Gyorgy and Tobar flailed desperately with the huge man,

trying to take his pistol. A fist struck out and connected with

Tobar’s nose. Blood flew everywhere and Tobar fell back. The

soldier shouted something guttural and pushed up to his feet,

waving the pistol. He aimed the gun at Gyorgy’s chest.

With a panicked yelp, Mischka dug her heels into Samuel’s

side. The horse bounded forward and knocked the soldier to the

ground. Screaming, he rolled away from the big hooves,

scrambled to his feet, and pointed the pistol at Gyorgy again.

An explosion concussed Mischka’s ears, then another. The

fat soldier dropped the pistol with a surprised look on his face.

A bloom of red spread on his chest. When he opened his mouth

to speak, only a gasping sound came out and he crumpled to the

ground.

The acrid smell of smoke drifted toward Mischka, and she

slowly took in the tableau from left to right. Private Chudak lay

motionless on his back with a big hole in his chest. Gyorgy and

Tobar, faces bleeding, sat on the ground near the fat soldier, who

was also dead. Stevo lay curled in a fetal position on the ground.

Emil had always looked pale, but Mischka thought he had

gone even whiter. He lowered the rifle he was holding as though

it weighed a hundred pounds, then dropped it and stood,

36 Lori L. Lake

staring, unmoving.

Mischka slid off Samuel, down to the bloody ground, and

ran to Stevo. In an instant, Gyorgy was beside her, turning their

brother over. A dent in Stevo’s forehead seeped blood. Dirt in

the wound made it look black, as though red blood and black tar

leaked from his brow.

“He’s still breathing.” Gyorgy cradled the limp body. “He’s

not shot.”

Tears clouded Mischka’s vision, and the next thing she

knew, strong hands seized her under the arms, and she was

clutched to her father’s chest. People swarmed all around her.

Even half-blind Mario, Tobar’s sixty-eight-year-old grandfather,

had run to help and was breathing as loud as a dying cow. He

held a hammer in his right hand and muttered death curses.

Mischka looked up into her father’s face to see it twisted

with horror and something else—a kind of helplessness she had

never seen before. She squirmed in his arms. “Papa, I am fine.

Put me down and see to Stevo.” She gazed beyond the horses

and saw Emil, frozen in place. “And to Emil,” she whispered as

he set her gently on the ground.

Everyone shouted and talked at once.

“What happened?”

“Who did this?”

“Who are these men?”

Lumi shrieked, her voice high and frightened. “Tobar!” She

fell to her knees in front of him. He sat splay-legged in the dirt,

his head tipped back, trying to stanch the blood flow from his

nose. He looked as though someone had poured a bucket of red

pepper sauce over his face and down his beard and chest.

A blood-red sun shone through the trees as dusk drew near.

“It’s not so bad, Lumi,” he said. “At least I’m not dead like

them.”

Mischka stepped to the side of the road and squatted down,

her knuckles in her mouth. Suddenly she didn’t feel it was such a

magical day after all.

STEVO DIDN’T AWAKEN for fifteen hours. By the time he

did, the soldiers and their weapons were buried far off the road,

their clothes burned, and their horses set free. The caravan

traveled all night, making no stops, and continued at the

speediest pace possible until noon the following day. They

paused to sleep for six hours, then resumed travel after dinner

until midnight and commenced again at dawn. For three full

days they journeyed as far and fast as they could. No fires were

Snow Moon Rising 37

set, and they ate bread, fruit, and jerky on the run.

Finally, over a hundred miles later, the caravan came to a

stop on the edge of a great forest. As soon as the leader said that

they would break their journey, Mischka awakened, wrapped in

a blanket in the vardo with Stevo nearby. She poked her head out.

Grim-faced, Lumi stood on the narrow track next to the furrow

of a wagon wheel rut, one hand on her lower back.

“Mama, are you all right?”

“Just sore and tired.” Lumi’s voice was soft, almost

sorrowful. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m hungry.”

“I’m a starved bear,” Tobar called out. “Stevo! How goes

it?” Mischka looked back at her sleepy brother. The left side of

his face and brow were black and blue, and his left eye showed

no white, only a swelled up, bloodshot mess.

“I have a headache with no end,” Stevo said in a soft voice.

He pulled his knees up to his chest and cradled his head in his

hands. For a moment, Mischka thought he looked like a small

boy.“I don’t blame you,” Tobar said. “Come out and go for a

walk. Get some water. Move around. It will help, I think. Come

out in the light and take a look at my nose. It’s as big as a horse’s

rump!”

That got a laugh out of Stevo. Tobar’s big mitt reached in to

help her brother down out of the wagon, and Mischka followed

them. Everyone was worried about Stevo, and she was, too, but

she was even more concerned for Emil. For three days he had

followed the caravan on foot or horseback, refusing to rest in any

of the wagons. When they stopped to sleep, he laid out his

bedroll far apart from the others, and all efforts to engage him in

conversation failed. Earlier in the day, Mischka heard her father

tell her mother that something would be done once they were

safe. She wondered if that would be tonight.

“Nah, nah, nah, Mischka!” Cam pointed and jeered, his dark

eyes merry. “You’re walking like you have a stick up your

behind.”

She scowled at him. She was, indeed, walking stiffly. “You

have the nose of a dead chicken and the stench to match.”

“And your stink is greater than ten dead chickens.”

A wicked grin lit her face. “Yours is worse than all the papas

breaking wind at once.” Both of them stifled giggles, and as they

passed next to Nanosh’s vardo, they bumped shoulders, jostling

one another with determined pleasure. She stepped around him,

still grinning, and set her sights for the man standing near the

38 Lori L. Lake

horses at the rear of the train. Road dust covered Emil’s pants

and jacket, and his face and neck were streaked with dried

rivulets as though he had sweated and the dust had stayed once

the moisture evaporated.

Mischka moved closer and caught a glimpse of his bruised

eye, still black and blue from the struggle with the soldier. “Why

are you so sad?” she asked, taking his hand. It was limp and dry,

like sandpaper, and she could feel the scar that bisected his

palm. “Are you worried the mulé will get us?”

“What?” He looked at her blankly.

She stepped closer and whispered, “The mulé—the ghosts of

those bad men.” When he shuddered, she hastened to assure

him. “Papa says we have outrun them, Emil. Don’t worry. They

won’t haunt us.” Hugging his hand and arm to her chest, she

said, “Forget about that. Come help set up camp. Come with

me.”He didn’t budge. She waited, imploring silently until he

glanced down at her. Stunned to see a tear on his cheek, she

realized the tracks on his face were from crying. She didn’t know

what to say. Gripping his hand tighter, she said, “You are my

friend always, Emil. Please, let’s go talk to Papa.”

He shook his hand free. “Yes. I will. Go on now. I’ll catch up

when I have seen to the horses.” He turned away and stood

outlined against the setting sun, its rays blood-red and gold

around him. For the briefest moment, Mischka thought that the

sun’s beams shone right through him, as though he were

disappearing into thin air. But then he moved, pulled a blanket

off the horse, and became solid once again.

With a sinking feeling, she turned and scuffed her way from

the back of the entourage to the clearing off to the right. She

paused next to a fir tree and touched its rough bark. She wished

she knew how to make Emil feel better, and she decided she

would talk to her mother.

She waited until the sun sank below the horizon and the last

light faded. Close to the campfire, Mischka sat on a wooden box

next to Lumi. Both of them munched on apples and spooned up

mamaliga, a warm cornmeal porridge, which was the first hot

food that had been prepared in days.

“Mama,” she said, “something is wrong with Emil.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“What shall I do?”

“Nothing, child. Leave him be and let your father and

Gunari handle it.”

“Will we stay here for a while?” She leaned into her

mother’s warm skirt and set the empty bowl aside.

Snow Moon Rising 39

“I think so. It would be nice to let the chickens get settled.

They’ve laid no eggs these last three days. I’m hoping we’ll get a

nice batch in the morning.”

“I’ll go have Khania let her sisters know that we are done

running.” Mischka rose and slipped an arm around her mother’s

neck. “Will you tell some tales tonight?”

“Maybe—maybe not. It depends on whether the men wish to

talk. You go check on the chickens, and I’ll let you know.”

As the various families congregated around the fire,

Mischka could see, even from a distance, that everyone was tired

and preoccupied. The usual joking and boisterous conversation

was lacking. Emil sat apart, across the clearing, opposite from

the chicken coops. All of the women, even Lumi, avoided him,

and Mikhail was the one who brought him a bowl of mamaliga

and some flat bread. Mischka’s heart went out to the ostracized

man.After the meal was finished and the bowls cleared away,

Koloro said, “Gunari, we must decide what to do now. He’s not

one of us, and he has blood on his hands.”

Many of the men nodded. Mischka closed the door to

Khania’s coop and crept closer. She tried to see across the circle

where Emil sat on a log near her father’s vardo. In just the short

time he had traveled with the kumpania, the German had learned

a lot of Romany. She thought he would understand what they

were saying, and even though she was bone-tired, she wanted to

be able to rise to his defense.

“Yes, it is true,” Gunari said. “But without his actions, the

lives of Mikhail’s sons and daughter, of Tobar, of Nanosh’s sons,

and perhaps even Nicolae’s Drina would have been lost.” He

paused, then said softly, “Not to mention the rest of us and our

fate.”“I do not wish to entice the mulé by my statements,” one of

the men said, “but it would seem to me that the only man

suffering is the German. I have no nightmares. My wife and

children are not haunted by the ghosts.”

“Very true.” Gunari pulled at his beard. “He is gajo, though,

an outsider to us. He is among us, but not of us. What curse

could he bring to us as such?”

“What about the soldiers?” Koloro asked. “They seemed to

be looking for him.”

Tobar said, “Actually, they wanted all the young men. It

wasn’t just Emil they were after.”

The elder, Old Mario, spoke. “Te shordjol muro rat…”

Everyone waited for Mario to finish. May my blood spill…

Mischka wondered what he meant by that. She had been told

40 Lori L. Lake

that Mario was close to seventy years old. At age nine, it was

hard for her to understand the concept of seventy years, but his

wrinkled face, sparse hair, and lack of teeth had always led her

to believe he might be the oldest man on the planet. She kept this

observation to herself.

He coughed and spat into the fire, then choked out, “May

my blood spill before that boy is harmed.” No one spoke. The

only sound was the crackle of the fire and the quiet whimper of

one of the dogs lying asleep near the old man. “Tobar, my loving

grandson—he is all I have left. My Tatoya died so many years

ago. My son rests in peace. My sisters and brothers are long

gone.” He cleared his throat again. “May my own blood spill in

gratitude for the life of my Tobar. I am sorry the soldiers are

dead, but they attacked us. It is regrettable that they would not

listen to sense. His God will forgive Emil, or, if He sees fit, he

can take me in the German’s place as a sacrifice.”

He settled back, having spoken more than usual. For the

better part of a minute, no one said a word.

Mikhail rose and took in the faces of Mischka’s friends and

family, aglow in the firelight. Beyond them, Emil sat alone,

stiffly, his arms crossed over his chest as though he were cold.

Mikhail said, “When I was fourteen years old, I ran away from

the beatings my cousin dealt to me. My parents were dead. I had

no brothers, no sisters. I was alone. I begged for asylum from a

passing group of Roma. Gunari, you know well that your father,

Palko, became my father. Lumi and I named Mischka, our little

daughter, after your mother, Marona. I honor the memory of

your father and mother every day of my life.” He gazed up at the

sky for a moment before continuing. “This man,” Mikhail said

and waved a hand to direct the kumpania to look beyond the

circle to Emil, “is not yet twenty summers old and he has been

wounded by the world in a way that resonates with me. He is a

brother of the spirit, and I would like to claim him as my own.”

Before he could speak further, Gunari rose and put a hand

on Mikhail’s arm. “Wait. Wait, Mikhail,” he said. Standing in the

middle of the group, the two men held a whispered conference

and when Mikhail sat down he looked satisfied.

The leader of the kumpania tapped his toe on the ground and

surveyed the open faces all around the circle. His gaze came to

rest briefly on Mischka, and she grinned up at him, just barely

containing her excitement. If she was understanding things

correctly, Emil was about to be adopted into the kumpania—and

as her brother, no less. She squirmed her way through the people

around the fire and made her way to her father, took his hand,

and squeezed in next to him, quivering with glee.

Snow Moon Rising 41

Gunari spoke. “Is there anyone among you who opposes the

idea of offering the German more than temporary asylum? Take

some time to consider.”

He removed a cigarette from his pocket, leaned down to the

fire, and lit it. While he smoked, the men whispered to one

another.

Eventually, Koloro asked, “Do we invite in his mulé if we

invite him in, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Gunari said.

“How can we be sure?”

“He has been among us these many weeks, and no mulé have

haunted any of us. In these past few days, no mulé have

materialized. They are outsider ghosts— gajo ghosts. They’ll not

trouble us.”

Koloro stood for a moment longer, then with an awkward

sign to ward off evil spirits, lowered himself back to the log.

Taking that as assent, Gunari said, “All right then. Well… Emil

Stanek!” His voice thundered across the clearing, obviously

startling the German. “Do you understand what is happening

here?”

Emil rose as the words were translated. His face was pale,

and he shivered from the cold. “No, not entirely.”

Gunari squared his shoulders and raised his chin. “I, Gunari

Camomescro, son of Palko, grandson of Gunari the Elder, and

leader of this kumpania ask you to honor me by becoming my

adopted son.”

Mikhail continued his quiet translation, but there was little

need. Emil’s eyes widened in understanding, and if it was

possible, his face went paler than before. He put his fist to his

chest. “I am not worthy.” He looked to the ground.

With his hands behind his back, Gunari asked, “How did

you come to us?”

Emil swallowed. “By accident. I came upon you in the

woods. I was ill and hungry, and you gave me food and care.”

“Why have you stayed with us?”

Emil bit his lip, then stammered. “I have nowhere to go. I’m

an army deserter. I can’t go home to my mother and sister

without putting them in danger and facing death or prison. I’m

an outcast.”

“Where is your father?”

“Dead. He died of a blood disorder some time ago.”

“I see.” Gunari tapped the tips of his fingers against his

chin. “Tell me, why did you kill the two soldiers?”

Emil folded in on himself as though in pain. “I thought we

were in mortal danger, that they would kill us.”

42 Lori L. Lake

“Do you wish you could change what happened?”

“Yes.”

“If you had it to go back and do again, would you have

acted differently?”

Emil sat, his arms folded tightly over his middle. He did not

answer right away. When he did, his words came out slow and

measured. “Under identical circumstances, no. I would have

done the same thing. They were going to kill Stevo. We had to

stop that man Chudak. Then the officer in charge aimed for

Gyorgy. I saw no other choice.”

“And you cannot accept this choice?”

Emil put his elbows on his knees and his head in hands.

“No.”

“Because they were fellow soldiers?”

“No,” he whispered. “Because it’s wrong to kill. That’s all.

It’s wrong.”

“Yet you would shoot them again, should the same situation

present itself?”

He stuttered. “Y-y-yes.” More firmly, he said, “It was either

them or Stevo and Gyorgy. I chose to let Stevo and Gyorgy live.

But that should be God’s job, not mine.”

Gunari smiled. “Is it not possible that God sent you to us to

ensure that Mikhail’s sons were not harmed? Is it not possible

that you did God’s will?” The leader put a hand on Emil’s

shoulder. “You are haunted by the past, by war, by death. There

is only one way to heal from that. You must forgive yourself.

You did what you had to do.” He removed his hand and stepped

back. “We are seldom presented with easy choices. That is part

of what manhood is about. I give you a choice now. You have no

father; you have no nation, no kumpania. It should not be so. You

will be my son, live by our laws, protect and be protected by this

extended family.” He made a sweeping motion with his arm.

“We will be your people now, yes?”

Emil looked around at all the faces staring at him. Mischka

wanted to leap up and run to him, tell him to agree, hug him

tight and tell him all would be well. Instead, she looked up at the

moon happily, waiting for the answer she was sure Emil would

give.“Do you find me unfair and dishonest?” Gunari asked. “Will

you argue that my judgment is wrong?”

“No. No, sir. I would never insult you in any way.”

“Will you then accept my judgment in this matter?”

Emil hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.” It came out flat, as

though he wasn’t sure he could believe what Gunari was

offering.

Snow Moon Rising 43

“Then I ask you again, will you accept my guidance, as both

father and leader.”

“Yes.”

Mischka let out a squeal of delight, which she quickly

stifled. Gunari laughed. “I think it is time for the women and

little ones to go to bed. We men have much to discuss, and I

suspect we will be up far into the night.”

“Mama,” Mischka whispered when Lumi came to claim her.

“This means Emil is now my cousin!”

“Yes, I believe you are right.” Lumi led her away from the

fire and toward the tent.

“I wanted him to be my brother.”

“You’ve already got two brothers.”

“True, and I surely wish I had a sister.”

“Give it time, Mischka. Give it time.”

Chapter

Six

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

THE SOFT, REPETITIVE murmurs seemed so far away that

Pippi incorporated them into a dream of journeying on a train.

The clickety-clack of the rails jarred her while the hypnotic

motion of the car and the rise and fall of a voice she couldn’t

quite identify made her feel edgy and nervous. She rose from the

scratchy coach seat and gazed out the train window, a portal

through which she saw the rolling Polish hills.

She lifted her hand. How strange. Where was her ring? The

touch of her index finger to the clear glass left an oval smudge

rimmed in red. Her heart beat faster, and her breath stopped in

her throat as the fingerprint gradually turned scarlet, thickened,

and became liquid. It formed a bead that broke away from the

smudge and dripped down the pane.

She stepped back, unable to breathe. The other occupants in

the train car slept, but as she hurried to the door, she glanced at

a gentleman with slicked-back hair. His face looked gaunt and

gray, his mouth twisted in pain. All of her fellow travelers were

dead. The decay of many days had set in, and she smelled

something rancid, worse than rotting chicken.

Pippi wrenched open the door and burst into the tiny

passageway.

The train shook and the engine roared like the din of a

thousand machines straining in unison. Pippi no longer

controlled her own movement. She floated through the train,

followed by the ghosts of people whose voices she could almost

recognize. They called to her for help, but she was filled with far

too much terror to stop. Panting, sweating, she flew headlong

through the empty dining car. At the door, her bare feet touched

down, and she felt cool metal against her soles. Where were her

shoes? Why was she here?

The cold steel handle of the dining car door spun in her

Snow Moon Rising 45

fingers. With a mighty pull, she ripped the door away. It

detached from its hinges and fell against her. With a shriek, she

sloughed it off to the side. It fell with a mighty crash that

sounded louder than the engines and echoed in her ears.

She heaved herself through the doorway onto the edge of a

cold metal platform that swayed in the darkness. The ground

streaked by at a dizzying pace. The train jerked rhythmically.

Each revolution of the wheels made an unearthly sound, a

command she knew she had heard before but defied. Jump. Jump.

Jump. Jump…

The old hopelessness engulfed her. She put her hands to her

face and screamed. A whoosh of wind. The screech of brakes. She

lost her balance and tipped forward, and the vertigo became

unbearable as she fell, twisting, grabbing for anything, and

finding nothing to slow the free fall. She opened her mouth to

cry out for help.

PIPPI AWOKE ALONE, her fists tangled in the sheets and

pressed to her face, which was wet with tears. Her feet felt as

though she’d been walking on an ice floe, and she shook from

the cold. She reached out and didn’t find the familiar warm

figure next to her.

She took deep breaths. Her ribcage rose, and she marveled at

how rapidly her heart pounded and how long it took for it to

slow to its normal rate. She heard the faraway murmurs again

and lay on her back, listening for a little while before creeping

from the bed to make her way down the hallway, past the guest

rooms and bathroom, and into the living room.

On the sofa, Mischka sat with François and Maria’s boy,

Tobar. He was positioned sideways on the sofa, his back to

Pippi. Moonlight poured in through the front window and

bathed his hair in a silver glow. He’d been much younger last

time his family had visited, and Pippi hadn’t noticed anything

special about him then. But this time, his resemblance to her

brother Emil struck her as uncanny. She hadn’t consciously

realized until just now that since Tobar and his family had

arrived the day before, she had kept a distance from the boy.

Because his younger brother and sister were so rowdy and loud,

that hadn’t been hard to accomplish, but suddenly she was well

aware of the reason why. She waited a moment longer, listening

to the lilting tone of Mischka’s voice, then stepped into the

room.

Mischka’s head popped up. “My dear, what are you doing

awake?”

46 Lori L. Lake

Tobar squirmed to his knees, turned, and leaned over the

arm of the sofa.

Pippi shrugged. “How can I sleep when I might be missing

something of interest?” She shuffled forward carefully and

lowered herself into a wooden rocking chair.

“We thought we were keeping our voices down, love.”

“You know how I never sleep much anymore. Not at night,

anyway.” Enough light came in the window for her to see

Mischka’s smile.

“Tobar and I are talking about old times—long ago, far away

old times.”

Pippi stiffened. “Why?”

“Tobar is curious about the man for whom he is named and

about his ancestors on both sides.”

“This must be boring for you, young man.” Pippi grasped

the front of her robe and twisted it in her hands. “No one cares

to hear of old-fashioned times.”

“But I do, Grandma. I do want to know.”

Mischka shot Pippi a pleading look. Pippi wanted to ignore

the appeal in Tobar’s voice and in Mischka’s expression. Lately,

the more she tried to block the memories of the past, the more

nightmares she seemed to have. To speak of the unspeakable

past—to dredge up the anguish, the shame, the gut-wrenching

sorrow—this made her feel light-headed.

Tobar hunched down and pulled a corner of the afghan over

his lap. “Tell me about the olden days, Grandma, about when

you were a little girl. Where did you go to school? What was it

like in Germany?”

“Happy times. I am speaking only of the happy times.”

“Good,” he said with a smile.

There it was again—Emil’s grin—and the intense way her

brother had focused on other people when he found them

delightful. How could she resist?

“Tell me about the happy times, then.” With his legs crossed

Indian-style, he leaned into Mischka and gazed expectantly at

Pippi. “Tell me about one of the happiest days of your life,

okay?”

“All right, then. Since I am surrounded by you night owls, I

will share a few stories. Let me see. I was born in January 1906.”

“Wolf Moon,” Mischka said.

“Ja, Wolf Moon, and I grew up in a small village in

Germany, outside Eisenhüttenstadt, near the border of Poland.

My father died when I was young, and my brother Emil who was

six years older than me became the man of the house. We lived

an ordinary existence, well, until Emil was sent to the war...”

Chapter

Seven

Eastern Germany, May 1920 (Hare Moon)

EAST OF BERLIN, the town of Eisenhüttenstadt sat in the

fertile Brandenburg valley near the Polish border. Across the

countryside, farmers plowed vast fields, and the hum of insects

droned in the early morning light. Farther south, a small village

nestled along the edge of a bubbling river. Most of the village’s

nearly four hundred occupants had been awake and about their

business for some time, but on Feder Street, the Stanek

household was quiet, the windows still shuttered against the

previous night’s chill.

A bright sliver of light pierced a crack in the shutters of

their bungalow into a tiny room behind the kitchen. The sun’s

beam was persistent, and Pippi gradually awakened. She lay in

her cozy bed in the dim room and listened for her mother’s soft

footfalls in the kitchen. No sound reached her ears, and she

didn’t smell coffee brewing or breakfast oatmeal cooking.

With a sigh, she sat up and brushed her hair back and out of

her eyes. Her braid had come out, and her thick blonde hair was

a wild tangle. She slid out of bed and sought a pair of leather

slippers and a thick robe that hung on a peg to the left of her

bed. The door squeaked open, and Pippi stepped into a short

hallway. To the left was the doorway to the small room that used

to be her brother’s. Next to it the washroom door stood open.

She passed it and in two steps had a clear view of the narrow

room that abutted the wall of her bedroom and served as a

larder. Past it, the kitchen was open and more spacious. A bare

table, clear counter, and cold stove were proof that Pippi’s

mother had not yet risen—again. Pippi put her palm to her

forehead. Mother, mother, mother… She let out a sigh as she

moved through the kitchen to the front room.

After the death of Pippi’s father, the tiny upstairs had been

48 Lori L. Lake

turned into a flat, which they rented out to an ancient widow. At

one time, the door to the street had opened into a large,

welcoming parlor, but now the entire front area of their house

had been made over into a sewing room. A treadle machine,

racks of thread, and rolls of material were organized all about

the room. Partially finished projects covered most of the divan.

Stacked bolts of cloth nearly hid the upright piano in the corner.

On a tall table near the front door, a clear glass vase sat upon a

delicate white lace doily. Cherry branches poked out of the vase,

and tiny, decorated eggs dangled from strings, leftover remnants

of the recent Easter celebration. That table remained the only

surface in the room that resisted being taken over by sewing

items.

In the center of the room, a low table held an array of the

nearly assembled cloth pieces for a wedding dress. Small

imitation pearls in teardrop patterns adorned the bodice, and the

expanse of satiny material for the skirting reflected in the dim

light. When Pippi had retired the night before, the dress wasn’t

anywhere near its present state, and she guessed that her mother

had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning working on it.

Yet there was no rush—the wedding wasn’t scheduled until late

June.

Pippi thought about her mother’s increasingly crazy hours

and the moody spells she had been suffering of late, and a

feeling of helplessness came over her. Camille Stanek had

suffered from insomnia for some time, but ever since their ten-

year-old cat, Ludo, had died before Easter, she had slept even

less. Their sewing work kept Camille and Pippi busy all hours of

the day, and Camille had become a veritable night owl. Pippi, on

the other hand, rarely managed to stay awake past ten o’clock.

A handsome wooden clock sat atop a cabinet next to the

archway leading to the kitchen. It made a quiet tick-tock sound,

and she squinted toward it, remembering that a customer was

due at nine. It was only seven-thirty, so she had plenty of time to

wash and dress before waking her mother.

Pippi chose a bright blue dress with white trim. She liked it

because the sleeves were roomy and it was easy to move in. It

also flattered her fair complexion. With a sturdy brush, she

combed her hair. The thick, wavy blonde tresses were a constant

trial, and it was all she could do to manage an English braid. On

festival days she often wove in multicolored ribbons, but today

her spirits were far too low to even consider it.

Once her hair was arranged, she went to her mother’s door

and tapped. No answer. She turned the knob, stepped into the

shadowy room, and moved to the side of her mother’s bed. Flat

Snow Moon Rising 49

grayish blue eyes exactly like her own opened to examine her.

“Pippi.”

She lowered herself to the edge of the bed. “Good morning,

Mama.”

Her mother’s arm emerged from under the covers and

smoothed a lock of hair over Pippi’s ear. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We have much work to accomplish today. What time

is it?”

“After eight.”

“Oh, goodness. The Fleischers will be here soon.” Camille

tossed the covers off. “We’ll take care of them, and then you

must go to the market.”

“We need another block for the ice box.”

Camille agreed. “You can order some later today from Herr

Huber.” She swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose.

Reaching for a light wrapper, she let out a loud yawn. “I

certainly could use more sleep.”

Pippi studied her mother’s lined face. Camille was

obviously fatigued and looked older than her forty years. She

had aged—almost overnight—upon learning the news of her

son’s death twenty-two months earlier. She had not been the

same since. Distant. Depressed. Preoccupied. Shortly after

Easter, Pippi had refused to go to school any longer, staying

home instead to keep her mother’s spirits up. But she, too, felt

the anguish of their losses. First Papa, then my brother, and now my

little Ludo. She had cajoled her mother about acquiring a kitten,

but her mother resisted the suggestion saying that it would be

just one more thing to grow dear and then be lost.

On the verge of tears, Pippi didn’t stay to watch her mother

dress, but went to the kitchen to prepare oatmeal for breakfast.

As it simmered, she stood gripping the stove’s enameled edge,

forcing back her tears. If something happened to Camille, who

would take care of her? They were a long way from her father’s

family who lived far off in the Champagne-Ardennes region of

France. How could she live? How would she survive?

IT WAS LATE morning before Camille and Pippi completed

the measurements for Frau Fleischer and her daughter, and once

the customers had departed, Pippi threw herself on the divan

and let out a gasp. “How can you stand it, Mama? I have never

seen such rude and presumptuous people in my life!”

Camille looked up from her hand-sewing. A grim smile

graced her tired face. “Ah, but they pay well, and to be honest,

50 Lori L. Lake

Pippi, I double their bill to make up for their discourtesy.”

Pippi laughed. “Are you serious?” Her mother’s unashamed

nod brought out another laugh. “Now I don’t feel so bad.”

After a simple meal of bread and butter, cheese, apple slices,

and tea, Pippi prepared for a walk to the general store three

blocks away. She had written a list to which her mother added

only one thing: sleeping draught.

Pippi didn’t comment when she read her mother’s spiky

lettering, but she swore her heart skipped a beat. The summer

before, their neighbor, old Frau Metzger, had downed two

bottles of sleeping draught and passed on into dreamless death.

Pippi was sure there was already an entire bottle of the mixture

in a small cupboard in the washroom. Before leaving, she

checked and found she was right. She concealed the bottle in her

room before picking up her basket and bidding her mother

farewell.

A blue sky, warm breeze, and the sight of new plant shoots

greeted Pippi upon her exit, but she noticed none of it. A block

of ice exactly the size of her stomach pressed against her spine,

and she felt afraid for herself and her mother. She stumbled on

an uneven spot in the path and chided herself to stop worrying.

As she walked along the lane, a horse and rider trotted

toward her, and she recognized the farmer who lived several

miles outside the village.

He tipped his hat and called out as he passed, “Gypsies! The

Gypsies are coming! Lock up your valuables and hide your

livestock!”

Pippi sighed and swung her empty basket, the braided

handle feeling warm and slightly damp from the sweat of her

hand. Various Gypsy troupes came through the village many

times each year, and she and her mother never had any trouble.

In fact, two years earlier, she’d managed to sneak away after

school and have her fortune told by a heavy-set, black-haired

Gypsy woman who had set up a little tent on the outskirts of the

village.

For three small coins, she smoothed warm fingers over

Pippi’s palm and in broken German, said, “Long life. Many

troubles. Two true loves. No trust the fisher.” Brushing a soft

hand along Pippi’s cheek, she smiled. “Is all, little one.

Godspeed,” and Pippi tumbled out of the tent, breathless from

the smell of burnt strawberries that pervaded the dim interior.

She was glad that she was to have a long life and true love

but was still puzzled about the fish. Had she misunderstood?

Fish? Fishermen? Well, she had never much liked seafood

anyway, so she rarely ate any, and she had no intention of

Snow Moon Rising 51

marrying a fisherman.

Pippi passed the town meeting hall, which was little more

than a large ramshackle shed. As she drew near the blacksmith

hut, Gregor, the smithy’s son, emerged into the afternoon

sunshine, wiping his hands on a cloth. He waved when he caught

sight of her. Hesitantly, she waved back. Gregor was ten years

older than she and had obviously taken a fancy to her. To her

dismay, he ducked back into the hut, then emerged bright-eyed,

without the cloth. Groaning, she quickened her step and headed

as swiftly as she could toward the store, all the while observing

him from the corner of her eye.

She paid no attention to the couple crossing the dusty horse

track.

MISCHKA STRODE DOWN the street holding her adopted

cousin Emil’s hand. She knew her father and brothers were

watching from the trees, and a thrill of excitement coursed

through her. The men had trusted her to go with Emil into the

village. Not Cam or Simionce or Aladar, but Mischka. With her

free hand, she mashed down a dark brown hat that hid her long,

wavy black hair, and lifted her head high. She puffed out her

chest, then looked down and let out some air at the depressing

sight of the two small buds, just beginning to grow.

This unwelcome change had ended the long summers of

denial where she believed that one day she would awaken and

be the boy she had always dreamed she was. She dared not tell

anyone about her dearest wish, certainly not her male playmates.

They would tease her and she couldn’t bear that, not when the

indignity of approaching womanhood had already hurt her pride

badly enough. Soon she would be forced to don the long skirts

all Roma women must wear, and she wouldn’t be able to move so

freely around the men of the camp.

The thought made her tighten her grip on Emil’s hand. In

German, she said, “Papa, how are you?” Calling Emil by her

father’s title induced a giggle she only barely managed to

suppress.

In Romany, he replied, “I’m fine, little one. What is it you

want?”

She smiled up at him, taking in his darkened skin. Ever since

the incident with the Polish soldiers, he had been applying a

tincture that made his face, neck, and arms look a dark red-

brown. He didn’t exactly look Roma, but he also didn’t appear

German anymore either. “I like you as my Papa,” she said.

In his low, deep voice, he replied, “I am glad for that,

52 Lori L. Lake

Mischka. Now mind your words and pay attention. And don’t

speak unless I ask for your help.”

A granary and a mill sat on the stream among a grove of

trees at the outskirts of town. They passed and drew near the

first small structures at the edge of the village, some of which

were little more than large sheds. A man in a gray fedora sat

whittling outside a lumber store. He didn’t look up when they

went by.

A man walking two horses ambled down the center of the

hard-packed dirt road and stared at them with curiosity etched

on his face. They passed a two-story building spewing smoke

from double chimneys, and Mischka wondered who could live in

such a giant place. Or was it a building for some other function?

There was no sign on the front, so she couldn’t tell.

The first row of houses were small and had thatched roofs.

The farther they walked, the bigger and more solid the houses

became, some with shingled roofs. Soon they came upon a group

of shops, their storefronts whitewashed and welcoming.

Ahead and across the dirt track a young woman walked

toward them. She wore short brown boots and a blue dress

darker than the sky. The round hat on her head looked to be

made of straw. Emil tugged at Mischka, and she was suddenly

propelled across to the other side of the road. The woman was

halfway up the stairs leading to Grewe’s Grocery when Emil

halted and muttered, “Pippi?”

The girl hesitated, her back to Mischka and Emil.

“Pippi,” he said in a hoarse whisper, “is that you?”

She spun around and stared, her mouth slightly open as

though she were about to say something. She shivered, held the

basket more tightly to her, and brought a hand up to a beaded

necklace at her throat.

“It can’t be. Are you—are you a ghost?”

“No, I’m real, and we need to talk.” Emil looked swiftly left

and right. “Not here, Pippi. Not now. Meet me at home when

you’re done shopping. I’ll come after dusk.”

From behind, Mischka heard a man clear his throat and

whirled to see a tall fellow with a thick, pale brown beard. The

heavy apron he wore over his bare chest was dirty and so were

his pants and boots.

He said, “Pauline, are these people troubling you?” He

pulled his fists against his chest and flexed his biceps. Mischka

watched as his arms bulged and relaxed, bulged and relaxed.

The blonde girl stood, transfixed—and a girl was all she

was. She had the figure of a young woman, but Mischka didn’t

think that Pauline—or Pippi, as Emil had called her—was more

Snow Moon Rising 53

than three or four years older than she herself.

A tense moment of silence passed, and then Pippi spoke.

“No, Gregor. They merely asked for directions to—to—well, I’m

not sure. I couldn’t understand them.” Her eyes darted from side

to side as though she were praying for rescue.

Emil’s grip was so tight that Mischka thought her hand

would be crushed, but she choked out a word. “Salve.” It was the

first word that came to her mind, perhaps because she was sure

she would need some to repair her broken hand. “We need some

healing salve.” She purposely spoke broken German and pointed

to Emil’s hands with her index finger. In Romany she said, “Let

go of me and show them your palm.”

Emil kept his head down but did as she said and turned both

palms up. The right was red and creased with calluses, but the

left was covered with scars, and his pinky finger was gone. A

healed scar near the base of his left thumb looked worse than it

was, but it did the trick.

Pippi gasped. “That looks terrible!” She turned, hurried into

the shop, and the door slammed behind her.

The big man let out a sigh, and his eyes narrowed as they

swept from the closed door to the two people before him.

Mischka didn’t know if he would recognize Emil, so she put

herself between the two men and in purposely halting German,

said, “Well? Have you…some salve?”

For a moment it seemed he was going to ignore her. Then he

strode off toward his shop. Placing a warning hand on Emil’s

chest, Mischka said, “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

She darted out into the lane and caught up with Gregor as

he reached the blacksmith’s hut. She did not follow him inside,

but when he reappeared, she bowed her head and thanked him

for a square of dirty cloth which he folded and handed to her.

As she crossed the road again, she heard him call out, “Now

don’t be stealing tools or anything from my shop. You hear me,

boy?”

She waved over her shoulder, calling out thanks once more,

her gaze fixed on Emil all the while. He looked frightened, and

when he spoke, his voice shook. “I know him. He was three years

ahead of me at school. How did he not know me?”

“He only had eyes for the girl. Come. Let’s get out of here.”

He rose slowly from his seat on the stairs. “Right. We should

go lay low until later today.”

As they moved over the same ground they had just traveled,

she peeled open the dirty cloth. Inside was a congealed glop of

salve. She raised it to her nose. “Good stuff, Emil. Dab a little of

this on your hands.”

54 Lori L. Lake

He reached over, scooped some on his finger, and rubbed it

in as they walked. “Germans have always produced the best

salve.”

BEFORE THE MOON was up, but after dusk had darkened

the skies, Emil set out. Mischka watched him go, her heart

heavy. No matter how much she’d argued and reasoned, she

could not convince her father to allow her to accompany Emil to

his mother’s home. What would happen if he were captured?

What if he decided to stay in the town instead of coming with

them? What if? What if?

She carried several freshly chopped logs to the fire, where

Drina squatted, stirring a pot of goat’s milk. When the older girl

glanced up, Mischka was surprised to see misery etched into her

face. She set the wood in the pile and squatted next to her. “That

looks good.”

Drina’s voice was so soft, Mischka could barely hear her.

“The littlest ones want spiced milk with their supper.”

Mischka examined Drina’s face, her dark hair, her worried

eyes, and suddenly the words tumbled out. “You love Emil.”

“Shhh.” Drina averted her face and her long hair obscured

Mischka’s view. Her spoon made a tink-tink sound against the

side of the pan, and Mischka could tell she was in tears. So,

Drina loved Emil. What about Emil? How did he feel? And what

about her? With a sigh, Mischka smoothed her shirtsleeves and

stood up. She wanted to say something that would comfort

Drina, but she had a feeling she would only make matters worse

so she headed for her family’s vardo, climbed up on the back

step, and crawled in, settling on a thick, folded square of canvas.

Little light shone in, and she thought she was alone, but then a

soft voice interrupted her thoughts.

“What is it, Mischka?”

She jumped and let out a squeak, then realized Stevo lay in

the shadows. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I wasn’t really asleep. Just thinking. What’s wrong?”

“What makes you think something is wrong?”

“It’s not like you not to be out in the thick of things.”

Mischka thought about that. She could hear happy voices

teasing, talking, singing. All over the campsite, wood was being

gathered, food prepared, tents going up. Usually she would be

helping, but right now, her heart wasn’t in it.

“Stevo, what will happen to Emil?”

“What do you mean?”

“Will he stay behind in this village?”

Snow Moon Rising 55

“I think not. It’s not safe for him.”

“Then why is Drina upset?”

Stevo didn’t answer for a moment. “Like you, she is unsure,

Mischka. Unsure of Emil.”

“She does love him then?”

“Yes, but he is gajo. Nicolae intended to seek a husband for

Drina in another kumpania. These things are complicated, and

you probably don’t realize she was already betrothed once. The

arrangements fell through when the young man eloped with

someone else. However, Nicolae has heard that there is another

son, and he is waiting to find out if there is sufficient dowry.”

“Did Drina want to marry with this other man—or his

brother?”

“Not really. She didn’t want to leave her favorite horses,

and she doesn’t know either of them at all. Nicolae and the boy’s

father talked of it last fall—remember when we had that

celebration in the woods with those other four caravans?” She

nodded. “No pliashka for engagement has been held, and no

bride price had been settled. And now Emil goes in secret to his

people to ask for his father’s legacy to use to buy a vardo and persuade Nicolae that he is worthy.”

“I have some coins. Should I give them to him?”

Stevo’s voice was filled with mirth when he answered. “Emil

will need a lot more than a few zloty.”

“Oh.” She sat back, wondering how she had missed these

details. She had no idea how marriages were arranged, and she

was curious about the older girls she knew, all of whom were at

or near marrying age. For the first time ever, she seriously

considered what would occur when she was older. What would

happen if her father picked out a husband for her whom she did

not like? And would she have to leave her family?

“But Stevo,” she said in a rush, “if Emil married Drina, they

would have to stay with us! She cannot go live with his people,

right?”

“Right, and the fact that our papa married into this

kumpania, is an advantage.”

Now she understood why Emil had been grim and full of

worry lately and Drina was so tearful. “Oh, Stevo,” she said.

“How can we possibly wait to discover how this will turn out? I

simply cannot wait!”

Stevo laughed. “My little sister. She wants her finger in

every pie.”

56 Lori L. Lake

THE SMELL OF baking bread and the pungent aroma of

cooked pork wafted in the night air, and Emil’s mouth watered

as he made his way up a slight incline to the grove at the end of

the village. He stood in the shelter of the trees and scanned the

road ahead. Back when he was trapped in the foxhole at the

front, he had dreamed of reunions, but sneaking into town like a

criminal was not the triumphant return he’d had in mind. He

looked down at dark hands sticking out of the long-sleeved

white shirt he had borrowed from Stevo. He was as clean as he

could get, but the tincture he used on his face and arms could

not be easily removed. He had to leave it on anyway, just in case

he was stopped.

Pippi had been so overwhelmed this morning that he wasn’t

sure she really believed he was alive. He hoped the advance

knowledge of his return would reduce his mother’s shock. He

remembered far too well how ill she became when his father

died. He didn’t want to be the cause of any more pain and

anguish, especially since he couldn’t stay.

He crept along a hard dirt sidewalk, staying close to houses,

ready at any moment to run. A hundred yards ahead two men

stood on the road talking, so Emil cut along the side of Galt’s

shoe shop, crossed through a dirt track of an alley, and slipped

into the shadows next to a tall house with white framework,

tarred beams, and a thatched roof. Before he left for the army,

the occupants had moved away, and he had no idea who lived

there now. The house was dark, so he assumed no one was home.

He crept through their yard and went over a waist-high fence.

As a boy, he had run through every yard, every garden,

every lane. He knew the village well enough to navigate with

closed eyes. Up ahead, a dog barked behind Frau Neuberger’s

house. He paused, wondering if the little mutt, Bello, would

remember him. He had spent many a day playing with and

walking the pup. He itched to round the corner and call him, but

what if the dog didn’t recognize him? Would his smell be as

different as his looks? He couldn’t take the chance to find out, so

he avoided Frau Neuberger’s place.

Passing a three-story brick house with a flat pasteboard

roof, he noted the peeling green gate and smiled. When he was

fourteen, the owner, the village postmaster, had hired him to

paint it, and if Emil knew the frugal official at all, nobody had

scraped and painted it since. That morning’s work had earned

him enough money to buy Christmas gifts for his parents and

sister and still have ice cream and candy money left over for

weeks.

With every step he was reminded of some childhood friend

Snow Moon Rising 57

or event. Recognizing so many familiar sights was bittersweet.

All of that was lost now. Perhaps this would be the last time he

would stand in the physical place where such memories arose.

Once he made arrangements with his family, he knew he should

never again return. A lump rose in his throat. He pushed it down

and moved on, cutting along a path and around a hedge, and

there it was—the family home. Pale light shone out from the

main floor. In the upstairs of the gabled house, the windows

were dark. Whoever rented the tiny upstairs “mother-in-law”

flat now must be away—or sleeping. Either way, Emil intended

to be silent in his approach.

The backyard was slightly overgrown, but his mother had

put in a garden of colorful flowers next to the stairs along the

back of the house. He examined the entire yard, the back alley,

and the homes on either side. Bello still barked in the distance,

and he heard far-off laughter from down the road, but otherwise

it was quiet. He stepped carefully around the flowers and lifted

the window to his sister’s room. The casing was narrow, but he

had no trouble pulling himself up. The wood floor on which he

landed creaked so loudly he was sure the neighbors could hear.

Shivers descended his spine as he looked around the dim

bedroom. Like the postmaster’s gate, Pippi’s room needed a coat

of paint. Her slippers were tucked half under the bed, and the

coverlet hung crooked on one side. Three dresses hung from

hooks behind the door. He moved soundlessly and turned the

knob.The smell of baking hit him: cinnamon and yeast. He moved

down the hallway by his old room, past the bathroom and the

larder. “Mama? Pippi?”

A sharp intake of breath. The squeak of a chair. Thumping

noises, and then his sister rounded the corner from the living

room and wrapped her arms around his middle.

Camille Stanek approached more slowly, her fingertips to

her mouth and tears running down her cheeks. “Oh, my son. It is

you. I didn’t know whether to believe your sister.”

Emil let go of Pippi and took his mother into his arms. “I’m

sorry,” he said. “So sorry.”

Pippi attached herself to his side, and the three of them

stood embracing in the kitchen, all of them crying tears of pain

and joy.

After a few moments, Camille sobbed, “Why—why? Why

didn’t you write? Why didn’t you let us know you were alive?”

Red blotches mottled her face, and he felt her tremble.

“Let’s sit down, Mama.” He gestured to the kitchen table,

and she lowered herself into the nearest chair.

58 Lori L. Lake

Pippi said, “I will make us tea. Is that all right?” When he

nodded, she busied herself at the stove.

Without letting go of his mother’s arm, Emil pulled a chair

close to her, and sat. He kept his hand on her shoulder and

wiped his tears away with the sleeve of his shirt. “I couldn’t take

the chance to write. It’s a small place, Mama. The postmaster is

in everyone’s business. Listen.” He leaned in to meet her eyes. “I

am a deserter. I ran away. If they find me—if they ever learn I’m

alive—I’ll be captured and executed.”

She gasped. “No.”

“Yes.” With a sad half-smile, he reached over and gently

tipped up her chin. “But it will be all right. Don’t worry.”

Camille took his good hand. “Pippi said your hand was

scarred.”

“I was wounded in the final battle—the one I ran away

from.” He moved his hand from her shoulder and tightened it

into a fist in front of her, then turned it over and opened his

fingers slowly.

She let out a whimper and started crying again. “Oh,

Emil…”

“It doesn’t hurt. I can use it fine.” He waggled the three

remaining fingers. “It doesn’t hurt, Mama. It’s healed and I have

adjusted to it. Please—please, don’t cry.”

With an effort, Camille straightened up and composed

herself as Pippi set the table for tea. With shaky hands, Camille

proceeded to pour three cups.

Pippi settled in the chair across from her mother and

spooned sugar into her tea. “We will have cold chicken and

vegetables for supper, Emil. I made some apple tarts, too.”

“I thought I smelled cinnamon.” He beamed at her. “You

have grown so much, little sister. I can’t get over it. You’re

fourteen now?”

“Yes. And you’re almost twenty-one.”

“Yes.”

Pippi pursed her lips. “If you’re a fugitive, then you can’t

stay here with us. Are you saying you can never come home?”

“Yes. But we can figure out ways to visit sometimes. We will

settle upon another name for me to write under, and then I can

send you letters.”

Camille said, “Where have you been living? France? You are

so dark.” She stifled a laugh. “You don’t smell, Emil, but you

look—well, you appear to be rather dirty!”

This made him chuckle. “It’s not dirt. It’s a stain. I am also

tanned from the sun, but Mikhail and Tobar helped me apply

this tincture as a disguise. How should I explain? Mama, I don’t

Snow Moon Rising 59

have a home anywhere. I travel with the Roma. The Gypsies.” At

the startled look on her face, he added gently, “This is truly a

day of shocks for you, isn’t it?”

She didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “I keep reminding

myself that you’re alive. That’s all that matters. The rest is

merely details.”

“Good thinking. I’ll try to explain the details.” He met

Pippi’s eyes. She seemed calm, her fingers laced together on the

wood table and her gray eyes twinkling in the warm yellow

light. “The people I’m with—they are Gypsies—though you must

never call them Gypsies to their faces. They are the Roma, and

they saved my life. Who could ever have expected such a thing?”

Camille, still pale, bit her lip. “If they saved your life, then

I’m in their debt.”

“Mama, they are nothing like you have always been led to

believe. I belong to them, and they belong to me now. They are

my family, so they are your family.”

Both Camille and Pippi had numerous questions for him. He

answered as best he could, explaining all that had happened to

him since he’d run away from battle. He told them about Drina,

about Nicolae’s concerns, and about his plans. After more than

an hour, Pippi laid out dishes and silverware and prepared their

meal as Emil continued to talk.

“Both of you will like these people,” he said. He rose and

washed his hands at the kitchen sink. “Their ways are different,

but not so very different. They are kind and honorable and fun-

loving.”

He watched his mother’s face as he dried his hands on a

towel. He could see the concern written all over it.

Before their meal, Camille prayed, “Bless this food, Lord

God, and let it nourish us and make us strong as we confront all

of the new things presented to us. I pray for my children, that

they may make the right choices and be happy. Keep us all

healthy, and bring Emil safety and comfort all the days of his

life, no matter where he travels. Amen.” Her voice broke at the

last. She squeezed his hand, then excused herself and hastily left

the table. A second later, Emil heard the bathroom door click

shut. Brother and sister met one another’s eyes. Pippi was the first

to speak. “This has been a strain on her, but she’ll be fine. She’s

happy to know you’re alive. You don’t know what it’s been like

for her. For us.”

“I have a general idea.”

They busied themselves with dishing up their plates, and

soon Camille returned to the table and peppered him with more

60 Lori L. Lake

questions. After the meal, Emil and Pippi tidied up. He returned

the clean plates and pans and cups to the same places in the

cupboards where they had always been kept, then swept while

Pippi held the dustpan for him. For a short while, it was like old

times. The only thing missing was his stack of schoolbooks on

the table near the doorway.

“Pippi,” he asked, “how are your studies?”

An odd look passed over her face, and she didn’t meet his

eyes. Camille answered instead. “She hasn’t been attending.”

“What? Why? You always liked school.”

Pippi shrugged. “I’d rather keep Mama company.”

“She takes good care of me.” Camille’s eyes narrowed. “But

Emil is right, Pippi. You need to go to school, get an education.”

“But Mama, I don’t need school! I want to be a seamstress,

just like you. Where better to get the training?”

Emil smiled. “You need to be a Renaissance Woman, Pippi.

You’ll need many skills. I wanted to be a history and geography

teacher, and all I cared about was reading about the past. As it

turns out, the geography has been somewhat useful, but I would

have benefited from having learned many other subjects.”

Pippi crossed her arms. “Like what?”

“Oh, animal husbandry, horticulture, botany, farming,

carpentry, horseshoeing, playing instruments, a little about

medicine—and other languages. I have learned much Romany

and a bit of Polish now. I wish I remembered my French better,

and Czech and Hungarian would be most useful.”

“You couldn’t have learned any of that in school,” Pippi

protested.

“Sure I could. Even an introductory book would have

helped. Instead, I’ve had to learn a lot of things the hard way.”

Camille asked, “How do you survive? What work do you

do?”“Anything and everything. We travel near a city, set up

camp, and then come to town to ask for jobs. Any kind of labor,

painting, digging, plowing, chair repair, blacksmithing. Some of

the kumpanias do a lot of fortune telling and palm reading. Some

of our women do, but we rely more upon singing and dancing. I

am not much help there. Somehow, the waltz doesn’t seem to fit

in.” Camille laughed for the first time since he’d arrived. “All

those lessons I gave you on the living room carpet, they have

come to no use whatsoever, then?”

He grinned. “No, Mama. But if they ever do, I’ll be most

grateful to you.”

“What next, my son? I take it you cannot stay with us more

Snow Moon Rising 61

than a few days.”

“Actually, I dare not stay here that long. I must leave

tonight.”

“What? You’ve only just arrived. You can’t leave already!”

“I must.”

“At least spend the night.”

He took Camille’s hand. “No, I can’t. I have to go before it’s

light out.” Tears came to her eyes. “No, wait, Mama. Listen. I

have a plan. I want you to be at my wedding. I want to marry a

girl from the kumpania. Drina is her name. I need some things,

though. I need to know if—” Embarrassed, he looked down at

the table. In a quiet voice, he went on. “Once upon a time, Papa

said he had set aside money for me with which to start a

business or buy a farm. Is this so?” Before his mother could

answer, he said, “If not, it’s fine. Perhaps you needed it for

living expenses or for the future. I just thought I should ask, that

you might, might—” He stopped speaking, flustered, then met

her eyes.

Camille nodded once. “Yes, indeed, your father left both of

you a legacy. Pippi can have hers in a few years, and you can

have yours now. It’s not so very much money, but you could buy

a shoemaker shop or a small store with it.”

“Really? What I should like to do is buy a vardo for Drina

and me—that is, a wagon in which to live. And it would allow

me to provide a dowry. I really could marry her! Oh, Mama!”

Camille said, “A wedding. Oh, my. You mean off in the

woods somewhere without us?”

“No, of course not. I want you and Pippi to get away and

join the pliashka—that’s an engagement party—and the wedding,

which is called an abiav. Can you come? Will you?”

Camille frowned. “What happens at this pliashka thing?”

“The groom’s father brings a bottle of fine wine wrapped in

a brightly colored silk handkerchief. And also, the groom’s

family makes a necklace of gold coins. Then everyone in the

kumpania assembles around the fire. On his son’s behalf, the

father puts the necklace around the bride’s neck, then drinks

from the bottle of wine and passes it around to all the guests.”

He saw the look of pain on his mother’s face as though she was

going to start crying. “What’s wrong?”

“What if you have no father?”

He put his elbows on the table and took a deep breath.

“When they accepted me into their group, the leader of the

kumpania, Gunari, became my father.”

Camille’s face crumpled in shock. “And your mother? Who

became your mother?”

62 Lori L. Lake

“No, no, no, it’s not like that. Gunari took me into his clan as

his own, like a son, but there is no equivalent for a mother. A

man can adopt a son or a daughter, but it’s an honorary thing,

like having a guide or a mentor. You are my mother, my only

mother. You will be honored and treated with respect because of

it. And you, Pippi, you will be welcomed as well.”

Camille rose and moved away from the table, stumbling

toward her bedroom. Emil felt a shiver of cold apprehension run

through him. What if his mother didn’t accept this? What if she

rejected him? Before he could carry the train of thought further,

she emerged from her bedroom and set a rectangular jewelry box

on the table. He recognized it immediately. Made of solid

mahogany-finished elm, the top was inlaid with birds-eye maple.

Even after all these years, the finish was still glossy. When he

was a small boy, he used to sneak into her room and look at the

shiny baubles and jewelry inside.

Camille shook out a silk handkerchief with a swirling

pattern of blue, yellow, and black. “This was your father’s. In

fact, I think you two gave it to him long ago.” She raised it to her

nose and inhaled. “He didn’t carry it. Thought it was too wild.

Will that work for the wine bottle?”

“I remember when we got him that. Papa always carried

white hankies.”

Pippi reached for the handkerchief. In a dreamy voice, she

said, “I wanted him to have some color in his pocket. He always

wore black and gray and white.”

Camille hunted through the jewelry box and finally lifted a

gaudy-looking gold ring between thumb and finger and held it

up to the light. “This wedding ring belonged to your father’s

grandmother.”

“Let me see.” Pippi took the ring and slipped it on her left

ring finger. “My, she had big hands.” She passed it to Emil.

“Drina would like this, I think.” He looked at his mother.

“But what about Pippi?”

“When Pippi marries, her husband will be responsible for

the wedding ring, but let me see.” Camille fished around in the

jewelry box. “Here it is. This is my grandmother’s ring. You shall

have that.”

Pippi slipped it on. “This fits much better—almost perfectly.

It’s only a little loose.”

“That’s good, then. Your hands might get bigger over time,

but probably not smaller. You may have that now if you wish. I

have also this locket.” Camille pulled out a golden oval on a gold

chain. “See, there is a photograph of your grandfather and

grandmother.”

Snow Moon Rising 63

Emil leaned over her shoulder, squinting at the tiny photos

in the open locket. “Oh, my! Your mother looks exactly like

Pippi, only a little older!”

“I never knew that.” Pippi laughed with delight. “She does

look like me. May I wear this?”

“Yes, my dear. I have been waiting to give it to you. Now is

as good a time as any. Well,” Camillesaid and gazed from one

child to the other, “you both look happy. Tomorrow we shall

make an appearance at the bank to get gold coins and withdraw

Emil’s legacy.” When he gave her a startled look, she went on.

“Don’t worry. You don’t have to come with me. When is this pli-

pli—”

“Pliashka. I hope it’s soon. I must now return to Drina’s

father, and ask for her hand. As soon as I know, I will send word

to you.”

“All right. In the meantime, what about a wedding dress?”

“Oh, Mama.” He held a hand to his forehead. “I am so glad

you said something, or I would not have thought to tell you. The

Roma dress their dead in white, not their brides. They marry in

bright and bold colors. If you could help me, I should like to

wear a bright blue jacket to match my eyes, and if it would be all

right, could you get some red material for Drina to fashion her

own dress? There is one and only one time in a Roma woman’s

life when she wears a red dress, and that’s at her wedding.”

“If you like, I can help with the sewing. I’ll need Drina’s

measurements.”

“I don’t know how to get her here so you can measure her.”

“You can send her here, son. She’ll be safe.”

“All right. I’ll try. But we’ve put the cart before the horse.

Nicolae first has to accept my proposal on her behalf.”

“Stop worrying. It will all be fine. You love this girl, right?”

He nodded solemnly. “God has a way of working out the details.

Leave it to Him, and with our prayers, you will soon be with

your love.”

Pippi asked, “Who will be your maid of honor and best

man?”

Emil shook his head. “It doesn’t work quite that way. I’ve

only been to one big wedding celebration. Last fall, five

kumpanias came together, and seven couples were married. Three

of the girls were from our families and now live with other

caravans. I am so grateful that Drina wasn’t one of them!”

Camille patted his hand. “You send word when the marriage

arrangements are made, and Pippi and I will come.”

“Oh, I hope that happens. I need to warn you in advance,

though, that you will have to travel a distance. And you will

64 Lori L. Lake

have to sleep in a tent out on the ground. You may be

uncomfortable.”

“So what.” Camille shrugged. “We’ll bring extra pillows and

pretend we are on an African safari.”

He laughed a full-throated, body-shaking guffaw, his first

such laugh in many months.

Chapter

Eight

German/Polish Border, June 1920 (Dyad Moon)

LATE THE NEXT morning, Emil kept his promise and told

Mischka—and everyone else who wanted to hear—what had

happened in his reunion with his mother and sister. Then he and

Nicolae went for a walk along the road. Mischka had a fleeting

idea of following them, but one stern look from her mother

killed that thought. Instead, she went into the nearby woods to

play hide-and-seek with Mimi, Nadja, and Lennor. Before long,

Cam, Tsura, and little Mario joined them, and an entire

afternoon passed while they played tag, ran, climbed trees, and

shrieked in the forest.

They were hungry and thirsty when they descended upon

the camp later. Mischka was thrilled to find Emil and Drina

sitting on the back step of her family’s vardo. One look told all.

She raced up to the two of them, skidded to a halt, and stood

panting with an expectant look on her face. “Well?”

Emil grinned up at her. “The pliashka will be in a few days,

as soon as my mother and sister can get away.”

Mischka let out a whoop of joy and did a cartwheel. Her

mother, standing a dozen feet away, laughed and marched over

to her daughter. “Marona Lovell Gallo! Emil and Drina’s pliashka

will be significant in more ways than one.”

“What do you mean?”

“It marks the day you get out of breeches and begin wearing

girls’ skirts.”

“What? Oh, no, Mama.” She backed up, shaking her head

vigorously.

Lumi crossed her arms, and tapped her toe in the hard-

packed dirt. “Don’t argue, little one. I have been stitching for

days for you.”

“You have?”

“Yes. Now, leave these two alone and go wash up. You look

starved.”

66 Lori L. Lake

IN EARLY JUNE, ten days after Emil first appeared in the

little village outside Eisenhüttenstadt, Pippi and her mother set

out to meet Emil’s new family with two suitcases and a sack full

of food and wine bottles.

“Try not to look so excited,” Camille said. “We don’t want to

call a lot of attention to ourselves.”

They’d already attracted some curiosity when Camille asked

to borrow a wagon and horse from a neighbor, Heinrich

Hofstetter. It had taken considerable determination to dissuade

him from coming along with them.

“It’s just over the border, Heinrich,” she’d said. “We will be

on our own for only a few miles, and then we meet up with my

cousins and travel just a short distance. Please, don’t be

concerned.”

“I worry about two women on the road. Sometimes there are

crazy automobile drivers out and about now, you know.”

She put her hand on his forearm. “You are a wonderful

neighbor, Heinrich. Thank you so much for caring.”

Luckily, he was overwhelmed with spring business and

couldn’t afford the time to escort them anyway. “Your husband,

rest his soul, will come back to haunt me if anything happens to

you, Camille.”

“Don’t be silly. Now you give Brigitta my regards, and I’ll

bring back something for her sweet tooth. We’ll be careful, and

you’ll see us back here in no time at all. I will personally see to

your mount and cart.” Grudgingly, he’d let her go.

Two miles outside the village, a cart heaped high with hay

came toward them, and Pippi recognized the two Strasbach boys

driving the cart. Dieter, who was in her grade at school shouted,

“We missed you at school!”

She put her hand on her hat and called, “See you next year,

Dieter.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Camille remarked. “I don’t know what I

was thinking, letting you drop your studies. Once this summer is

over, you must return to school and get an education.”

Pippi relaxed against the low wooden back of the seat.

“That’ll be all right, Mama. I think I’ll be ready for it.”

Before long, they reached a copse springing up from a wide

gulley on the right side of the road. Pippi heard a shrill whistle

and scanned the thicket. In the dim brush she made out her

brother and some other figures.

Her mother reined the cart to a halt. “Anyone behind us,

Pippi?”

“No.”

“Get out then.”

Snow Moon Rising 67

Pippi clambered down. Before her feet hit the ground, Emil

and a huge man stood next to the cart. Emil said, “Meet Tobar.”

She nodded. “Hello, I’m Pippi.” He laughed with glee, and

his bushy beard bobbed up and down. She pointed at her mother

and said, “This is Camille—Emil’s and my mother.”

He lowered his eyes and lifted two suitcases from the back

of the cart as though they were no heavier than dry kindling.

Two other young men materialized out of the copse. Emil

beckoned them down a deer path while the other men guided the

horse and cart over the lumpy ground and down into the grove.

They unhitched the horse in seconds, rolled the cart behind the

trees in thick brush, and covered it with branches cut and

prepared in advance. Emil took the suitcases from Tobar, strung

a rope between the handles, and laid them over Herr Hofstetter’s

horse’s back.

“Will the ropes hurt the horse?” Pippi asked.

“No, we haven’t far to go. I’ll carry that bag for you, Mama.

What is this?”

“Wine, sandwiches, cheese—lots of cheese.”

“No wonder it’s so heavy.” He hefted the bag into a

comfortable carrying position. “You’ve met Tobar. This is

Gyorgy and his brother Stevo.” Both men bowed, which Pippi

thought was elegant.

“This way.” Emil pointed into the thick of the woods, “It’s

not far—just to the next road over.”

It wasn’t long before they emerged from the thicket into a

meadow of calf-high grass that caught at the hem of Pippi’s

dress. Though she wore wool stockings, the tips of the grass

swayed in the breeze and tickled the backs of her calves. On the

air, the scent of lilacs came to her. With the sun on her back, the

wind in her hair, her brother safe ahead, and her mother right

behind, she felt her eyes fill with tears, then laughter welled

almost immediately. She hadn’t been out of Eisenhüttenstadt

since long before her father died, and then she’d been so young,

she didn’t remember much. An adventure. They were going on

an adventure!

The ground sloped downward, and she hurried to keep up

with Emil. Behind her, the three men laughed and talked in the

strange tongue of the Gypsies. Roma, she corrected herself. She

listened to their lilting intonation, but not one word was

recognizable to her. Oh, she hoped she didn’t go through this

entire adventure not understanding anything anyone said.

A sharp incline rose ahead. Emil paused and insisted, “Take

my hand, Mama. It’s steep here.”

Before Pippi realized it, Tobar had slipped his large hand

68 Lori L. Lake

under her upper arm, and she fairly flew up the hill, propelled

by the strong man. They came to the top of the rise, and a

handsome older man stood waiting in front of a tall wagon

hitched to two horses, his thumbs hooked in the armholes of the

black vest he wore over a red shirt. His black pants were

rumpled, but Pippi thought he looked rather dapper.

He bowed deeply. “You must be Fräulein Pippi. And you are

Frau Stanek.”

Her mother stood very upright, hands laced together at her

waist. “Please, just call me Camille.”

“And you must call me Mikhail.”

Pippi marveled at his near-perfect German. She understood

every word he said. A dark-headed imp peeked around the

haunch of one of the horses, and Mikhail swept his arm to the

side in a flourish. “And this is my only daughter, Mischka.”

Pippi felt a flash of recognition as Mischka came forward.

Daughter? This was the young boy she’d seen with Emil that day

in the village, but...it couldn’t be. How could he have grown so

much wavy dark hair in so short a time?

Mischka said, “Hello. I am honored to meet you. Emil is my

cousin, so I believe that makes you my Aunt Camille.”

“You speak German!” Pippi had not expected this at all. In

fact, she was almost ashamed to acknowledge her thoughts, that

she had expected this Gypsy—Roma—child to be uneducated,

certainly not fluent in more than one language.

“Why, yes. Your brother is a good teacher.”

Emil put the bag he carried into the back of the wagon.

“We’ve little time for chin-wagging on the road. Let’s get home.

Mama, will you and Pippi ride in the cart while Mikhail leads

the wagon?”

“Certainly,” Camille replied.

Mischka piped up. “Pippi, would you like to ride this

horse?”

Pippi’s heart thudded almost painfully in her chest, but she

shrugged to hide her nerves. “I can do that. I don’t ride well

bareback—not in this skirt anyway.”

“This horse has a saddle. Here let me help you. He seems

tall, but he’s not easily frightened. His name is Samuel.”

“Is Samuel your horse?”

“No. I’m not sure who owns him. He just belongs to all of

us, isn’t that right, Tobar?” She restated her comment in

Romany, and Tobar nodded assent.

For the next hour, Mischka chattered as they rode. Pippi

found Samuel’s gait smooth and with Tobar on her right, and

Mischka on the left, she felt somewhat protected. In the course of

Snow Moon Rising 69

their conversation, she discovered Mischka was almost eleven

years old and born under the Snow Moon. Her mother was due

to have another baby in mid-summer. Much to her surprise, she

learned that at Emil’s wedding ceremony, three or four other

couples, including Gyorgy, would also be marrying. She asked

why nobody was sure of the number, and Mischka informed her

that the bride price must be paid first. Until then, nothing was

settled.

Pippi had to answer a lot of questions, too, but she thought

she learned more about the Roma in general and Mischka in

particular than the other girl learned about her.

“Do you ride much?” Mischka asked when Pippi shifted a

little in her saddle to relieve pressure.

“Sometimes. I’ve gone for pleasure rides with my friend,

Suse Schonecker. But the Schonecker horses are ponies compared

to Samuel.”

With an air of satisfaction that made her seem older than she

was, Mischka said, “You would be so sore after a whole day on a

horse that you wouldn’t be able to stand up, much less walk. So

it might be best if we ride in the vardo— the wagon, I mean, once

we reach the camp.”

Pippi raised no objection. Her legs and shoulders were

already tired. She glanced toward Gyorgy and his brother, Stevo.

Mischka had been quick to tell her that Stevo wasn’t married.

She was surprised since he was so handsome. He had dreamy

dark brown eyes, curly black hair, and the smoothest tan

complexion she had ever seen on a man. The only thing marring

his looks was an odd indentation on his brow at the top of his

hairline. She didn’t know how to ask what had happened to his

forehead, but sooner or later she thought she might get it out of

Mischka, who was currently yammering on about chicken

pepper stew.

“…and do you enjoy food that is spicy and hot?”

“Yes, I think so. Unless it’s so spicy that it burns your

esophagus.”

“Esophagus? What is that? I don’t know that word.”

For the first of many, many times in the coming days, Pippi

defined a new word for Mischka’s collection.

“Esophagus. Now that’s an odd word. I like it. Thank you.

Know any other good new words for me?”

Pippi giggled. “Since I don’t know what you do and don’t

know, how can I decide what is new and what’s not?”

Mischka thought for a moment. “You are correct. I shall

have to ask as we go along.”

70 Lori L. Lake

PIPPI STOOD IN the middle of a dim tent next to her

mother. With one hand she steadied herself against the center

pole where there was plenty of room for her to stand upright.

Though the front entrance had been tied back to let in light, the

tent was stuffy and dark. Outside, the constant din of people

talking and laughing drifted in. Each time Pippi emerged from

the tent’s gloom, she felt the eyes of countless strangers upon

her. Today, for the weddings, there were more people than ever

at the camp, and she was reluctant to venture out.

A thick rug lay on the ground beneath her feet, and bedrolls

for her mother, Mischka, and herself were stacked in the far

corner. Camille stood behind a cane chair combing Mischka’s

thick hair. The younger girl had spent the past half an hour

chattering about various aspects of the wedding ritual.

Pippi asked, “Does the king of the Gypsies—of the Roma, I

mean—oversee the exchange of vows?”

Mischka laughed. “There is no king, Pippi. We have no king.

Whatever gave you that idea? We have a bulibasha, a man who is

respected for his wisdom. He is the Kapo for those of us who

travel in this area. Whenever two or more kumpanias meet up, we

have a big celebration for friendship and unity, and he will lead

tonight.”

Camille tucked the comb in the belt of her dress and

removed the diklo, which was a special head scarf, from where it

lay over the back of Mischka’s chair. She slipped it around

Mischka’s head, but couldn’t get the knot in the back right.

“Your hair is so thick and curly,” she complained with an

indulgent smile.

Mischka nodded. “And Drina’s is, too. If you can handle

mine, you will manage hers. So, we must practice.”

“Mama, let me try.” With a few quick twists, Pippi had the

diklo knotted and properly adjusted.

Mischka reached up and touched the scarf. “Yes. Perfect.

This is exactly right. Let’s keep working on it, Camille. You’ll get

it.” She untied the scarf and handed it back.

Pippi took the multicolored diklo and held it up to the light.

The silk was old, but the scarf was sturdy. “Why don’t you wear

one of these, Mischka?”

“I don’t have to until I get married.”

Camille took the scarf from her daughter and smoothed it

over Mischka’s head. “I’m a widow, but have been married all

the same. Should I be wearing one? Is it offensive that I’m not?”

Mischka giggled. “Camille! You have no husband now, so

you can marry again. You need not wear a diklo.”

“Oh, well, I thought I’d better check.” She gently patted

Snow Moon Rising 71

Mischka between the shoulder blades so that the girl leaned

forward in the chair, and this time the knot was easier to get.

“There. I think that’s right.”

“Yes, it is.” Mischka popped out of the chair and turned

around. The button-up shirt she wore bagged over her breeches,

and she was barefoot.

Pippi still thought she resembled a boy. She moved around

the chair, untied the diklo, and smoothed back Mischka’s unruly

curls. “You have lovely hair, you know.”

Mischka smiled at her. Though younger than Pippi, she was

the same height and looked her in the eye. “You, too. I have

never seen such gold.” She reached out and ran her fingers

through the long tresses. “Pakvora.” When Pippi frowned, she

said, “That means beautiful. Pakvora is beautiful.”

Mischka’s open admiration made Pippi’s stomach do crazy

flips, and she felt a blush suffuse her face. “That’s nice of you to

say.”“Not nice. Just the truth.”

“Shall we change?” Camille asked. “Won’t the ceremony

start soon?”

As if to answer, Lumi poked her head in the tent, and

Mischka translated her message. “The Kapo is ready for the

weddings, and then for the celebration. I must go with my

mother to dress, but I will be right back.” Lumi held out a hand,

and Mischka took it. An impish smile was the last Pippi saw of

her as she vanished from the tent.

“Are you ready for this, Mama?”

Camille sank into the cane chair. “I thought the pliashka was

stressful. I can only imagine what this next part is like.”

Pippi put her arm around her mother’s shoulders. “I thought

it was perfect. The fire and the singing and the wine...it made my

head feel light when I drank it! And even though she’s so shy,

Drina is beautiful. Can’t you tell how much Emil loves her?”

“Yes, you’re right, sweetheart, but it’s all so new and

strange, and I can’t help but feel that we don’t exactly belong.”

“Oh, Mama, they want us here. Emil wants us here.”

“I know, I know. It’s just—well, I didn’t expect my son’s life

to turn out this way.”

“He’s alive and he’s happy.”

“True, and that should be all I care about. Still, don’t you go

falling in love with a Gypsy, Pippi Stanek. At least one of my

children ought to live in a house!”

Pippi hugged her mother. “Stop worrying, Mama, and

consider this all one fine adventure you will someday tell your

great-grandchildren.”

72 Lori L. Lake

BEFORE DUSK, CAMILLE and Pippi assembled among the

Gallos, the Lovells, and the Romany of the four kumpanias. The

circle was huge, and in the middle, piles of logs and kindling

had been arranged, ready for a bonfire to be lit. Near the unlit

wood stood four couples, holding hands. The men were dressed

in slacks, vests, and suit jackets, and each woman wore a red

dress and a great deal of jewelry. Pippi thought they all looked

gorgeous—and nervous as well. She was so glad she had brought

her mother’s costume jewelry. Drina looked wonderful in the

bracelets, necklaces, and earrings she had shared with her.

Pippi took her mother’s hand and glanced over at Mischka

who looked entirely different now, no longer the slim, boyish

imp. She wore a long brown skirt, a slightly over-sized blouse of

many wild colors, and small gold hoop earrings. Pippi had given

her two gold-colored bracelets, a small gesture that seemed to

thrill her. Tobar and his fiancée, Vadoma, went first, standing

before the Kapo, heads bowed. Mischka took Pippi’s hand and

whispered in her ear, “Here they promise to be true to one

another.” Lumi glared at her daughter but Mischka merely gave

her a smile.

Then in the silence around the circle, the Kapo spoke words

in Romany that Pippi didn’t understand, and Mischka mouthed,

“Later.”

The couple sat in chairs and their families surrounded them.

Vadoma was given a small piece of bread and a salt shaker,

which she held out to Tobar. He salted the bread, tore it in half,

and ate one portion, then fed Vadoma the other. Tobar took her

hand, the Kapo shouted out some words, and Mischka

whispered, “That means health and harmony to them.”

An older woman who looked very much like the bride

leaned over the girl and kissed her, and suddenly the sound of

weeping came to Pippi’s ears. Vadoma would be leaving her

kumpania and her mother and father. In the future, she would see

her birth family only when a celebration happened to bring them

all together. Pippi could understand why she seemed so

apprehensive. Vadoma’s mother and younger sisters unbraided

her hair, and Tobar’s mother, Elena, moved forward to tie the

bride knot in the diklo.

Cheers came from the guests, and Tobar rose, gently

drawing his wife to her feet. Even from across the circle, Pippi

could see her trembling. He put his arm around her, and she

melted against him. Pippi looked around the circle at all the

faces watching so intently, and she decided that any sort of

wedding ceremony would be frightening.

They stepped back, and the couple from the other caravan

Snow Moon Rising 73

went next, then Gyorgy and Tauna, and last of all, Emil and

Drina. Much to her surprise, Pippi was crying by the time her

brother and his bride sat in the chairs. Mischka pulled her

forward, and a horde of people stood in a half-circle behind the

bride and groom as Emil salted the bread and ate it. Drina’s

sisters and aunts unbraided her hair. Unlike the other three

families, their relative would not be leaving. Instead, in an

unusual reversal, Emil had to leave his family, and for the first

time, Pippi’s tears were from grief.

Drina’s black hair flowed free in the evening wind, and

Camille and Lumi wrapped the tresses in a silk diklo. In one

smooth motion, Camille tied the knot and stepped back to the

cheers of the Gallo family. Pippi jumped up and down next to

them as the entire entourage continued to clap and cackle and

laugh.

In the rapidly diminishing light, the four couples listened to

some final words from the Kapo. Then, from outside the circle,

several men threaded their way through with smoking torches,

which they tossed onto the logs. The dry kindling caught fire

and as the flames rose, Pippi dried her tears and searched for her

brother in the crowd. He was holding Drina close, her arms

wrapped around him and her head tucked in next to his neck.

A shiver ran through Pippi, and then a feeling of longing.

She hoped one day someone would hold her like that.

THE DANCING AND singing, drinking and music-playing

went on and on. Mischka showed Pippi some dance steps, and

though she felt awkward, Pippi joined in twice when the women

and girls rose to dance. The rest of the time she marveled at

Mischka’s spirit and the way she knew the rhythm and the steps,

never faltering, never running out of energy, her dark brown

hair tossing and the bracelets flashing in the firelight. Pippi

didn’t think she would ever have the smooth, feline agility that

the other girl so naturally displayed. She swayed. She twirled.

She clapped and gamboled with glee. Pippi watched her face,

entranced by the energy and delight that poured from her.

At first, it was all very new and exciting, but as the evening

wore on, Pippi grew fatigued. She had eaten her fill of pork with

whiskey sauce, lamb and rice, garlic chicken, stuffed peppers,

and slices of apples drizzled in some sort of cinnamon sauce

with nuts, which Mischka told her were a delicacy. Camille sat

near the fire watching the festivities. Pippi went over, gave her a

hug, and told her she was heading to bed. She was surprised

when Mischka immediately announced she was also tired and

74 Lori L. Lake

would retreat to the wagon with her to lie down. They picked up

an apple as they passed a table laden with food and also

managed to make off with two huge mugs of wine.

Sitting on the rug just inside the entrance of the tent, they

sipped the rich, tangy wine until both of them were light-

headed. Even though their tent was well away from the bonfire,

they could hear the fiddle music and stamping and hooting quite

clearly.

Mischka pointed through the tent flap and up at the slice of

moon above. “Isn’t that excellent? It’s the month of the Dyad

Moon—perfect for weddings. At least that’s what my mother

says.”

“What does dyad mean?”

“Two—it means two.”

“But there are never two moons.”

“No, that’s not the meaning. I think it has to do with how

people have two sides and how two can become one. But I’ll ask

my father. He can explain it better than I can. The waning moon

is beautiful. Aren’t we lucky that the night is clear so we can see

it?” “I was born in January. Do I have a special moon month?”

“January? Which is that? I can’t keep track of your people’s

moons.”

“The first month following the end of the year.”

“Oh. When it is cold and snowy still? After the month of

your Christmas?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“I was born during the Snow Moon, then comes Oak Moon

during that time when Christmas falls. The next moon is Wolf

Moon. That’s your month. If I’m remembering right, that’s when

we pray for protection for the weather and for wayfarers.”

“So this Wolf Moon is not a happy time?”

Mischka let out a howl, like a wolf, then laughed and took

another swig of her wine. “Wolves are beautiful animals. Have

you ever seen one?”

“I’ve seen photographs.”

“Not the same at all. To see a wolf lope past, leaping over

logs, stopping to peer at you… A wolf brings—how would you

say it?— baxt is the word. Hmmm…good luck. Baxt is good

fortune.”

Pippi shivered. “But aren’t they frightening?”

“Not really. They usually stay far away from people.”

“I see.” A cool breeze carrying the scent of burnt wood

wafted into the tent. Pippi yawned. Her limbs felt heavy.

“Mischka, what work does your father do? How does he earn

Snow Moon Rising 75

money to support all of you?”

“We all work together. As we travel we have places we go to

help with harvesting, to build things, fix chairs. There is hunting

for game. We dry fruit and venison for the winter. We go to

towns and dance for coins, and some of the women tell fortunes.

Gyorgy can cobble some wonderful boots.” Her voice took on an

excited tone. “You want me to have him make you some?”

“Maybe. I’ll ask my mother.”

“I love his boots. They always form to fit my feet so

perfectly.”

Pippi set her empty mug down and shivered again, this time

because the temperature was dropping.

Mischka must have noticed, for she got up and disappeared

into the recesses of the tent, returning with a blanket that she

draped over Pippi’s shoulders. Lowering herself, cross-legged,

next to Pippi, she snuggled in under the blanket with her. “Is

that better?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Pippi leaned her head against Mischka’s

shoulder and yawned again. “I can’t believe I’m so exhausted.”

“It’s late now—close to midnight.”

For a short while they watched wisps of clouds scud past the

quarter-moon. They could hear the strum of guitars out at the

bonfire, and the women sang a melodic call that the men

responded to with a rousing line.

“Do you usually stay up into the wee hours of the

morning?” Mischka asked.

Pippi laughed. “No, never.”

“We can sleep now, if you’d like.”

Pippi nodded and rose. She slipped out of her shoes and

dress and fumbled around in the darkness until she found her

nightgown rolled in with the bedding. She and Mischka worked

together to lay out the bedrolls and blankets, and she snuggled

down into the coolness which quickly warmed to her legs and

torso. Casting about one-armed, she located a roll of clothes to

use as a pillow and tucked it under her head. She felt hands at

her waist, and Mischka whispered, “Are you warm enough?”

“Yes.” She shifted closer to her companion, then felt fingers

at her neck.

“What is this necklace? I noticed it tonight. Very pretty

gold.”

“It’s a locket. From my mother. I’ll show it to you by the

morning light.”

“Yes, you must. I’d like to see it.”

Hands kneaded her shoulders, then slipped around her

neck. Pippi could feel Mischka caressing her back, and it made

76 Lori L. Lake

her shiver.

“You are cold.”

“No, I’m fine. That—that just feels good—you touching me,

I mean.” Pippi eased herself closer and wrapped her arms

around her young friend.

Mischka let out a sigh. “Te’ sorthene.”

“Hmmm?”

“Te’ sorthene. It means ‘friend bonded by heart and spirit.’ I

feel it in my soul.”

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Mischka.”

“Sutho.” Pippi waited for a translation. “Sutho. Means

forever,” Mischka whispered. “Te’ sorthene sutho.” She kissed

Pippi’s forehead and lay back. “A promise north, south, east,

west, by the sun and the moon—especially the moon—and inside

my heart.”

Mischka’s breathing evened out, and Pippi lay in her arms

feeling a soft, warm breath against her neck. She’d never met

anyone like Mischka. She seemed older and wiser than her years

and so full of life, so happy. What would it be like to live as a

traveler? To wander the land? Pippi had a hunch it would be a

lot of work. The men seemed to enjoy themselves, but the women

had a lot of work to do just to make meals.

She didn’t fall asleep right away. Instead she thought about

the people her brother lived with and how they were nothing at

all like the townspeople had made them out to be. She couldn’t

imagine Gunari or Mikhail or any of the other men, young or

old, kidnapping children. From what she had learned, they

rarely stole anything—and then only if the children were

hungry. She liked these people, and it pained her to think of

leaving them in a few days. She pushed the thought out of her

mind and let herself float off to sleep, warm and secure in

Mischka’s embrace.

Chapter

Nine

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

TOBAR SAID, “YOU’VE known each other a long time, way

longer than I’ve been alive.”

“Yes, we have,” Mischka said.

“Must be nice,” he said in a bitter tone, “being friends over

the years and hanging out together. I wish I didn’t always have

to leave my friends behind.”

“But we did not hang out together, as you say. There were

years and years that Pippi and I never saw one another, and I

had no way of knowing where your grandmother was.”

He looked at her blankly. “How did you keep in touch—

phone calls?”

Mischka laughed.

“Tobar,” Pippi said, “you have to remember that this was

the 1920s. My mother and I didn’t have a telephone, and

Mischka’s people, out on the road, certainly didn’t either.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that. How did people keep up with each

other then?”

“Letters. Word of mouth. But it was hard for me to track

down Emil, much less Mischka. The Roma were always on the

move.”

“And it got even more difficult,” Mischka said, “when I was

married off into another kumpania. Away from Emil, I had no

way of easily reaching your grandmother.”

Tobar looked back and forth between them. “But you

managed somehow, right? I mean, you must have since you’re

sitting here right now, but how exactly did you two stay friends

then?”

Pippi said, “Not an easy feat.”

“Not at all,” Mischka said.

“What about your husband, Beebee Mischka? Nobody ever

told me you were married.”

78 Lori L. Lake

“It’s not something you would be interested in,” Pippi said

hastily.

“What? Of course I want to know. Tell me.”

Mischka listened to him reason with Pippi and wondered

who would win. She knew Pippi didn’t like to hear about this

time in her life, but it had happened so many years earlier. She

paused and calculated. Sixty-three years ago. How could so

much time have passed so quickly?

She recalled most of those events in sepia tones, not in the

bright colors she associated with Pippi, and because they

occurred so long ago, they had ceased to hurt her.

“All right then,” Pippi was saying. “But Beebee Mischka had

better tell this part.”

Tobar met Mischka’s gaze. “Go on, then. What happened?”

He looked at her eagerly, his eyes clear and face unlined. He was

so young—and yet he had those old eyes, eyes that seemed

understanding beyond his years.

“I was sixteen years old in early 1926. Two moons before the

yearly summer meeting of kumpanias, an emissary from a distant

tribe came to see my father bringing a request from Luciano and

Zigana, the parents of a man named Arben. I’m not sure how,

but they had heard that I was strong, healthy, well-mannered,

and that I possessed domestic skills.”

Pippi giggled, and Mischka shot her a look.

“Perhaps they were misinformed, but they offered a sizable

dowry for my hand in marriage to their son, and Papa and Mama

were thrilled, especially because I am not a full-blooded Roma.

Remember, my father was adopted by Palko over thirty years

earlier, but his ancestry was Hungarian. If I married a Roma, any

children I had would be considered one hundred percent Roma

just as Gyorgy and Stevo’s children were, and this made my

father happy.”

“Did you have children?” Tobar asked.

Chapter

Ten

Central Poland, April 1926 (Seed Moon)

MISCHKA HAD ALWAYS hoped no one would ever show

up to ask to marry her. Even though her good friends Mimi and

Nadja had been married since age fourteen and reported that all

was fine, Mischka wasn’t interested. She knew she was

headstrong and overly tall, both factors that had made her less

desirable than some of her childhood friends. So she hadn’t

counted on a marriage proposal.

She dared not protest to her father, but Mischka talked at

length with her mother to explain her misgivings.

“What do you mean, you don’t want to get married?”

“I want to stay with you and Papa. You need me here. Drina

needs me to help with the horses.” Drina was with child and

confined to her tent, unable to do her chores.

“Don’t be foolish. If this boy is suitable, of course you shall

marry.”

Mischka felt torn. “But what about my little sisters? Who

will take care of them?”

Her mother’s exasperation was plain. “I was able to raise

you perfectly well, was I not? I’m sure Liza and baby Elena will

turn out fine.”

Mischka shuddered to think of leaving her family—not to

mention Emil and Drina, Tobar and Vadoma, and her nieces and

nephews. Her sister Liza was not quite six and Elena was soon to

be a year old. She couldn’t bear the thought of picking up her

few personal belongings and leaving with some strange

kumpania. Perhaps if someone she knew were a member of the

troupe…but no one was. She would be alone with strangers.

“What if he’s not suitable?”

“Oh, Mischka, why wouldn’t he be?”

And the conversation was over.

Her kumpania traveled along the Vistula River, and Mischka

80 Lori L. Lake

became increasingly forlorn. Each day she awoke and looked

around the camp, memorizing the faces of those she loved. One

day, after they’d stopped in the late afternoon, she sat on a low-

hanging branch of a stately oak tree and watched the river run.

Two ducks paddled by. A flock of black-necked grebes tittered in

the trees across the river. An osprey flew in the drafts high

above the trees. What if she never saw this again? She couldn’t

help but feel a painful sense of foreboding.

Several weeks later, during June, they reached the enormous

clearing where the yearly celebration was to be held, and she

accepted that she was in deep mourning. Always in the past, the

summer festival had been a joyous occasion—games and dancing

and food galore—but not this time.

Her parents met with Zigana and with Luciano, son of Grofo

and father of Arben. Their kumpania was large, some thirty vardos

and nearly as many carts. Their group had come far southwest of

their normal traveling grounds to join the festivities, and the

clearing that had always seemed so enormous was dwarfed by

the numerous vardos and carts and tents. The bonfires were huge,

and the dancing was wilder than ever.

On the fifth day, a ceremonial celebration was held in honor

of Mischka’s family. She was introduced by her given name,

Marona. The men were fed, then the women and children ate off

to the side while the men smoked pipes and cigarettes. Once she

had eaten, Mischka was sent away with her mother. When her

father returned many hours later, all he said was, “The wedding

arrangements are complete. All is well.”

All is well? Mischka kept her tears in check, held her head

high, and slipped off to bed.

The next days passed in a blur. Drina helped fit her for a red

wedding dress, and her friends and family gave her little gifts.

Each coin, each piece of jewelry plunged a knife to her heart. She

was being tossed away in return for a dowry. Her father would

buy a horse, a goat, a new vardo. He would have money to spare

for some time.

The night of the pliashka, Mischka went through the evening

like one asleep. Once, as her mind wandered, she wondered

what would happen if she ran away, but she had nowhere to go.

Her whole world was her kumpania and her family. No one

noticed the tears that brightened her eyes and threatened to fall.

She returned to her tent with the customary necklace of gold

coins around her neck. She wrapped them in a kerchief and hid

them in her bundle of clothing.

Seventeen couples were marrying the next day. When

Mischka rose the day of her wedding, she helped serve the

Snow Moon Rising 81

kumpania’s morning meal for the last time. Tobar and Emil and

her brothers sat on a log across from the fire and laughed and

joked. Gyorgy and Stevo were happy with their wives, and they

were teasing a friend who had finally managed to scrape up

enough money for a dowry. He was getting married as well, and

the joy he displayed was a remarkable contrast to Mischka’s

feelings. She wished she were a man. Her wife would come to

her kumpania, and Mischka would have all the say-so. Why did it

have to be this way?

She attacked a bowl with a dishrag, then a disturbance broke

into her thoughts. On the western side of the campground rose a

plume of dust. A farm wagon, shepherded by a pack of small

children, came to a standstill two hundred yards away. Mischka

shielded her eyes with a damp hand and squinted. A man

strolled to the wagon, then turned and pointed toward Mischka’s

family’s camping area. The wagon rolled forward, pulled in near

Nicolae’s vardo, and stopped.

Emil stood with a smile on his face, then gave Mischka such

a triumphant look that she knew something was up. All the

women around Mischka called out questions.

“Who is it?”

“Who is our mystery guest?”

“Why, look, it’s two women!”

Mischka was stunned to see Camille and Pippi Stanek alight

from the wagon. Her knees felt weak. For a moment she let

herself imagine that the Staneks had arrived to spirit her away,

but her fantasy was short-lived.

Emil called out, “Mama! Pippi! I’m so glad you could come

for Mischka’s wedding.”

He hugged them in the gajo way, clasping them each to his

chest in turn, and the Roma, who never permitted adult men and

women to hug, politely ignored that social blunder. Emil turned,

his arm around his mother, and called out, “Mischka, look who

has traveled from far for your wedding.” Pippi waved with one

hand while mashing a round straw hat down on her head against

the breeze.

Mischka moved in slow motion, feeling as though she were

marching toward a firing squad. Some response was needed, but

what should it be?

It had been six years since Mischka and Pippi had last seen

one another at Emil’s wedding. At that time, Pippi had been a

girl rapidly changing into a woman. Now Pippi was a full-grown

woman. She wore a pair of stout walking shoes, a long, pleated

cotton skirt with tan and green stripes, and a lightweight, white,

long-sleeved blouse. The straw hat obscured the upper half of

82 Lori L. Lake

her face. Not until Mischka was a few strides away did Pippi tip

up her head, smiling. Their eyes met and locked. Blue, Mischka

thought. They’re still blue.

Pippi’s face was slightly pink, as though she had been

exerting herself. “Mischka. Congratulations.”

Camille threw an arm across her shoulders. “You’ve grown

so tall. Like your father. You look a great deal like him.”

Pippi took both of Mischka’s hands into her own. “You look

wonderful. And I’m so happy for you.”

Mischka looked down at the pale white fingers holding her

nut-brown hands, so tanned from the sun, and realized she’d

forgotten her manners. “It’s wonderful of you to come,” she said

in careful German. “You both look wonderful. So wonderful. Just

wonderful.”

Though she was repeating herself, she couldn’t help it.

Wunderbar. The word twirled through her mind as her body

coursed with pulses of pleasure. Pippi was here. She was truly

here, in the flesh. Mischka had dreamed of this moment so often

over the years—and now that it had arrived, she didn’t know

what to say or how to act.

Emil laughed and chose that moment to ask, “How do you

think they managed this great feat, little cousin?”

Mischka let go of Pippi’s hands. “I assume you are the rascal

who is responsible.”

Camille said, “We took the train to that little burg over the

hill, then rented this wagon from a farmer.”

“I rented the wagon, Mama,” Emil said.

“You may have made the arrangements, my son, but I seem

to recall that I was the one parting with her money.”

He laughed. “This is Drina’s and my wedding present to

you, Mischka. And we have another gift as well.” He winked and

stepped back.

Lumi clapped her hands together. “All right now, the guests

probably would like something to eat and drink. They must be

weary from the road. You come with me, Camille.”

Two mugs of cool cider were pressed into Mischka’s hands

by Drina who said, “Why don’t you and Pippi go off for a bit and

visit.”

“I’d like that,” Pippi said.

“Then later we can prepare your dress for the ceremony.”

Mischka’s voice wouldn’t work now, so she couldn’t even

thank Drina. She gave her a nod and turned toward the lovely,

golden-haired woman. Pippi carefully threaded her arm through

Mischka’s. They strolled to the other side of Nicolae’s wagon

and down the lane toward a grove of trees that had already been

Snow Moon Rising 83

staked out as a place for small groups to gather and chat.

“You grew very tall, Mischka.”

“And you didn’t grow at all.”

Pippi laughed. “I just got plumper.”

“You don’t look plump to me. Not one bit.”

“That’s nice of you to say. I constantly feel I ought to be

dieting.”

“Dieting? I don’t know that word.”

“Restricting what I eat so I don’t get fat.”

“Oh. That’s easy for me. I just get out of the cart and walk,

and I can eat as much as I want.”

They reached the grove, and Pippi stepped over a log. “Then

there’s definitely something to be said for a traveling life.”

The sunlight didn’t penetrate the thick bower of leaves,

giving the spot a cozy, private feeling. The men had felled and

split logs to make low benches. Mischka handed Pippi the mug

of cider, and they lowered themselves carefully so as not to spill

any. She was glad they sat next to one another and not opposite.

She didn’t think she could look into those bright blue eyes

without becoming tongue-tied.

“We’re delighted we managed to get here on time. We

almost missed the connecting train out of Eisenhüttenstadt.”

Pippi continued on, talking about their trip, the people they had

met, the landscape they had passed, and after a couple of

minutes passed, she suddenly stopped. “Mischka, what’s

wrong?” She reached over, took the mug away, and set both on

the ground, then grasped Mischka’s hands. “Your hands are so

cold. What’s wrong?”

The tears came then.

“Look at me. What’s the matter?”

Mischka could do nothing but shake with sobs. Pippi chafed

her hands, and some of the warmth came back to them, but the

more Mischka cried, the colder she felt.

After a few minutes, Pippi said, “Am I correct in assuming

that you don’t want to marry the man?”

“I don’t even know him.”

“What? How can you marry someone you don’t know?

Surely you have spent time with him—he courted you, right?”

“No. That is not always the custom.”

“But Emil courted Drina, asked for her hand...”

“Arben’s parents asked my parents through an emissary,

and the first we ever met was last night.”

“Oh, Lord.” Pippi put her fingers to her mouth and sat there

for a moment. “I see why you’re upset. I couldn’t do it. I just

couldn’t.”

84 Lori L. Lake

Mischka took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t feel this way, I

know. I have always expected to be married. All my life I knew it

would happen this way, but now that the time is here, it doesn’t

feel real.”

“I’d feel exactly the same way. But your marriage customs

are so different from the way people in my village do it. You’re

not even seventeen yet, and already you’re marrying. I plan to

wait—at least until I can say I love the man I choose to marry.”

“I don’t have that—that—what is the German word?”

“Choice? Luxury?”

“I don’t know this word, luxury, but choice is like choose,

right?” Pippi nodded. “I don’t have any choice. I will marry

Arben, son of Luciano, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Mischka leaned forward, picked up the mug, and took a sip

of the cider. She winced. “It’s bitter.”

Pippi took the mug from her. “I’ll switch with you. Mine

was fine, and I don’t mind it less sweet.” She picked up her own

mug and handed it to Mischka.

Before Mischka could say anything, Pippi gulped a mouthful

of the cider. She frowned. “It tastes exactly like mine.”

Mischka snorted. “It’s probably just me. Everything has

tasted bitter for days.” She gave Pippi a sideways glance.

“What?”

“You just drank from my mug. That’s mahrime—considered

unclean.”

Pippi laughed. “Are you not the girl who ate half my apple,

drank most of my wine, fingered all the jewelry I wore, and

kissed me goodnight the last time I visited?”

Mischka’s face flamed. For a moment, she was tempted to

rise and run.

“I don’t care, if you don’t,” Pippi said. She put an arm across

Mischka’s back and leaned her head against her shoulder. “I

hope you’ll be all right. I wish there was something I could do.”

“There’s nothing anyone can do. This is my path to walk,

one I can’t avoid.”

“I’m sorry this is filled with so much uncertainty and

sadness.”

Mischka closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She inhaled

the fresh, clean smell of the beech tree under which they sat, felt

the wood of the hard log under her, and heard the birds

twittering above. The pressure of Pippi’s arm on her back and

her head against her shoulder was calming. She wished she

could sit in this shady grove until the festivities were over, then

walk away into the sunset with Pippi.

If only it could be so.

Snow Moon Rising 85

Pippi sighed. “Te’ sorthene sutho.”

Mischka straightened up, startled. “What did you say?”

“Te’ sorthene sutho. Did I say it wrong?”

“No, you didn’t. How did you remember that?”

“Pretty good, yes? I feel rather proud of myself. I asked Emil

in a letter to write it down for me—just in case. I wanted to have

it right.”

“Yes, you do. I’m glad you’ve come to my wedding, Pippi.”

“Me, too. It doesn’t seem right for a friend bonded forever

by heart and spirit to miss out, does it?”

Mischka didn’t answer. Her eyes filled with tears, but she

blinked them back.

And later that night, she and sixteen other nervous girls

pledged their troth to their grooms. She had a few moments of

happiness when she watched Stevo marry his beloved Chavi.

Mischka’s dowry allowed her father to help Stevo pay Chavi’s

father. Once, during the sharing of the bread, Stevo glanced up,

caught her eye, and smiled. His lips shone bright red in contrast

to his dark beard, and his excitement was evident. She was truly

happy for him and knew he would treat his girl with tenderness.

Throughout her own ceremony, she managed to fix her eyes

upon Pippi, only looking away when she had to. And when it

was time for Pippi to leave later that night, she kissed her full on

the lips, and Pippi kissed her back.

Chapter

Eleven

Northwestern Poland, April 1929 (Seed Moon)

NINETEEN-YEAR-OLD Mischka squatted next to the fire

pit, blowing gently on smoldering embers near the strips of bark

she held. She willed the bark to catch fire. She needed to have a

significant blaze burning by the time Zigana, her husband’s

mother, rose from slumber. Already the sky had lightened

almost imperceptibly, and time was running out.

She hated tending the fire, knowing well that she lacked the

patience. She much preferred being up and about, working with

the chickens and horses, carrying and hauling wood, doing the

kind of work she had enjoyed when she lived with her father’s

kumpania. Those days seemed a lifetime ago. She had not seen

her family at all since her wedding. Four times she had received

brief news in correspondence from Emil, along with two letters

in each envelope from Pippi. Eight letters total, each well-worn

from reading and the ink faded from so much exposure to

firelight. Most of the time she kept them rolled up in her bundle

of clothes with the few coins she had managed to keep from

Arben. On their wedding night, her virginity was not the only

thing he had demanded; he’d also seized her bride gifts. She’d

handed over a few odd coins and all the gold from the necklace

her father-in-law had provided, but she couldn’t bring herself to

give up the gold and silver that Emil and Drina and some

members of her family had shared with her.

For a long time she had wondered why Luciano and Zigana

chose her to be their daughter-in-law. Finally, she heard one of

the boria speak to another about someone named Lousza, and

Mischka asked who that was.

“Arben’s first wife,” was the reply.

First wife? Mischka had never been told he’d been married

before, but eventually Valentina confided that no one was

supposed to talk about it since Lousza had died mysteriously.

Snow Moon Rising 87

From a beating, Mischka suspected. This must be well-known by

the kumpanias traveling in northern Poland, so they had placed

their dowry with unsuspecting Roma from the south.

The other boria—her sisters-in-law—were working at their

usual assigned tasks. Donka carried water; Terom gathered

additional firewood; Simza was down at the stream washing

fruit and vegetables. Valentina was best at restarting the fire,

and ordinarily that was her job, but she was ill and with child,

and lay in a tent nearby, quarantined. All pregnant women were

considered mahrime, and since only the boria spent time with a

pregnant woman, Valentina lay moaning, lonely and in pain.

Mischka understood all too well what Valentina was going

through. Three times she had conceived: twice to miscarry and

once to deliver a stillborn baby boy two moons early. She hoped

that wouldn’t happen to Valentina. Mischka hadn’t yet

physically recovered from the most recent pregnancy.

The sky lightened slightly. The sun was nowhere near up,

and a quarter moon still shone brightly. Seed Moon, she thought.

She hadn’t had her bloods for four months. His seed was

growing inside her again. She shuddered and felt a cold that ran

deeper than the still-frigid spring weather.

The fire shouldn’t have gone out, but in her exhaustion, she

had slept through the night and hadn’t risen to bank the embers.

She had always been a sound sleeper, and fire duty was not her

forté. She puffed once more, and the bark flared. Soon she had a

steady flame going in a pile of tinder to which she added

kindling. She let out a breath of relief. Her mother-in-law,

Zigana, would have no reason to mock her today.

As if she’d heard Mischka’s thought, Zigana appeared to her

left, and Mischka looked up in dismay. The older woman was a

head shorter than Mischka, but she made up for it in ferocity. If

something a boria did displeased her, she was just as quick to

employ a switch or log or broom as she was to yell.

“You ignorant bumbler. You’re slow and unfit. My son

deserves so much more. Why is he stuck with such a stupid

wife?”

Mischka knew better than to answer. She bowed her head

and waited to see what direction Zigana’s abuse would take

today.

“And you.” She pointed at Donka, who was struggling to

carry two giant pails of water. “You all slept late again. We’ll be

lucky if we have breakfast prepared in time.” She spat into the

fire and turned away.

Mischka relaxed a moment, thinking Zigana might be

bearable today. Then a hand came around her neck and jerked

88 Lori L. Lake

her to her feet. She turned, arms up to protect her face. Arben

stood barefoot in rumpled trousers and a dirty tan shirt. One

black suspender was down, the other up, forming a crooked dark

line down his middle. Anger twisted his handsome features. She

saw the open hand coming from her left and managed to lean

enough that the blow struck her on the shoulder.

“Why can’t you obey my mother?” He slapped at her again,

and she stumbled, trying to avoid falling into the briskly

burning fire. “I wanted a prettier girl.” Smack. “A smarter girl.”

Smack. “And I’m stuck with you, a goat-faced big mouth. Your

big mouth woke me up.” He grabbed the front of her coat with

both hands and hauled her toward him.

Donka, Simza, and Terom disappeared from the area. Only

Zigana stood off to the side, a smirk on her face. Mischka braced

herself. At times like this, he usually slapped and kicked at her

until he suddenly became calm. His dark eyes would shine, and

he’d haul her off to the tent and force himself upon her. Devil

was the word that came to her mind. He was like a devil.

He panted, and a smile started at the corners of his red lips.

But before he could drag her away, she whispered, “I have my

bloods.”

His eyes widened in shock. He tossed her from him like

rubbish. “Mahrime. You’re dirty. Get away from me, you filthy,

unclean sow.”

Zigana’s voice, nasally and high, cut through Mischka’s

desperation. “Get back to work. That fire will go out unless you

tend it.”

Arben moved away, heading to his vardo, the place she was

never allowed unless he was defiling her. The sight of his dirty

tan shirt reminded her of a time long past, during childhood,

when the same sort of shirt was worn by a soldier who had

threatened her kumpania. Emil had shot and killed him, and the

bullet had blown a hole bigger than her fist out his back. She

glared at her husband’s back and imagined the same such hole,

bloody and seeping. Bile rose up and burned the back of her

throat. She forced herself to swallow and squatted once again by

the fire.

She wished she had Emil’s gun.

BY THE TIME May’s Hare Moon had come and gone,

Mischka could feel her abdomen shift from the child growing

inside her. She covered it up at first by wearing a baggy over-

blouse, then, as her midsection protruded farther, she secretly let

out the waists of her skirts. She was past the point of nausea in

Snow Moon Rising 89

the mornings, and she hoped that perhaps this child would

survive the full term. But she hesitated to say anything. She

knew it was wrong, that she could be punished severely for

neglecting to admit the pregnancy, but when each month’s new,

dark moon made its appearance in the sky, she continued to

claim the arrival of her bloods.

Today, at the side of the river, she sat on her heels, her tan

and brown skirt lumping around her like foothills leading to a

dark mountain. It had rained the day before, leaving a great deal

of moisture in the air. She caught a faint whiff of smoke from the

campfire and the intriguing scents of flowering trees and bushes

in bloom. The shouts and laughter of the children sounded far

away, and they were. Mischka was an eighth-mile downstream

from the place the horses drank and a quarter-mile from where

the women and children got their water. The men staked out a

washing and drinking spot nearest to camp, and everyone else

spread out downstream from there. She couldn’t even see the

encampment through the copse of trees over a half-mile away,

and that was fine with her. She liked the solitude.

Menstruating women were considered mahrime—unclean

and impure—as were women with child. The moment Mischka

told Arben and the women of her kumpania that she was

pregnant, she would be isolated like Valentina. She would have

little work to do, could not prepare food, work with the animals,

or touch the children, and she wouldn’t be allowed to wander

along the river or walk through the woods. Confined to a tent set

apart from the rest of the camp meant she would see little of

Arben, which would be a blessing, but several months of

isolation from the daily activities, from watching the little

children running and laughing, from being able to go off alone

would be far too unbearable. She had been through it three other

times, and she wasn’t looking forward to it again. She took a

deep breath and watched the water ripple and twist as it burbled

by. “Marona!”

Donka’s call floated in and out of Mischka’s ear. She heard

it, but even after nearly three years, her given name didn’t

register the way her nickname did.

“Marona.” Donka strode toward her. She was wide-eyed and

out of breath. “It’s Valentina.”

“What about her?”

Between pants, she said, “She went into labor early, but

she’s bleeding.”

“Bleeding?”

“Terrible bleeding. None of the men will touch her. Zigana

90 Lori L. Lake

is at a loss. We need to get her to a doctor.”

Mischka picked up her skirts and ran toward camp.

Valentina had been in pain for weeks, but she was not due to

have the baby yet. The child was early, which was not

uncommon for a first birth, but there should be no blood.

Because Mischka was supposedly menstruating, she had to circle

the border of the encampment and approach Valentina’s tent

from the side. Huffing behind her, Donka cut straight through

the middle of the clearing and past the great fire. Zigana stepped

out of the tent as they arrived and blocked their entrance. “It’s

about time you showed up, Marona. Always off mooning

somewhere and never here when you’re needed.” Her face was a

mask of fury, and Mischka wondered what was going on behind

those cold, narrowed eyes. She hoped she looked properly

penitent so that Zigana would step aside and let them in.

Donka wheezed loudly and a choking sob came out. “She’s

not—she hasn’t—”

“Don’t worry. She still lives.” Zigana pushed between

Mischka and Donka. While Donka gaped after Zigana, looking

hurt, Mischka dashed into the tent.

The air was overly warm and smelled of sweat and blood

and fear. Women from several of the other households were

packed into the tent, and one knelt between Valentina’s legs

trying to stanch the flow of blood. “Do we have time to take her

to the doctor in town? Does someone know? Anyone?” The

answers from the various women came rapidly, tumbling over

one another.

“We must.”

“Yes, we have to try.”

“Have to move fast.”

“This isn’t right.”

“No, something is wrong inside—blocking the baby’s path.”

Nobody moved, so Mischka said, “I’ll hook up a cart.”

“Yes, good idea,” someone else said.

Mischka backed up and was out the door before anything

further could be said. She dashed across the edge of the

campground and singled out two sturdy mounts. Tack and

harness hung on a rack attached to one of the carts, and with

nimble hands, she got a harness on the first horse and was

getting started with the second when she was interrupted.

“Marona.” She looked over her shoulder. Arben’s brother,

Jal, stood behind her, twisting a piece of cloth in his strong

hands. “What’s wrong? Can you tell me what’s wrong with my

wife?”

“I don’t know. We need to take her to a doctor.”

Snow Moon Rising 91

His face twisted as though he were in pain. The women, not

the men, handled birthing and midwifing, but she could tell Jal

was not satisfied to be left out.

She picked up the traces and lined them up with the cart,

then turned to face him. “The baby’s arrival—well, it’s not right,

Jal. Valentina’s bleeding. Too much blood. She—” Out of the

corner of her eye she saw a flash of movement. Arben swept in

from her right side.

“How dare you talk to my brother of blood. Of things

mahrime.”

His palm caught the side of her head before she even saw it

coming. Specks of white light flashed before her. Her vision

hadn’t cleared when he slammed a fist into her middle. She

staggered back against the side of the cart, tasting her morning

breakfast. Coughing, she choked out, “Wait. We don’t have time

for—”

She ducked as his fist came at her, and his knuckles

whacked into the cart’s worn wood near her ear.

“Aiyeee! You witch!” He shook his wounded hand and

grabbed the front of her blouse with the other.

“No, Arben, no!” She struggled to slip to the side and out of

his grasp, but his scuffed hand wrenched at her hair, and he

drove her against the wheel of the cart. The rounded wood dug

into the small of her back. A wave of hot pain shot up, and she

cried out. Behind her husband, she saw Jal’s shocked face as he

retreated, leaving her to deal with Arben alone. Many eyes were

no doubt watching from the distance, but she knew no one

would move to interfere. She was on her own.

“Get off me.” She brought her fists up and beat at his arms

but he had too good a grip. “You are mahrime. Get away.”

In a low growl, he said, “And you are bad luck. Bad luck of

the worst kind.”

“Devil!” she shrieked. “You’re a devil in disguise. Let me

go.” Breathing hard now, he laughed and his teeth gleamed white

in the bright sun. She could smell the stench of his breath and

see sweat beading at his temples. His face was so handsome, his

eyes so dark and flashing, but his heart was soiled and more

unclean than anything or anyone mahrime that she had ever

encountered. With a throaty scream, she brought her knee up

and shoved him away.

He let out a yowl, backed up, and clasped at his crotch. But

that lasted only a moment before he launched himself at her.

This time when he grabbed her blouse, it ripped. He hurled her

to the ground, drew back a boot, and kicked. Her knee exploded

92 Lori L. Lake

in pain. She screamed. His boot struck her stomach, and she lost

her breath in a whoosh of sound.

He unleashed a string of invective as he kicked her over and

over. “Bad luck! Witch!” he shouted. She curled up, protecting her

middle, letting her forearms and shoulders take the brunt of his

attack. Her insides felt like they’d been ripped out. She couldn’t

catch her breath. Help me. Help me... someone, please. Please. A brown, rounded toe came rushing at the side of her face.

Just before she passed out, she remembered the German

word for help: Hilfe. And for a moment, she saw a vision of Emil,

dressed in his army uniform. The illusion was so clear, so real,

that until the pain detonated in her head, she believed he had

come to rescue her.

SOMETHING WARM TICKLED the side of Mischka’s face,

wandering from her temple to her cheekbone and toward her

nose. Was it a furry caterpillar? The smell of dirt was strong. Her

body felt overheated, and she couldn’t draw a full breath.

A tussle was happening nearby, but she couldn’t get her

eyes open to see it. She heard Jal’s voice. “Arben! What’s got into

you? Stop now. Arben, stop.”

She struggled to breathe, but every move sent ripples of

pain crashing through her. She managed only small snatches of

air, insufficient to give her the oxygen she craved. She forced her

eyes open to slits. Brilliant sun blinded her, but she couldn’t

reach up to shield her eyes. She flattened her palm against

packed-down dirt and tried to push herself up.

Voices came nearer. She heard a shuffling. Her boria sisters

and some of the other women struggled to carry a blanket

weighted down with a lumpy figure.

“Valentina.” Mischka felt a wave of panic. Doctor. Have to

get her to the doctor. The horses...

Zigana’s voice rose above the grunting and hard breath of

those carrying the load. “Arben, what is she doing on the

ground?”

“She struck me. Can you believe it? She hit me here.” He

pointed to his genitals.

“Move the shiftless woman out of the way.” She clapped her

hands. “Now. Make room. Jal, you help him.”

Rough hands grabbed at her, and Mischka let out a shrill

scream. Bolts of agony stabbed through her arm, ribs, and

midsection, yet she was helpless to fight against the men. They

half-dragged, half-carried her a few feet and dumped her to the

ground.

Snow Moon Rising 93

Then Donka was at her side. “Marona. Marona, what are you

doing?”

Now that she lay at a different angle, the sun was behind

her. Mischka opened her eyes to see the concerned face of her

sister-in-law. Her voice came out raspy and weak. “Help me.”

“You’re bleeding a lot,” Donka said in wonderment. “Your

head is bleeding.” Donka’s face went blank, and Mischka knew

the other girl had figured out what happened. “Let me help you.

Can you rise?”

Donka slipped an arm under her. Mischka tried to push

herself up. It made her dizzy and she felt like she was going to

throw up, but she managed to roll onto her hip, legs off to the

side. A ring of silent men and women from other families in the

kumpania stood off to the side, watching.

“Marona,” Donka whispered, “there’s blood—so much

blood.” With a look of disbelief, she held out a hand stippled

with red. Mischka looked down and saw dark spots. She couldn’t

very well pull up her skirt in front of the men, but she felt

something damp and sticky between her legs.

Donka rose. “Zigana, Marona is hurt. She needs a doctor.”

“Bah. That girl is a nuisance.” Zigana made a motion with

both hands as if to fend off the suggestion. “Leave her lie.”

A tiny, ancient woman named Antoinette, whom Mischka

did not know well, approached and knelt beside her. She

brushed Mischka’s hair off her forehead and made a tsk-ing

noise. Under her breath she said, “Vicious. He’s been vicious to

you.”Her face was wrinkled and tanned a deep mahogany from

the sun, and the eyes that gazed into Mischka’s were full of

compassion. Antoinette got to her feet and waved to her

grandsons, instructing them to harness a horse and get a cart

ready. As the young men scrambled to do her bidding, Zigana

stomped over, nearly stepping on Mischka’s hand, which she

hastily pulled back in time.

“Stay out of our family business, Antoinette.”

Antoinette took a shiny wooden pipe out of her apron

pocket, pushed her thumb into its bowl, and put the unlit pipe to

her lips. “Your family business is now the business of all of us.

That girl in the cart is in deep trouble, and this girl on the

ground isn’t far behind her. How would you like not just the one

mulé but three different kinds of mulé haunting you?”

Zigana stepped back as though pushed. “What do you

mean?”

Antoinette’s voice went so low and raspy it gave Mischka a

shiver of fear. “You better get this girl in a cart and to a doctor.

94 Lori L. Lake

She’s hurt worse than you realize.”

“She’s always falling down and hurting herself.”

“Um hmmm...so that’s what you call it. I call it a recipe for

the mulé to haunt our kumpania forever.”

Arben had been listening, and now he stepped forward.

“You need to shut your mouth, old woman. You meddle in

things that aren’t for women to intrude upon.”

Antoinette grinned, and Mischka saw a frightening smile

that didn’t reach her eyes. Two hard, cold beads of obsidian

bored into Arben. “We’ll see then. We’ll see. You’ve got one mulé

on your conscience already, little man. You want two?”

Arben’s nostrils flared, and he stood up very straight,

looking like he intended to come after Antoinette. His mother

held out a hand and pressed him back.

Antoinette nodded slowly, still grinning. “Boy—and that’s

what you are because no real man would treat his women this

way—you are well on the way down a path toward hell, and you

will not take me with you. If you don’t deliver your wife to a

doctor, then I shall have my family do it. The mulé will not haunt

us for doing our duty. And we are one moon away from the

yearly meet-up. Perhaps a woman cannot call a meeting to have

the leaders decide your fate, but any of us—” she made a

sweeping gesture with her right arm “—can easily report this to

the father of Marona. If his daughter dies, perhaps he shall

petition for all of your worldly goods.”

“You wouldn’t,” Arben said, his voice weak.

Antoinette shook her head. “If your father were alive,

Arben...” Her maniacal expression faded slowly.

Zigana glared. Her next words spat out like small bullets.

“Fine. Arben, get your wife into the cart.”

Arben didn’t move. Antoinette clamped her teeth down on

her pipe and reached into her bosom to pull out a sizable roll of

coins knotted in a kerchief. She fumbled with it for a moment,

then stooped and pressed two coins into Mischka’s hand. “If

anyone but the doctor takes these coins from you, you are to

return to me and say so, even if you come as a mulé. I will not

turn you away, spirit or not. I expect a full report. Do you

understand?”

Mischka said, “Yes,” and Donka helped her to her feet where

she stood swaying and dizzy. Something sticky rolled into her eye,

burning so badly that she squeezed both eyes shut. She ran the back

of her hand across her face, trembling with the exertion of lifting

her arm. When she opened her eyes, she saw her fingers covered

with blood. She picked up one foot and tried to step forward. If

Donka hadn’t been supporting her, she would have fallen.

Snow Moon Rising 95

THE TRIP FROM the campsite into the Polish town was a

hellish journey of incessant bouncing and pain. Arben guided

the horse. Zigana sat at the front of the cart, facing away from

Yoska, one of Antoinette’s sons, who perched on the edge behind

Arben. Mischka lay in the cart on her left side, with her knees

pulled up, and her arms holding her middle. As far as she could

tell, Arben went out of his way to hit every bump, roll through

every hole, and keep the horse at a jerky pace. The nausea she

felt grew worse, and she finally vomited. Zigana didn’t make a

move to assist or check on her, but once Mischka had emptied

her stomach, the vertigo wasn’t so bad.

She knew something was very wrong. On the right side of

her stomach, just above her right hip bone, she had no feeling at

all. Her probing fingers elicited no sensation in the skin. She

brought her hand up and pressed on her right rib. Pain tore

through her so hard and fast that she nearly passed out. She

closed her eyes and gritted her teeth.

When they finally reached the town, Arben got directions to

the doctor’s home, which doubled as his office. There Mischka

saw the cart in which Valentina had arrived, but the doctor’s

wife turned them away.

“He’s already got his hands full with the other woman.”

Arben jerked a thumb toward the back. “What about her?

Can we leave her?”

The doctor’s wife looked up at the sky. “It’s near noon. Old

Jaworski down the lane should be getting his supper. He can

help you.” She pointed west. “Travel another half-mile down

past the first farmhouse. Jaworski is on the right.”

Old Jaworski was not old—as Mischka soon found out—nor

was he a doctor. He answered Arben’s knock while wiping his

mouth on a yellow linen napkin and pointed them around the

side of the house. According to the sign over the door, which

Mischka didn’t see until the men were carrying her in, Jaworski

specialized in animal husbandry. Neither Yoska nor Arben could

read, and Zigana knew only a smattering of Polish, not enough

to read.

The room they carried her into was small, clean, and well

organized. A narrow wooden table stood in the middle, and

cages of varying sizes lined one of the walls. The cages were

empty, except for one that contained a rumpled blanket and the

tiniest sleeping puppy Mischka had ever seen. A counter ran the

length of one wall with a deep sink in the middle and a row of

glass cabinets above. Bottles, beakers, and tin containers filled

the cabinet shelves.

Yoska tried to be gentle, but Arben threw her on the table

96 Lori L. Lake

and stepped back as Jaworski entered through a narrow doorway

that led from the main part of the house.

In broken Polish, Arben said, “She sick. Need help.”

Jaworski spoke slowly. “The doctor is down the lane.”

“Here they send. Busy.”

“I see.” He stepped over to Mischka, but didn’t touch her.

Steepling his hands, he tapped his fingertips against one

another. “Someone has beaten this woman.”

Arben looked at Yoska, but he didn’t respond. Zigana

hovered against the wall, looking ready to flee at any moment.

“She fall,” Arben said.

Jaworski’s gray eyebrows rose in disbelief. “Miss,” he said,

“where are you hurt?”

“Everywhere.” When his face registered surprise at her use

of his language, she said, “I speak Polish pretty good. Them, not

so good. I think I have a broken arm. Perhaps ribs. My head

hurts.”

“You’ve been bleeding,” he said.

“Yes. I feel sick inside, too.”

“In what way?”

“He will tell you I fell, but it’s as you said. He beat me. The

kicking was bad. Now I think something is terribly wrong. I was

with child, and now…I’m not so sure.”

At the doorway, Zigana snorted but she shrank back when

Jaworski cast a contemptuous look at her. Zigana and her violent

son understood little Polish, but they obviously knew dziecko, the

Polish word for child.

“I suspect I’ll need the doctor as well, but I can help you.”

Jaworski turned aside and shouted, “Marta!”

A rosy-cheeked woman wearing a yellow dress and an apron

covered with stitched cherries and apples appeared. “Yes,

dear?”

“I need your help to undress this girl.”

She nodded and advanced into the room.

“You, sir,” Jaworski addressed Arben, “have you any money

to pay for treatment?”

Arben looked at him blankly.

“Money?” Jaworski asked again.

Arben shook his head.

Jaworski’s jaw jutted out, and his eyes flashed. “You have

nothing, not a single coin to offer?”

“She clumsy. Stupid. Bad, but no I want a dying.”

Mischka had already crossed the line of allegiance, and she

knew it. She had no idea whether she would live or die, but she

didn’t want to be returned to these people to be slowly beaten to

Snow Moon Rising 97

death in a week, a month, or a year if she managed to survive

this time. She would rather cast her lot with strangers.

She spoke softly in the Romany tongue. “I’m not clumsy or

stupid. You, my husband, are the stupid one. You killed your

first wife, and now you try to kill your second wife. Was Lousza

with child, too? Did you beat her to death before she could bring

you a son?” With one hand she cupped her abdomen. “Your

child will not live to call you Papa.”

Zigana pushed past Arben, her index finger in the air. “You

whore! How are we to know it’s even Arben’s baby?”

Mischka’s head pounded too hard for her to think clearly.

“He is a devil man. He deserves no sons. Or daughters. May he

be impotent and all he touches barren. I curse you both.”

Zigana’s mouth dropped open. “How dare you? We gave

you everything. We were good to you.”

“You were kinder to your dogs and horses.”

Jaworski spoke up. Mischka knew he couldn’t understand

Romany, but he must have had a hunch of what was being said.

“This girl is hurt. You must pay.”

Arben’s face contorted into a contemptuous leer. “No money

for whore.”

Jaworski squared his shoulders. “I ought to call the police

on you people.”

At the word police, Yoska departed, calling over his

shoulder, “I’ll be out at the cart.”

Jaworski stood between the table and Arben. “Get out.”

“Mine.” Arben’s expression was challenging, as though he

expected to have a brawl right then and there. “I own she. I

take.”

Mischka closed her eyes. She could barely force the words

out. “I divorce you, Arben, son of Luciano. My family will go to

the Kapo if they have to. My father will come and take your

vardo, your gold, your horses, and anything else. He will not

return the bride price. I curse you on the grave of my father’s

adopted father, Palko, son of Mario the Elder. You are mahrime—

and dead to me.” The world swirled before her, and she closed

her eyes.

Jaworski squared his shoulders. “You must leave her, sir.”

Arben shook his head. “You want she? You pay. Now.”

“Pay?” Jaworski roared his words. “It will be you who pays.

The police will arrest you. Arrest! Jail for you, you brute.”

Zigana grabbed Arben’s sleeve. “Come, son. Leave her.

She’s trash—not good enough for you. Let’s get out of here.”

Mischka opened her eyes as soon as they’d gone. “I had

money, quite a bit of it, but I wasn’t able to collect it before they

98 Lori L. Lake

brought me here.” She fumbled in the front of her blouse. “Still I

can pay something. I do have these.” She held out two small gold

coins.

Jaworski opened his broad hand, and the money tinkled into

his large palm. He stared down at it for a moment as if

pondering its worth, then said, “All right then. Good enough.”

Chapter

Twelve

Northwestern Poland, July 1929 (Mead Moon)

MISCHKA LAY ATOP the covers of a narrow bed in a stuffy

attic room. She wore a lightweight cotton shift that only came

down past her knees, and still she was overly warm. Summer

already, she thought. Which moon? Dyad? Mead? Through

sleepy eyes, she saw a single ray of sunlight let in by a tiny

dormer window. Motes of dust hung suspended in the air above

her where the ray came in aslant, and she watched them hover.

She felt like one of those motes—floating aimlessly, doing

nothing of value.

The tune of a song Stevo used to sing came to her, but she

heard it slow, and more melancholy, than Stevo had ever sung it.

She spoke the words to the chorus in a whisper:

Li-lo, li-lo, li-lo lay

La la la and a happy day

He whistled and he sang till the greenwoods rang

And he won the heart of a lady

Arben could have won the heart of any lady. Why didn’t he

try? Why was he so cruel? She didn’t understand. Why was the

kumpania she had married into so awful compared to her

family’s?

After Zigana and Arben departed the week before, she’d

thought she could withstand the pain of all that had happened to

her. She had made it through the physical examination, through

the setting of the bone in her arm, and through the stitching of

the scalp wound and clean up of her other cuts and bruises.

She’d even managed to block out the embarrassment of allowing

the doctor and the veterinarian to intrude upon her private parts

in order to attend to the miscarriage Arben had caused. Mrs.

Jaworski had held her hand, clucking and tutting as Mischka

100 Lori L. Lake

listened to the men deciding what to do. After all that, she

thought she was through with the indignities and pain.

But the next day, Mrs. Jaworski said to her, “It’s too bad

about your Gypsy sister-in-law. I’m sorry that Doctor Zajak

couldn’t save your friend.”

Mischka was shocked, nearly unable to breathe for half a

minute. She couldn’t believe Valentina was dead. She spoke no

more for the next day, merely turning over in the bed and

burying her face in the pillow while she cried.

As the days passed, she went from sad and pensive to a

despondency so strong that she could hardly make herself eat.

At times, like now, she could only lie there, perspiring and on

the verge of tears, wondering why she was alive and a lovely,

kindhearted girl like Valentina was dead.

She wondered what time of day it was. From the angle of the

light, she thought perhaps late afternoon. Her guess was

confirmed when she heard the squeak of a hinge. Someone was

coming up the steep stairway—more than one person. She heard

a deep voice, which she recognized as Mr. Jaworski’s, but his

wife rounded the head post at the top of the steps first. She

carried a tray containing a bowl that emitted tendrils of steam.

As soon as she saw Mischka was awake, she smiled and prattled

on about the food.

Mr. Jaworski followed her, a stethoscope around his neck.

She didn’t understand how the device worked, but he had told

her he could hear her heartbeat. “You’ve got a good strong

heart,” he said each time. While his wife fussed with the tray, he

felt Mischka’s forehead and listened to her heart. “How is your

head this afternoon?”

“Good.”

“No headache?”

“It’s faint and far away.”

“I’m going to press on your middle now.” She turned her

face toward the wall as he examined her. “Does that hurt?” She

shook her head. “There?”

“No.”

He nodded, satisfied, and stepped back. With the roof at such

a tight angle, he had to duck and hunch his broad shoulders to

give Mrs. Jaworski room to pull a low table over near the bed. She

said, “Now you’re going to eat more than you did this morning,

dear, aren’t you?” Mischka shrugged. The last thing she wanted

was food. “Mr. Jaworski is going to sit here for a few minutes and

talk to you. You just call me if you need anything.” She bustled

off, leaving Mischka staring up at the gray-haired man.

He leaned over the foot of the bed, took hold of a three-

Snow Moon Rising 101

legged stool, and pulled it around to the side of the bed to sit on.

“Well, Mischka, it’s time to choose what to do. I heard today that

a troupe of Gypsies have set up camp outside town. I don’t know

if you know these people. Dr. Zajak says they are not the same

ones who brought you here.” His lips turned up in a grim half-

smile. “Apparently, those vicious louts skipped town

immediately. So now, you will have to make a decision.”

Mischka nodded. She had a long journey to find her family

far to the south. “If you will bring me my clothes, I’ll go out and

talk to the Roma.” She emphasized the last word, but he didn’t

seem to notice.

He crossed his arms, brought his index finger up to his lips

and sat in a pose to which she had become accustomed. When

Jaworski pondered like that, she had learned she had no choice

but to wait for him to speak.

Mischka closed her eyes. The thought of walking made her

sick to her stomach. She wanted to fall back into a great and

powerful river, let herself sink to the bottom, and bump along

from boulder to boulder. Forever.

He interrupted her thoughts. “Your condition is stable

now—but you’re not well enough to walk a mile. Nor would I

allow you to ride in a cart or on a horse.” He shook his head and

met her eyes again. “I will take my horse and go out to ask

someone to come here to speak to you. Perhaps you can arrange

to have word sent to your people.” He rose and placed the stool

back where he’d gotten it, then stood looming over her. “Can

you tell me something?” She waited. “How did you come to

speak Polish so well?”

“I learned over the years. I also speak German, some Czech,

Hungarian, and a bit of French. Why?”

“I’ve spoken to a number of Gypsies, and they all know a

smattering of Polish—like the people who brought you here—

but none of them have the vocabulary you have.”

“I have an ear for words and a good memory.”

“I see.”

“WHY DID YOU take me in?” Mischka asked a week later.

“Surely by now those two gold coins have long been spent in

medicine and food. So why have you not turned me out?”

“Let me answer with a question. Do you have a God whom

you worship?”

She thought of the moon and the sun and the wind and the

rain, but she didn’t think this was what he had in mind. Still, she

nodded.

102 Lori L. Lake

“Have you read any of the Bible?” When she shook her head,

he said, “It’s a book of writings about how God wants us to live

and to care for others. My wife and I believe in what it says and

try to follow it. A great prophet, a man named Jesus who was

someone with foresight and wisdom, once spoke of God’s actions

at the time of the end of the earth and sky, at the end of our lives.

When the time comes at the end, we’ll be separated into two

groups—those who deserve eternal life and those who do not.”

Mischka didn’t understand how this applied to her. “What

does this Bible have to do with why you’re still helping me?”

“We belong to the Catholic faith. We follow the way of

Jesus, who was our savior and prophet. Once he was asked how

one could discover whether he’d be rewarded when he died or

instead cast into hell. Jesus said something to the effect that

those who make it to the kingdom of heaven are those who knew

he was hungry and gave him food to eat; thirsty, and gave drink;

when he was a stranger, he was taken in and clothed; if sick or in

prison, he was visited. The people asked Jesus when they had

ever found him hungry or thirsty, a stranger, or naked, or sick,

or in prison, and Jesus said to them my favorite and most-

treasured line in the Bible: ‘Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye

did it unto one of these my brethren, even these least, ye did it

unto me.’ “

“I’m not a brethren.”

Jaworski didn’t laugh often, but when he did, his

amusement lit up his face, making him look kindly, a little like

Nicolae when he chuckled. Beaming, he said, “To put it more

simply, God asks us to care for others. Whatever we do for those

who are not well off, who are in trouble, we’re doing that for

God, and He finds favor in it. I would hope that someday, when

you have the ability to help someone else, you might think of

Jesus and his message. Whatever you do for the poor and

unfortunate, it’s done for good and for God.”

“I see.” But she didn’t, entirely. She’d have to think about it,

and unfortunately, she didn’t feel she had the energy.

“Will you eat this supper so that Marta doesn’t worry about

you? The soup is probably cool enough now.” He slid the low

table closer. “I’ll let you eat in peace.”

“Wait. One thing more. The word Jaworski…is that not a

tree?”

He laughed again. “Jaworski means ‘of the sycamores’ in

Polish. I think that in past times my people may have been

woodcutters or tenders of orchards.”

“But now you are a tender of animals.”

“Yes. And of itinerant Gypsy girls.” He paused. “May you

Snow Moon Rising 103

have a pleasant and nurturing meal, Mischka, in God’s name.

Amen.”

“Thank you, Mr. Jaworski.”

With a wave, he made his way down the stairs. When the

door creaked shut, Mischka swung her bare feet to the floor. The

wood felt warm against the soles of her feet. She leaned forward

to sniff the food on the tray. The soup smelled of onions and

chicken. The big chunk of bread was yeasty and warm. Bogacha

and puyo. It smelled like her mother’s cooking. That brought

tears to her eyes. Even though it reminded her of home, of her

childhood, she could only eat a few bites of soup and a little of

the bread, then she fell back onto the bed and cried until sleep

stole her away.

BY THE TIME July’s Mead Moon was nearly over, Mischka’s

arm had healed, and she was up and around. She slipped

outdoors as much as possible to wander, but every step she took

seemed an effort. She moved as though wading through a stream

chest-deep. Her appetite hadn’t returned, and she knew she was

far too thin. Even so, she couldn’t fit into tiny Mrs. Jaworski’s

clothing. She’d taken to wearing Mr. Jaworski’s work shirts and

the overalls she’d found hanging in the stable. As warm as it

was, she didn’t need shoes.

Today, she decided to do something useful. Perhaps a little

work would help her overcome the exhaustion. Tying her hair

with a length of string, she surveyed the bridles and other tack

hanging on rusty nails on the stable walls. All of it could use a

good cleaning and oiling, but there wasn’t anywhere to lay it

out. With stalls for four horses and only a small open work area

near the door, the Jaworskis’ stable was really little more than a

shed.Mischka elected to groom the brown gelding Mr. Jaworski

liked to ride around the town. She picked up a brush, but before

she’d even finished currying his shoulder and withers, she was

beset with such fatigue that she sank back onto a bale of hay.

She wondered why she was so tired. She slept from dusk to

dawn, then again in the forenoons, and still the exhaustion

wouldn’t leave her. Neither the doctor down the road nor

Jaworski gave her medicines any longer, so she knew those

weren’t responsible.

In the distance she heard the clop-clop of trotting horses.

Curious, she abandoned her hay bale and sauntered out of the

stable. She peeked around the corner of the house, careful not to

be seen. Nothing could have prepared her for the vision in front

104 Lori L. Lake

of her. She had hardly dared allow herself to dream of such a

thing, and when she did, she imagined her father, or perhaps one

of her brothers, answering her summons for help. She had never

expected to see Tobar, Gyorgy, and Emil riding toward her.

Overwhelmed, and almost frightened to believe that what

she saw was real, she ducked back behind the house and leaned

against the faded wood. A force bigger than her chest could

contain expanded and hurt, and for a moment her breath

stopped. The tears that welled up blinded her completely. She

knew she couldn’t face them like this, not feeling weak and

defeated. Embarrassed, she pushed away from the house, wiped

her eyes with her sleeve, and bolted back to the stable.

By the time the three men and Jaworski found her there, she

had her emotions under control and had finished brushing the

gelding as well. Yet when Gyorgy entered, relief and joy swept

through her so violently, she feared she might faint. Her big

brother, so strong, so smart, so solid and real. She yearned to

throw herself into his arms like she had so many times when she

was small. Before Gyorgy could speak, Tobar pushed his way

into the room. He had to stoop to clear the doorframe, and while

he paused there, he blocked a good deal of the light.

“Mischka.” His dark eyes examined her from top to toe. His

beard was bushier than ever, and if it were possible for an adult

man to have grown taller, he had. He didn’t speak, and for a

moment she wondered if he disapproved of the clothing she

wore, but his next words cast that from her mind. “You are

whole.”

Yes, she was whole physically, but she wouldn’t talk of

anything else.

Tobar made room so that Emil and Jaworski could squeeze

in, and the four men regarded her with the kindness and concern

she had taken for granted all of her life until the evil day of her

marriage.

Emil looked much the same as ever, eyes the same sharp

blue they’d always been, but his hair was blonder than she had

ever seen it. He smiled and asked, “Is this little hen ready to

come home to roost?”

Home. She had not dared to let herself hope, but maybe she

would be allowed to go home.

Jaworski spoke to them in Polish, trying to explain that

Mischka’s injuries were healed, but that she still tired easily.

Gyorgy stood off to the side, ostensibly listening to the doctor,

but she felt his eyes upon her and turned her head to meet his

gaze. His eyes flickered uncertainly over her attire, and a flash of

realization passed through her. No matter what anyone said, she

Snow Moon Rising 105

wasn’t wearing women’s clothes ever again. She was no longer a

woman, but she wasn’t a man either. She was an in-between—

someone who was sexless—neither male nor female. And that

was the way it would be.

Jaworski was offering them a meal and the stable to sleep in

for the night. Gyorgy said, “But where will Mischka sleep then?”

Jaworski frowned. “She’s settled in up at the house, and she

can stay there.”

Gyorgy’s mouth dropped open. “You let my sister sleep in

your house?”

He nodded, a surprised look on his face. “Of course. She

needed medical care and preservation from the elements.”

“You have slept indoors for how long?” Gyorgy asked.

“Many days.” She hadn’t counted. Particularly at the

beginning, the days had all run into one another. All she knew

for sure was that Mead Moon was nearly over and Wort Moon

would soon be underway.

Gyorgy seemed amazed to hear that. Roma generally didn’t

take well to houses, but Mischka hadn’t minded it at all. In

Romany she said, “Gyorgy, he healed me using special

medicines that must cost a great deal of money. I have no more

coins to offer. Do you?”

“Yes. I’ll take care of it before we leave tomorrow.” He

turned to Jaworski. “We will gladly accept your offer of food and

lodging. Thank you.”

“I’ll let my wife know. Perhaps you can regale us with

stories of your travels, of the people you have encountered, and

the places you have been.”

Gyorgy shrugged. “Perhaps.”

Jaworski rubbed his hands together, seeming delighted.

“I’ll let you all talk. I’m sure you have much news to share.

When the meal is ready, I’ll give a shout.” He left the stable, and

with him went some of the stiffness the men had been

displaying.

Emil was direct. “You’re truly healed and all right?”

“Healed, yes. All right remains to be seen.”

“What happened?” Gyorgy sat down on the bale of hay and

was joined by Emil.

Mischka bowed her head. “My husband tried to kill me.”

“But why?” Her brother looked truly perplexed. “Why

would he do that?”

How could she explain? How could she make them

understand Arben’s malice, his joy in inflicting pain? She tapped

her forehead. “He wasn’t right up here.”

Tobar leaned against the doorframe, his hands behind his

106 Lori L. Lake

back. When he spoke, his voice was deeper and softer than she’d

remembered it. “He went mad?”

“Not exactly.” Mischka smacked the grooming brush on to a

shelf, then led the gelding back into his stall. “He likes to hurt

people. He killed his first wife, probably doing to her what he

did to me.”

“What?” Tobar pushed away from the doorframe and

clenched his hands into fists. “That’s not the way of the Roma.

He must be taught a lesson.”

“Tobar,” Gyorgy said in a weary voice, “my father will

report all of this to the Kapo.”

“They had better not ask to get the bride price back then,”

Tobar said.

Emil caught her eye. “Mischka, have you any intention of

returning to Arben and his people?”

Gritting her teeth, she said, “I would rather die first.”

The men looked at one another and seemed to come to the

same conclusion without another word. Mischka recognized the

sharp bob of Gyorgy’s head that indicated the topic was now

closed. Tucking the grooming brush into the slot on the wall

where it belonged, she asked, “What is the news of Papa, of

Mama? My little sisters?” Her heart beat fast, and she was almost

afraid of the answers. What if something had happened to them?

Her brother grinned. “Everyone is fine, and since we’re

bringing you back, you can see that for yourself. It will be a

homecoming—a celebration.”

She wasn’t sure how true that was. Rarely did a married

woman return to her original kumpania, and sometimes the

excommunicated wife was made to feel unwelcome or was not

accepted at all. She hoped it wouldn’t be that way with her

kumpania, but she didn’t want to dwell on the possibilities now,

or to consider the future. She changed the subject.

“New babies for any of you?”

Tobar, who hadn’t quite relaxed entirely, stiffened and

looked away. Emil said, “Both your brothers’ wives have had

babies. Drina, too. But Tobar’s wife was unable to birth their

child. She died in childbirth.”

“Vadoma? Vadoma has died?”

Tobar’s face filled with pain, and he stepped outside the

shed.This final bit of news proved too much to bear. Mischka

pushed past the men, out of the dim light of the shed. Tobar

stood near the house, staring up at the sky with his back to her.

She took off into the apple trees behind the stable and ran on a

cow path until she reached a field green with growing plants.

Snow Moon Rising 107

Skirting the rows of greenery, she slowed to a walk and let the

tears come.

FOR THE FIRST time in many years, Mischka felt free. They

had been riding for ten days, and once her back un-kinked and

her leg muscles stopped aching, she relished the journey. They

passed through villages and small towns, avoiding the bigger,

less-agrarian regions. At first she had been afraid as they made

their way south. What if someone accosted them? What if they

happened to come upon Arben’s kumpania?

On the second evening, Emil had pulled her aside, opened

his shoulder sack, and explained that Drina had sewn it from

two gunnysacks and reinforced it with heavy thread. The men

did not speak of the contents of the bag, but in addition to

foodstuffs, Emil showed her the pistol he had taken from his

lieutenant in the trenches all those years ago. He hadn’t used the

gun for years but had decided to take it with him on this trip.

Early in their journey north, he said, he’d bought bullets and

supplies at a gunsmith’s shop and later that night, outside the

campfire, he’d cleaned and oiled the gun and fired three practice

shots.

“See, Mischka. The gun is in perfectly good condition, and

should we run into danger, I know how to use it.”

“I hope you never have to take it out of your shoulder bag.”

He winked at her, then tucked it away and pulled a package

of dried beef from the bag. “I much prefer to use this for

edibles.”

The men had brought sufficient coin to purchase food along

the way, and for the first time in three years, she enjoyed

cooking, especially because her Roma brothers were so

appreciative of the simple meals she made.

In order to raise no alarms, she traveled dressed in breeches,

shirt, and straw hat. Jaworski had given her a gunnysack full of

his old clothing as well, enough to last her for quite some time.

She had never completely forgotten how it felt to wear

comfortable, practical clothing as she once had, before she was

forced to wear long skirts. Now, in the only attire she’d ever

been at home in, she felt complete. Unless someone got up very

close, it wasn’t possible to tell she was female. For that, too, she

was grateful. No longer did she care what her brother or his

friends thought. She would bear the wrath of any of the members

of her kumpania. She hoped they would not exile her, but if they

did, she thought she might be able to survive on her own.

Anyone willing to get her hands dirty could always find work.

108 Lori L. Lake

At night when they camped, Mischka slept under one tree

and the men slept under another with the horses tied up

between. Even with nearly twenty years of Roma training

regarding all the proper rules for male and female relations,

Mischka discovered she could let go of these ideas without too

many qualms. She would observe the cleanliness rituals to avoid

any charges that she was mahrime, but no longer did she believe

men should hold sway over women. She began to speak to her

brother, Tobar, and Emil as an equal, asking questions,

challenging their comments, and refusing to be in any way

subservient.

She slowed her horse as they approached a grove of trees

perfect for a noontime stop. As she dismounted, she asked, “Who

is our leader now?”

Gyorgy said, “Still Gunari. And Bersh follows in his

footsteps.”

Gunari, Mischka’s father’s blood brother, had been in charge

when she left, and she had always expected his bossy son Bersh

would be the next leader. “Gunari must be getting on in years.”

“He is.” Tobar dismounted and led his horse under a huge

beech tree. “Bersh is in charge whenever Gunari is ill, which is

more and more often now.”

Mischka nodded. Her given name, Marona, had been Bersh’s

grandmother’s name. Marona had died shortly before Mischka

was born, and she knew Gunari’s clan had held a special place

for her in their family constellation because of her name. She and

Bersh had always gotten along well enough. “Bersh always liked

me. He liked Papa, too.”

Gyorgy said, “He still does. They spend a lot of time

wandering and talking as an uncle and nephew would.”

“I’m glad,” Mischka said. “Very glad.”

THE SIXTEENTH DAY, well into Wort Moon, they rose and

ate a quick breakfast. At any time in the afternoon they could

come upon the caravan. Mischka felt nervous and concentrated

on the sun upon her face, the breeze at her back, and the

wildflowers by the side of the road. Whatever will be, will be,

she kept telling herself, but with every passing yard, her

stomach knotted more tightly. Her horse’s slow, patient gait

belied her agitation. These were her people. Why was she afraid?

She wanted to believe she would be welcomed back, but she’d

seen women cast out before—women who had been unpleasant,

who had broken rules and become mahrime. Adulterers and liars,

mostly, neither of which described her, but still, she feared.

Snow Moon Rising 109

“Well, little sister, are you ready?” Gyorgy asked when they

spotted a kumpania in the distance.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” Mischka shaded her eyes as she

squinted down the mild slope on which they rode. The

encampment was too far away for her to make out any

particulars, but Tobar seemed certain it was theirs and had gone

ahead to let Gunari know of their approach.

As it turned out, Mischka was in no way shunned, and she

realized it the moment they drew within a hundred yards of the

encampment. She heard the commotion first. Voices called out.

Chickens squawked. Barking dogs followed by a pack of small

children came running toward them, shouting her name.

Mischka had to rein in her horse to avoid stepping on small

bodies.

One of the welcome party called, “Beebee Mischka!”

Beebee? Which of these called her aunt? Her eyes swept over

the dark heads, the smiling dirty faces, and she didn’t recognize

any of them.

“Back up, little ones,” Emil called out. “Make way! Beebee

Mischka is arriving.”

They all dismounted, and a little girl in a faded blue and

white sack dress took Mischka’s hand.

“Elena? Are you my sister Elena?” Mischka looked down

into the shy sparkling eyes she’d all but forgotten. “By the moon,

you have grown so big!” The tiny child laughed and skipped,

pulling Mischka forward.

All around her the children swarmed, called out her name,

and asked excited questions of the men. Mischka didn’t so much

walk as she was swept forward and into the circle of wagons.

There, sitting around campfires burning brightly and standing

beside a dozen vardos, she found the rest of the kumpania. The

first person to reach her was the one she had most often longed

to see during her years of misery.

“Mischka. At last.” Lumi engulfed her in a big hug.

Over her mother’s shoulder, she saw her father a short

distance away, a smile of satisfaction on his face. She wished he

could clasp her to him as he did when she was a small child, but

that was no longer appropriate. She would have to be content

just to speak with him later, quietly, when the rest of the milling

tribe had settled down.

She looked into her mother’s eyes, still as black as ever and

shining now with happiness. The hair at her temples was shot

through with streaks of gray, and her diklo had shifted a bit high.

Tearfully, Mischka straightened it. “Mama, I’m home.”

Several women rushed forward to hug and touch the

110 Lori L. Lake

prodigal daughter. The women were all speaking at once, and

much of what was said wasn’t particularly polite.

“Lumi, are you glad she’s returned?”

“What happened to you, Mischka?”

“Children? Did you bring children?”

“She’s in breeches.”

The din hurt her ears, and Mischka felt disoriented, as

though her body were rooted to the spot but her emotions were

suspended somewhere far above her.

“She’s so thin.”

“Thin? She’s emaciated.”

“They beat her,” someone said in disgust. “Wasn’t she a

good wife?”

“Hush. Of course she was.”

“How was the travel?”

“Did their men treat you well?”

“What will you do now?”

Gunari raised a hand and tried to calm the excited people.

He had aged a great deal since Mischka had last seen him. It

didn’t seem possible that in three years his beard could have

gone from salt-and-pepper gray to white. The skin around his

eyes and on his forehead was lean and wrinkled like worn

leather. Not until his son Bersh put his fingers to his lips and let

out a shrill whistle did silence descend.

Gunari held his arms out, palms down, and gestured as

though he were holding down the air. “Calm down, everyone. I

am sure your questions will soon be answered.” He turned to

Mischka. “Marona Lovell Gallo, you have come back to us.”

As Mischka nodded, Lumi’s arm tightened around her

waist.

“What do you seek, young woman?”

Mischka had no idea what to say. Was there a particular

ritual answer expected? If so, she didn’t know it, so she said the

first thing that came to her mind. “Shelter and protection in the

bosom of my family.”

“In the absence of your husband, will you submit once more

to the care of your father?”

“Yes.” Her face flooded with heat as she saw Arben’s face in

her mind’s eye.

“Mikhail, do you accept this responsibility?”

“Yes, brother, I do.”

“Will you seek action on the part of the Kapo to protect your

interests?”

“I may, Gunari. I will speak privately with my daughter,

and then I’d like to confer with you.”

Snow Moon Rising 111

“Yes, very good.” Gunari pulled his pipe out of his pocket

and set to work packing it with tobacco. Someone handed him a

wooden match. Gunari struck it against the bottom of his shoe

and busied himself with lighting the tobacco. He took a deep

draw, exhaled, then looked around. “Does anyone here oppose

the return of this woman?”

Among the crowd, Mischka spotted her childhood nemesis,

Cam. He was not much taller than she was, but his black hair

still curled in wild tufts just as it had when they were little. He

grinned and inclined his head. She recognized Milosh and

Simionce and Aladar and so many others. Nobody spoke. She

heard the rustling of the chickens in their cage, and a child cried

out for his mother. The smell of roasted lamb wafted her way,

and still Gunari waited.

The leader put the pipe in his mouth and took another draw.

“Welcome back, Mischka, niece of my heart. Let’s eat!”

A great cry went up, and Mischka’s knees went weak. Her

eyes filled with tears, and all the colors of the campsite swirled

in her vision like a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, and yellows.

The women ushered her to a log by their fire, and someone

thrust a mug of cool cider into her hands. Her sister, Elena sat

next to her, and for what seemed like hours, she was questioned,

congratulated, patted, and stared at until finally she rose and

looked for her mother.

Lumi bustled over to her. “Come to my tent.” She grasped

Mischka’s hand and pulled her toward an area on the other side

of the vardos. “We’ll get you a new bedroll and find skirts for

you.”Mischka stopped in her tracks. “No. I’ll no longer wear

skirts at any time except when I choose to do so.”

“But—but—”

“This is the one condition I have, or I cannot stay here. I will

work harder than any other woman in the kumpania. I will fetch

water before dawn. Tend the fire all night. Care for the sick and

groom every horse the people own. But I’ll wear breeches doing

it.” Lumi’s bright green and yellow blouse rippled in the wind

as she frowned and stared at her daughter. “Is this because of

Arben? Did he—”

“Mother. Please. Let us never speak his name again. Never.

This one concession is all I ask—that I dress as I choose.” She

held her mother’s gaze defiantly, then let her head drop to look

at the packed dirt at their feet. “Please?”

Wordlessly, Lumi took her hand, and they never spoke of

the matter again.

Chapter

Thirteen

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

“DOES MY FATHER know about all of this?” Tobar asked.

Mischka said, “Yes, why do you ask?”

“I just can’t believe he and Mom have never told me any of

this stuff.”

She met Pippi’s eyes and saw the worry on her face. Pippi

never wanted to talk of the times in the Old Country, and

Mischka could see her discomfort. Even now, she could tell Pippi

was silently beseeching her to change the subject.

“Your father does, indeed, know all about this, and that’s

why he named you Tobar.”

“Why did my brother get a nice, easy name like Steve?” His

voice sounded cranky, and Mischka bit back a smile.

“Actually, your father originally thought to name him Stevo,

after my brother, but your mother favored Steven, so they

compromised. If your sister had been a boy, I suspect she would

have been christened Emil, instead of Emily. In a culture that

doesn’t think much about the past, your parents have made a

simple act like naming children mean something. You can say

that you’re all three named after key men in Pippi’s and my

life.”Tobar thought about that for a moment, then turned to

Pippi.

“You named my father after his father. Why couldn’t I have

been François the Third?”

Under her breath she said, “Oh, my.”

“François is kind of wussy as a name these days,” Tobar

continued, “but I could have gone by Frank, you know? That

wouldn’t be so bad.”

Pippi let out a huff and glared at Mischka. “See what you’ve

started?”

“Come now, he’s old enough to know everything.”

Snow Moon Rising 113

“Yeah, Grandma, I am. Tell me about my grandfather. And

about what happened to you. I want to know.”

Pippi hesitated, as though she couldn’t decide whether to

launch into the story or leave the room. When she let out a long

sigh, Mischka knew she’d given in, so she sat back to listen to

Pippi’s remembrances.

Chapter

Fourteen

Reims, France, May 1940 (Hare Moon)

PIPPI OPENED THE door and saw a boy on her doorstep.

About twelve years old, he twirled a navy blue beret in his hands

and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His brown hair

nearly touched the collar of his light jacket. He might possibly

have combed the mop earlier in the day, but now the back stood

up like a horse’s tail. The cowlick in the front also stood on end

and made him look like all he needed was a little saddle in the

middle, and an elf could ride around on his head.

“Good day, Madame,” he said in French. “Is the m’sieur at

home?”

Pippi pressed her lips together and tried to hide her

amusement. “No, I’m sorry. My husband isn’t home at the

moment.”

“Will he return later?”

Pippi shook her head. “He’s stationed north of here, with

the military. He won’t be home any time soon.”

The boy seemed to deflate. He jammed the beret on his head.

“I can’t find any men at all. None at the butcher shop or the shoe

store or the auto repair shop. I had hoped he would be here even

though we would have to pay.”

“Pay? You aren’t referring to a locksmith problem, are you?”

“Yes, I need to track down a locksmith immediately, and

there isn’t a man to be found.”

“With the German army so close now, all the able-bodied

men are on active duty,” she said, amazed that she would need

to explain. The town talked of little else. “What seems to be the

problem—can you tell me? Maybe I can help you.”

“My useless little brother is locked in the basement. I told

my mother that we ought to leave him locked down there until

my papa comes home from the war, but she won’t hear of it.”

Now Pippi smiled. The boy looked so desolate, so out of

Snow Moon Rising 115

sorts, that she couldn’t ignore him. “It’s an inside door that

won’t open?” He nodded. “Give me a moment, and I’ll come

with you. I’m fairly sure I can help. Where do you live?”

“Five streets over.”

“All right. Wait a moment.” Pippi ducked into the house and

went to the closet near the parlor.

“Who is it, dear?” François’s mother, Richelle, rose from the

settee, a fountain pen in her hand. Several letters were spread

out on the coffee table in front of her.

“It’s a boy with a locksmith problem.”

Richelle’s mother-in-law, Linette, sat in an easy chair, her

feet up on a hassock. “Is everything all right then?” Her

circulation was poor and her hearing worse. Richelle turned to

her and said loudly, “Pippi is going to help someone with a bad

lock.”

Linette cupped a hand behind her ear. “Haddock? We never

get any of that here in France—even before the war.”

“Bad...lock,” Richelle said, carefully enunciating. “Someone

needs a locksmith.”

“Ahhh, I see.” Linette pushed her glasses up on her nose and

resumed her knitting.

Richelle and Linette had been staying with Pippi ever since

François and his father were called back for military service

nearly three months earlier. Combining households and sharing

rations seemed to be working well, and she felt closer to Richelle

as each day went by. Linette was often cranky, but she was old,

so Pippi tried to be as patient as she could. She and Richelle

stayed up many a night after Linette had gone to bed and talked

about Richelle’s early experiences with her mother-in-law. After

hearing some of the stories, Pippi felt lucky that Richelle was

such a calm and reasonable woman.

She pulled a lightweight coat out of the closet and grabbed a

rain hat as well, which she tucked into her pocket. The skies had

opened up earlier, but currently the rain was at bay. Her

husband’s awkward locksmith bag sat on the closet floor, jammed

full of every kind of tool and part that François needed on calls.

Pippi hoisted it up and hurried back to the parlor. Standing on

tiptoes, she brushed a kiss against Richelle’s soft cheek. Her

mother-in-law reminded her so much of François—tall and

willowy, with dark curly hair and sympathetic hazel eyes.

“I’ll be back soon,” she said and headed out the front door.

The boy took the chunky satchel from her and inspected the

contents. “Glory, this is heavy!”

“With any luck at all, those tools will help me free your

brother.”

116 Lori L. Lake

The prospect of releasing his brother didn’t seem to cheer

him much, however, and they set off along the quiet streets.

The only thing Pippi regretted about marrying into the

Delebecque family was that all the men were so devoted to the

military. François had enlisted after he finished his mechanical

studies, a course of study that made him a valuable man to have

around. Not only did he serve as a locksmith, but he could do

electrical work and repair small engines, cars, telephones, and

furnaces. She often teased that if something had a motor or

heating element, François was kin to it. He could take apart and

reassemble any weapon faster than anybody she had ever seen,

but she wished he’d never seen the stock end of a rifle.

Civilians had little call for gun skills, but as a soldier, his

talents were invaluable. If he hadn’t been so clever with motors

and mechanical equipment, perhaps he wouldn’t have been

called up for active duty now. Pippi wished he had never been in

the armed forces in the first place, but service in the military was

a family tradition. When he was reactivated in February, they’d

only been given three days to prepare for his departure to the

Ardennes front. She missed him terribly.

Then again, if he had not been so occupied with his army

duties until the age of twenty-eight, some other girl would have

met him before she did and stolen him away without her ever

knowing. Pippi supposed she should be grateful to the military

after all.

She’d met François at a dance at the Reims spring cotillion.

She and her mother had traveled to Reims five years earlier,

ostensibly to spend time with Camille’s cousins and aunts and

uncles, but the real reason was to give Pippi time to soothe a

broken heart. She’d been engaged to Dieter Strasbach for three

years. For one reason or another, he’d kept postponing the

wedding. On the snowy January day when she turned twenty-

nine, Dieter had taken her to a picture show in Eisenhüttenstadt.

Afterwards, in a snowstorm on the street corner outside the

matinee house, he had pulled her up short.

“I can’t go through with this, Pippi.”

“Hmm?” She was looking up at the streetlamp and watching

the flurries dancing against the light. She wanted to open her

mouth and run like a child to let the snowflakes land on her

tongue. She thought of the delightful actress, Merle Oberon,

from the movie The Scarlet Pimpernel that they had just seen.

Lady Marguerite, as played by Miss Oberon, was divine—so full

of life, so beautiful. Her high forehead supported a wealth of

dark, curly hair, and those eyes, so dark and mysterious. They

brought to mind her childhood friend, Mischka Gallo. She

Snow Moon Rising 117

wondered about her old friend. Had she remarried? Emil hadn’t

written for some time to say one way or another. Pippi resolved

to inquire in her next letter to him.

Dieter’s voice cut through her musings. “Did you hear me? I

can’t.”

“What?” Mischka’s face faded from her mind. “What did

you say?”

“It’s over. Between you and me.” He took his hand off her

elbow and jammed his fists into his pockets. When she tried to

meet his eyes, he focused on the ground.

“What?” She scowled. “What are you talking about?”

“I—well, I’ve met someone else. I—I’ve wanted to tell you

for so long, but, well, you know.”

From the tip of her head, she felt a chill that gradually

descended to the back of her neck, down her spine and legs, and

turned her feet into blocks of ice. “You just sat for two hours in

the movie house and shared candies, and now you’re jilting me?

And on my birthday?”

“I’m sorry. I haven’t known how to tell you.”

“Hell and damnation.” The line from the movie popped up,

and Dieter looked at her with shock. She wasn’t going to

apologize. “Who is she?” Her voice was hard and accusing.

“No one you know.”

She knew his gestures, his vocal inflections, and his every

emotion: whether he was happy or ashamed or frightened, and

right now he sounded miserable, which served only to infuriate

her. “You cad. You lousy philanderer. You’ve led me on all this

time, made promises, you...you...” She didn’t will it to happen,

but her hand came up and smacked him across the cheek. Clad in

a thick glove, it made very little impression on his face, but he

stepped back, face flushing red, and nearly bumped into some

passing patrons.

“Take me home.”

She had wanted to strike him again and run away, dive into

a snow bank and cry, but she let him take her arm and escort her

to the 1928 Voisin coupe of which he was so proud. She

wondered if his new girlfriend knew as much about the Voisin as

she did. Did the little tramp know it had a 4.9 litre engine and

four forward speeds? Did she understand the importance of

applying special wax? Had Dieter taken her into the country and

sped 85 miles per hour and made her laugh and shriek with glee?

She supposed he had, and if he hadn’t yet, he probably would do

so soon, now that he had forsaken Pippi.

Tears welled up and poured down her cheeks. She wondered

why in the world he had chosen to break such dastardly news in

118 Lori L. Lake

front of the movie house. Couldn’t he have waited until he’d

delivered her back home? Why had he taken her out for her

birthday in the first place? She would never think of Leslie

Howard or Raymond Massey with fondness again. She felt a

closeness to Merle Oberon, though. She, too, had been duped by

her charming Pimpernel of a husband. Pippi glanced at Dieter.

He squinted into the blizzard, his hands tight on the wheel as if

his life depended upon it. He was no Scarlet Pimpernel. She

wanted to strike him again.

They drew close to home, and she felt such relief to be

escaping him that she didn’t even say goodbye. She stepped out

of the car, slammed the door, and made her way out of his life.

And now, five years later, things were entirely different. She

remembered Dieter periodically, but didn’t miss him at all. She

thought of him as a temporary placeholder, someone she had

passed time with while waiting for the better man to come to

her. But these days, she missed the company of that better man,

and instead of him taking care of the neighborhood lock

problems, here she was out in the elements, damp wind at her

collar, as she hastened to keep up with the boy leading her to his

house.

“What’s your name?” Pippi hunched into her collar against

the damp wind.

“Henri. Henri Bedeau.”

“I am—”

“I know. Madame Delebecque. This way.” He mounted the

stairs to a tall, thin Tudor-style house wedged in between two

cube-shaped monstrosities with mansard roofs. Before he could

reach for the handle, the door was swept open.

“Where have you been, Henri? Didn’t I tell you to hurry,

and—well, who is this?”

Pippi smiled at the frumpy woman. “Locksmith, come to

call.”The woman, Madame Bedeau, Pippi presumed, stepped back

in surprise. She wore an apron decorated with pale violet-

colored bluebells over a shabby dark blue dress that had seen its

day. The leather scuffs she wore on her feet displayed blocky

ankles and thickset calves. “You can’t help us, can you?”

Pippi shrugged. “Perhaps. I’ll certainly try.”

“Come in then.”

Henri set down the satchel and Pippi let him take her coat.

“Show me the door in question, Madame Bedeau, and I’ll see

what I can do.”

The woman led her across the foyer and through a small

sitting area. Colorful wooden blocks were stacked haphazardly

Snow Moon Rising 119

in the middle of the room, and Pippi stepped carefully over

them. They passed through a hallway and into a warm kitchen

that smelled like apple pie. On one wood counter she saw a circle

of flour and some bits of drying piecrust.

Dirty dishes were piled high in the sink, and the icebox door

was slightly ajar. Madame Bedeau slapped it shut with a meaty

hip. The radio sat on a side counter, tuned to a news program.

Something bubbled on the stove, and an array of vegetables—

cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and turnips—had been tossed in a

heap on the counter.

Madame Bedeau pointed at a white door. “That leads to the

cellar.”

Pippi couldn’t help but laugh at the loud banging and

muffled wails coming from the other side.

“You’d think we were killing him,” Madame said. “I told

him to stay out of the basement, but he didn’t listen to me. Then

this one,” she said and pointed her thumb at Henri, “decides to

be clever and manages to snap the key off in the lock.” Henri

hung his head in shame.

“Maaa…” the impatient prisoner wailed. “Let! Me! Out!”

“We’re working on it, Vincent. Pipe down.”

“How old is he?” Pippi asked.

She sighed. “Eight going on eighteen. Boys. Why couldn’t I

have been blessed with at least one girl?”

Pippi inspected the door. A tiny corner of silver—part of the

broken key—poked out at one end of the cylinder lock. It

wouldn’t be much to grab, and if she could get that out, the

problem was easily solved. Pippi had spent enough time in the

basement with François to learn many of his tricks. She knew her

way around tumblers, driver pins, and shear lines, and

François’s lock pick kit was extensive. The keyway just needed

to be clear. She wasn’t worried. If all else failed, she could use

the drill.

She leaned down to examine the keyhole, but the door shook

with furious pounding. “Vincent?” she called out. “Vincent?”

All was quiet for a moment. “Who’s there? Ma?”

“This is the locksmith. Could you take a step back and give

me a minute to deal with this lock?”

“The locksmith?” His voice was flat and toneless. “I don’t

believe you.”

“You don’t? Well, then, once I get this door open, you can

pretend it’s still locked and stay in the basement until you waste

away.”

Madame Bedeau marched over and rapped on the door.

“You listen to me, Vincent Michel Bedeau! One more word from

120 Lori L. Lake

you, and you’ll be quarantined to your room for a week. You sit

down on that stair and keep your mouth closed until this lady

unlocks the door, or I’ll use your father’s belt on your backside.”

Pippi heard a shuffling noise, and then all was quiet.

“Henri, could you drag the satchel in? I know just what I need.”

She rummaged through until she found the needle-nose pliers,

then bent and eyed the tiny bit of the key poking out. Her hands

were steady as she applied the pincers to it and squeezed tight.

With a gentle jiggling, she eased the fragment out of the keyhole.

“Aha!” Henri said. “You got it out!”

“Don’t sound so amazed. That was child’s play.”

Madame Bedeau lowered herself into a chair at the table and

put her head in her hands. “Thank goodness. Now can you

unlock it?”

“I think so.” Five minutes later, after a deft move with the

lockpicks, she heard a clicking sound as tumblers came together.

Pippi watched with amusement as a red-faced Vincent Bedeau

emerged from the cellar. Though his hair was cut shorter, he

looked, on a smaller scale, like an exact replica of his older

brother.

“There you have it, Madame Bedeau.”

“Thank you.” The woman sighed with relief. “Please, call me

Jeanette.”

“And I’m Pippi.”

“Would you like some tea, Pippi?” She rose before Pippi

could answer. “I’ve got water already hot on the stove.”

“If it’s no trouble.”

“Not a bit. Why don’t you have a seat there at the table.”

Biting back a smile, Pippi watched Vincent stomp over to his

brother. “You locked me in there for hours,” Vincent said to

Henri. “You’re rotten and should be shot.”

“No I shouldn’t.”

“I could have starved. I didn’t have any water. Or a

bathroom. You did it on purpose.”

“Did not.” Henri got to his feet, and the boys faced off. Pippi

knew if she watched the faces they were making at one another,

she’d burst out laughing, so she busied herself with tea and pie

that their mother set out for her on the kitchen table. Before they

could come to blows, their mother sent them into separate

rooms.

Pippi and Jeanette passed some time talking, and she

learned that the Bedeau family consisted of four children—all

boys. Henri and Vincent were the youngest. Their father had

been called up for military service around the same time as

François, and Jeanette was plainly as worried about the war

Snow Moon Rising 121

situation as Pippi.

“I’ve heard the Italians are itching for a fight now,” Pippi

said. “Have you heard anything new?”

Jeanette shook her head. “No. I don’t know what to think,

but wouldn’t it be nice if my Marc and your husband are perhaps

in the same area? Two men from the neighborhood with

something in common working together?”

“Yes, indeed, it would.” Pippi put her elbow on the table

and her chin in her hand and gazed out the kitchen window at

the boxy, dark gray house next door. The rain had come again,

and she was happy to be in the Bedeaus’ cozy house smelling the

delectable aromas of apple pie. She was also gratified that she’d

solved the lock problem. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might

be able to handle some of François’s work. If they fell on hard

times, that might prove to be an advantage.

“What was that?” Jeanette rose, lunged toward the counter,

and turned up the volume on the radio. The announcer spoke in

a hasty, staccato voice:

…I repeat, Hitler has defeated the Netherlands. The

German airforce has succeeded in outflanking the

strongest defenses in the low country, and Belgium and

Luxembourg are expected to fall as well. Yesterday,

French tanks and infantry met the German invasion at

the bridgehead over the Meuse River around Bulson, five

miles south of Sedan, France. A Panzer Division crossed

near Dinant as well. The French could not hold the line,

and German forces have now entered France through

Luxembourg and the Ardennes Forest. I repeat, German

forces have attacked France.

The Dutch have come to France’s aid, but Sedan is

lost and the Germans are advancing. Wait a

minute…this just in… The Dutch army has surrendered.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have a report that our

Premier, Paul Reynaud, has announced that France has

lost the battle, a decisive loss, an unexpected loss. Our

allies have come to our aid, but the fighting is fierce.

German forces breached the Maginot Line and are

on the move south into France. In addition, our

correspondents indicate that Italian citizens are

burning both English and French flags. The Italians are

threatening to join the Nazi Blitzkrieg.

For those of you just joining this broadcast, let me

repeat…

122 Lori L. Lake

Pale-faced, Jeanette sank down in the chair across from

Pippi, and they stared at one another in shock.

She reached across the table and gripped Pippi’s hand.

“Dear God, help us.”

Pippi’s eyes filled with tears. She sat for a few moments

with her newfound friend and listened to the announcer’s harsh

voice. Soon it became apparent that the announcer had no

additional news, and she rose and thanked Jeanette for her

hospitality.

Jeanette clambered up and retrieved Pippi’s coat from the

front closet. “Thank you for your help, Pippi. Please send me a

bill.”As Jeanette opened the front door, Henri appeared at Pippi’s

side, lugging the satchel. “I can send for that later, Henri.”

“No, Madame,” he said, respectfully. “I will carry it back for

you.”

“THIS CAN’T BE happening,” Pippi said. Dreary morning

light leaked in through the window, and she looked out at the

roiling clouds.

Richelle slumped on her elbows over the table, her hair

uncombed. “I pray for them both—and for all our soldiers.” She

fingered rosary beads she held in one hand. “I wish there was

something more we could do.”

“If only we could find some way to know what was

happening—to get information.”

“The radio is a poor substitute.”

Pippi nodded. Saint-Saëns’s “Symphony No. 3” was just

coming to a close, and in the momentary pause after the music

ended, both women went still.

This just in. Boulogne has fallen to the Nazis. I

repeat, Boulogne is lost. The Allies are withdrawing

from some war-torn parts of Norway, and Belgium is

overrun by the German juggernaut…

During nearly every waking moment for days on end, Pippi

sat in the kitchen with Richelle, drinking coffee and listening to

the radio. In between news reports, the announcers played music

by Frederic Chopin, François Couperin, and Franz Liszt. One

day, they sat for what seemed like hours listening to Hector

Berlioz’s “Damnation de Faust.” The music, beautiful as well as

upsetting, reflected Pippi’s mood, changing from simple

melodies to soaring and triumphant songs, and then to heart-

Snow Moon Rising 123

breaking sorrow. She felt as though she were on a sinking ship,

and both she and Richelle were often on the verge of tears. They

rose occasionally to check on Grandmere Linette and to make

meals, but their grim vigil by the radio went on and on, as did

the unbearable reports of devastation and failure in the face of

the German army.

Richelle opened the door two weeks later to receive the

telegram. As though in a daze, she signed for it, set it on the

table, and sank into her chair. Pippi knew she was wrong to hope

that the news was of her father-in-law. Not François. Please God,

not François. Richelle was shaking so badly that Pippi reached

out and grasped her cold hands. Both of them began to cry.

“You open it,” Richelle said. “I—I can’t.”

It occurred to Pippi that if this telegram contained notice of

a solder falling in battle, no matter which man it was, Richelle

was going to be devastated. She turned it over. The telegram was

addressed to Pauline Delebeque.

A strange calm came over her. All around her, all sound

ceased, and she felt as though she no longer needed air. She

looked down at the envelope she held, and watched as two pale

hands that seemed unconnected to her opened it. The gray

printing was faint and small:

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO

EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR HUSBAND

CAPTAIN FRANÇOIS F DELEBECQUE HAS BEEN

REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SINCE 20 MAY IN

FRANCE. IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER

INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE

PROMPTLY NOTIFIED.

A.E. SANSCHAGRIN, CLERK OF THE REGISTRY

The room swam before Pippi’s eyes, and her chest burned.

Richelle grabbed the edge of the table. “Pippi! It’s François,

isn’t it? Pippi!” She let out a sob and grabbed Pippi’s forearms.

Pippi drew a ragged breath, and the room came back into

focus. She still sat, stunned and unspeaking. Richelle took the

telegram from her hands and read it with tears rolling down her

cheeks. “He’s missing.” Her trembling voice held a trace of hope.

“Only missing, Pippi.”

The words got through the thick, muzzy feeling in Pippi’s

brain, but some part of her knew Richelle was wrong. François

was gone. She could feel it in her heart—and the pain radiating

from the center of her chest hardly allowed her to draw breath.

She rose from the chair and mumbled an apology, then

124 Lori L. Lake

stumbled out of the kitchen to climb the stairs to her room—to

the bed she and François shared—and lay down upon the

coverlet on her side. The material was soft against her cheek. She

pulled her knees up and tucked her dress around her legs. Her

hands crossed over her heart, which beat a fast staccato, and she

lay waiting for it to stop as surely as François’s had.

Chapter

Fifteen

Poland—North of the Tatras Mountains, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

MISCHKA RODE ON the lee side of her family’s wagon, and

from her vantage point up on the mare, she looked back

periodically to follow the progress of four men approaching on

horseback. As they overtook the kumpania, they waved politely,

slowed their horses, and cantered along the edge of the road. As

they passed Mischka close to the front of the convoy, her father

spoke to them in Romany and then in German. None of the men

paused, so he called out in Polish, asking what news they had.

The man at the rear was splattered with mud from the

hooves of his companions’ horses. He slowed to a walk and

wiped a splotch of mud from his face with his sleeve. “We’re

fleeing the Germans. A search party is scouring the countryside

to capture anyone and anything that moves.”

“What?” Mikhail said.

“The Germans! Their army is moving in from the west. The

Russians—they’re coming from the east. We have nowhere to go

but south and pray that Hungary’s ties with the Axis aren’t so

strong. Otherwise—”

“But we have papers. We are approved for travel by the

Polish authorities.”

“Don’t you understand? They’re kidnapping people like

you, old man.” He tightened his grip on the reins. “I’m sorry to

be impertinent, but it’s true.” He glanced back at the wagons. “If

they catch you, the able-bodied will be sent to work camps in

Germany and the rest put to death.” A cry from up ahead urged

the young man forward.

“Wait!” Mikhail yelled. “How far are they behind us?”

The man paused to consider. “Two, perhaps three hours.

They travel the back roads in fast-moving carts, and their horses

are large and strong.” His friends were far ahead of him now. He

jammed his hat down on his head, kicked his horse, and called

126 Lori L. Lake

out “Sorry…” as he galloped away.

Mikhail wasn’t the only one who understood Polish.

Mischka and some of the others on horseback dismounted and

waited near Bersh’s vardo.

Mikhail handed the reins to Emil’s son, little Palko, who

rode next to him. He hastened past Mischka to Bersh’s vardo.

“Bersh! Bersh! Did you hear that man’s report?” Running stiffly,

Mikhail caught up to the leader’s wagon. He gestured wildly,

and his words tumbled out.

After a few minutes of discussion, Bersh whistled the signal

to pick up the pace. Mikhail stepped back and waited for his own

vardo to roll forward. He climbed up next to young Palko. When

the boy offered him the reins, he shook his head and searched in

his coat. Mischka could see his hands tremble as he fumbled to

light a cigarette.

For a good quarter-hour, the caravan continued at the

stepped-up pace, bouncing over ruts and cracking through iced-

over puddles. The wind was strong, and because of the rapid

pace, the entire kumpania was unusually silent, with only the

sound of goats bleating and an occasional chicken squawk.

From the moment the Pole had warned them of the German

raiding party, Mischka barely paid attention to the road, instead

letting various ideas play through her mind. If the Germans were

only two or three hours behind them and traveling light, they would

be upon the kumpania long before they could reach a safe region. She

knew Bersh was a slow and methodical thinker, but surely he must

know that they couldn’t outpace fast-moving soldiers at this rate.

They needed to ditch the vardos and make a run for it.

Just then, Bersh sounded a whistle, and the long train

ground to a halt.

Some forty men, older boys, and even a few of the women

gathered next to Bersh’s wagon for a hasty conference. Mischka

sat on horseback near the rear of the group, between Tobar and

Xavi, Emil’s younger son.

Clearly worried, Bersh said, “We need speed. I regret it, but

we must abandon the vardos.”

Bersh’s son, Boldor, stomped a foot and let out an

exasperated gust of breath. “Oh, no! How long have I worked to

have a fine wagon? And now it’ll be lost.”

He moved a little away from the group, hands on his hips,

and Mischka studied his sorrowful face in profile. She thought

Boldor such a handsome man, and she’d never seen someone

work so hard to acquire a vardo.

“Son, son, I know,” Bersh said, “but safety is our first

concern.”

Snow Moon Rising 127

Emil spoke from atop his horse. “Perhaps we can hide the

wagons and come back for them later. Use as few horses as

possible to hide the vardos. Send half of them one way to the

thickets, and the other half over into those trees.” He pointed

west.

“Yes, this is my thought as well,” Bersh said. “We’ll take

only the most essential things and make a dash for the

mountains.”

The deep voices of the men rose, and Bersh allowed them a

minute to discuss the idea. As the din of conversation faded, he

raised his hand. “This will be a difficult journey. It’s the elders I

worry about, so we’ll put each of them on horseback with one of

the bigger boys. Women will need to ride holding one—maybe

two—little ones. I fear we haven’t enough horses. Some men will

need to run, taking turns riding and resting.”

Several people let out low groans, but no one argued.

Mikhail called to Mischka, “My daughter, what is the

current horse count?”

“Thirty-seven. Two are too lame to bear a man, but supplies

or a light rider wouldn’t harm them.”

Bersh said, “All right then, thirty-five horses for eighty-

eight of us. This can be done.” In a loud voice he shouted, “Don

warm clothes. Dress the children for cold winter. Women, go

pack saddlebags of food to last at least three days—maybe a

week if you can. Rich food that’s nourishing but weighs little.

Please, hurry.”

“What about covering our trail?” Emil asked.

Tobar let out a huff. “We hope for snow for that.”

Mischka said, “Didn’t the Pole say the Germans are only a

couple hours behind us?”

“Yes.” Emil shuddered. “If we spend too much time hiding

the vardos, they’ll catch up to us.”

“Perhaps we should free one horse from each team,”

Mischka said, “and put the women and children on horseback.

Send them ahead now with some of the men and elders. That

would get them started off toward safety.”

“Good idea,” Emil said. “And the rest of us can hide the

wagons. Then we’ll catch up with the others.”

Tobar called out to Bersh.

“What?” Bersh said, pulling at his beard in impatience. “We

don’t have a lot of time. I—”

“Wait, Bersh,” Tobar said. “Listen, please. This will speed

things up.”

Mischka didn’t wait to hear Bersh’s pronouncement. Instead,

she was already riding to her family’s vardo. “Mama, we’re

128 Lori L. Lake

switching plans. Get food now. Pack up the grandbabies—”

Lumi’s head poked out the back door. “Yes, we’re already

almost prepared.” She vanished into the vardo.

For the next fifteen minutes, men raced to unhitch horses.

Older children followed orders to run about collecting bags,

blankets, and other items. Women gathered crying children and

wrapped them and themselves in layers of clothing for the cold

journey. Mischka donned extra sweaters and wrapped a wool

skirt around her as well. Even the goats were laden with

blankets and leather satchels. The elders, the young, and the

women mounted all but fourteen of the horses. Mikhail and

Stevo prepared to lead the advance party forward, with Cam,

Simionce, and Aladar on foot at the rear.

Bersh said, “Godspeed to all of you. Water the horses when

you can. We’ll join you shortly. Now hurry.”

The little children called out merry good-byes. For them,

this was an adventure. The older youth and women weren’t so

cheerful.

As the thunder of hoofbeats faded, Mischka took hold of a

horse and led the family vardo ahead.

“Mischka! We overlooked you,” Bersh said. “You should

have gone ahead with them.”

She shrugged. “Who would we have left behind? My

mother? One of the elders? They needed my horse.”

“You could have run with Cam and Aladar.”

She let out a laugh. “No, thank you. I’ll help with the vardos.

Come. Let’s get to work. Then you can allow me a horse to catch

up with them.”

HIDING THE CARAVAN took longer than expected. Off the

well-traveled path, the ground became spongy with dark mud,

and the thicket they sought was a half-mile or more away. At a

breakneck pace, Mischka and six of the men took the front seven

vardos and the two chicken coops across the plain to the east

while Bersh and his group steered the rest toward the stand of

trees to the west. Mischka hated to leave the chickens behind,

but the troupe couldn’t bring them along. Besides being far too

noisy, they would also slow them down too much. She could

only hope that the German search party would soon retreat and

she might have a chance to come back for the chickens before

they all died.

They drove the vardos into the brambles as far as they could,

then unhitched the horses, stowed the tack, and led them out.

Mischka stopped at the chicken coops to spread feed all around

Snow Moon Rising 129

and unlatch the doors. “Chook, chook, choo Keep each other

warm.”

As they hurried back through the thicket, Tobar whispered,

“You came up with a good idea, Mischka. Very good.” He laced

his fingers together, and she stepped into his hands so he could

hike her up high in the air onto the smaller of the two horses, the

one named Maisie. She adjusted her baggy wool skirt, irked at

the inconvenience of it, and sat comfortably on the mare while

Tobar mounted Ox, the big tan draft horse.

The wind picked up, and snow began falling. Wide, flat

flakes drifted all around her. “Oh,” she said in wonder. “Snow.

Snow to cover our tracks.”

“Snow to show our tracks, you mean.” She and Tobar waited

as Boldor, Talpa, and Branko emerged from the thicket followed

shortly by two of Branko’s sons. “Hurry,” Tobar said. “Let’s go,

men.” He let out a whistle once everyone was ready, and at a

steady gallop, they moved across the plain to join Bersh’s men.

NIGHT HAD FALLEN before Mischka’s party finally caught

up with the advance group and everyone halted.

Bersh dismounted and stretched. “Everyone warm enough?

Is anyone hurt?”

His wife answered. “No injuries. The horses underneath

keep us warm, and it hasn’t snowed for a while. We’re doing

well.”

“Very good. Let’s pause to eat something, and then we must

travel on.”

The majority of the riders dismounted, and Drina, Lumi, and

Mischka’s little sister, Elena, helped the other women pass

around the food. Most of the small children were fast asleep in

someone’s arms and never woke to eat. After downing bogacha

bread, jerky, and cheese, Mischka drank half a skin of water. She

jumped to the ground and passed the skin to her mother, then

stretched her legs. Unlike many of the others on horseback, she

rode most days, and her legs would not be nearly so sore as most

of theirs would be.

Some of the boys ran to and fro on the path, breaking the

thin sheet of ice on the puddles, and she did the same to let her

horse drink. Still holding Maisie’s reins, she stood to the side of

the path, one foot on the ground and the other resting on a rotted

tree stump. She looked down and saw that the wool skirt over

her breeches was stained with mud, but she didn’t care. If she

could, she would remove it completely, but she left it on for

warmth. Who knew how cold it would get—or when someone

130 Lori L. Lake

else might need it. Underneath she wore wool pants, two pairs of

thick wool socks, and leather boots treated with resin to make

them waterproof. With three layers of sweaters and a wool coat,

she was overly warm. Once they started out again, she’d be in

the wind and would be more comfortable.

She tilted her head up at the night sky and said a silent

prayer to the Snow Moon. Thank you for glowing bright to light our

way and for keeping us safe. Shine upon us and not above the men who

would capture and enslave us.

The waxing moon would be full in a couple more days. Only

a sliver was missing tonight. A new moon indicated time to close

out old issues, to let go of that which was pessimistic or hurtful,

and to finish things. But a waxing moon signified a time of

promise, time to call upon the goddess as Maiden and ask for the

strength and understanding to begin new things and new

experiences.

Mischka looked around the small clearing in which she

stood. She couldn’t help but smile. They were all embarking

upon a new adventure, that was for sure. Soon enough, the full

moon nights of the goddess as Mother would arrive, and after

that, the waning moon focused on the Crone goddess. Mischka

thought the cycle was lovely. She had always wondered why the

Maiden/Mother/Crone Goddess was not referred to by the

Roman Catholics. In combination with the Father, Christ figure,

and Holy Spirit, she felt the circle was complete. The Catholic

God as sun; the Goddess as moon. Both sides of the coin; day and

night. She loved the sun, but she was drawn more strongly to the

mysterious moon. She’d been born during a Snow Moon as a

waxing quarter moon graced the sky, and that thought gave her

pause. Today could be the anniversary of her birth. She must be

thirty-three years old. With a chuckle, she thought , I am old—

nearly the same age as Jaworski’s Christ when he was betrayed.

Gyorgy’s voice sounded softly from some distance away.

“Let’s go, sister. I’ll give you a boost up.”

Soon, they were off again, and when the moon was high in

the sky they reached the foothills of the Tatras Mountains, at one

of the lower passes of the Carpathian Range. Depending upon

where they made their ascent and descent, they would likely

pass through Slovakia, but it was less than a hundred miles

south to Hungary. They pushed on as another hour passed, then

two. The moon disappeared behind clouds and they were forced

to slow and let the animals find the path. Mischka realized dawn

was a little over an hour away.

The horses clearly suffered from fatigue, but after a brief

water break, again Bersh urged them ahead. “We must get past

Snow Moon Rising 131

the foothills and into terrain where it’s more difficult for the

German carts to travel. Come. We move on. Stay close. The path

twists and turns many ways now.”

Thrum…thrum…thrum… Each time her horse’s hooves hit

the ground, the jolt jarred Mischka and kept her awake. She was

beyond tired, and her little mare must be exhausted. Mischka

leaned forward, her thick hair falling down around her face and

onto the horse’s sweaty neck. She patted the mare, willing

energy to flow to her. “Thank you, Maisie,” she whispered. “Stay

with me. It’s not long now.”

The path narrowed and went east, then later meandered and

switched back to the west as they went up an incline that became

more pronounced. She turned her head to look down the hill and

across the valley they had fled from. Squinting, she noticed a

tiny pinprick of golden light bobbing along several miles away,

maybe a lantern on a cart or wagon. Perhaps a man carried it, but

even from this distance, it seemed to be moving too fast—unless

the man were running, and she thought that unlikely. She

watched for another minute, paying no attention to Maisie, so

Mischka was surprised when her mare shifted course and she

was no longer able to see the light. Soon enough, they traveled

southeast on the incline. The path forked, and they went to the

left, then came around due east. Over her right shoulder, she

watched and waited. After a few moments, from a grove of trees,

the light emerged again, closer than ever.

This was not good, not good at all. To complicate matters,

the blackness of the night was diminishing. She could see that

the kumpania still had quite some distance before exiting the

foothills and getting to the scrub trees around the base of the

mountain. Once the sun came up, they would be in full sight

unless they could make it into the trees.

They came to another fork, and this time the troupe went

right, avoiding a very steep grade. Mischka scanned for the pass

in the dark mountain looming ahead. As far as she could tell, her

people could travel through the foothills by staying on

increasingly narrow paths that led up to the pass, or they could

travel along wider trails that ran parallel to the mountain’s apex

and periodically forked off to the south. Bersh was alternating

between gradual slope and narrow path, which gave the laboring

horses an easier time.

Was it her imagination, or was the bobbing light slightly

bigger now? Soon its progress would be concealed by the scrub

brush in the foothills, and then she would have no way to gauge

how far ahead the kumpania was or how close their pursuers had

drawn. At some point, the Germans—for she was now certain

132 Lori L. Lake

they were soldiers—were going to have to stop to unhitch their

horses from the carts, but that wouldn’t take much time.

She glanced behind. Three horses labored behind her

bearing Aladar’s son, Shandor, then Gyorgy, and finally Tobar

riding with Emil’s son Palko. She pulled up, and the end of the

procession came to a stop as she shifted to the side and looked

over her shoulder.

Shandor, obviously half-asleep, mumbled, “What’s the

matter?”

“Shhh…” she said. “They’re closer than we think, and they

mustn’t hear us. Sound travels too easily up here.”

Tobar said, “You’ve seen the light, too.” It was a statement,

not a question.

“What light?” Shandor whispered.

“The soldiers are only a matter of minutes away,” Mischka

said. “As soon as they unhitch their horses, they will race up the

mountain and fall upon our families. We must draw them

away—give the caravan time to get over the pass and elude them

on the other side.”

“How do you propose to do that?” Gyorgy cupped a hand

over his mouth to muffle his words.

Tobar grinned, and his beard shook. “We take them on a

wild chicken chase, right, Mischka?”

“Yes. But someone has to catch up and pass the word to

Bersh. He needs to go all out, straight up the mountain. No more

gentle slopes. Once the sun comes up, we’ll be easy prey.”

Gyorgy said, “We three men will draw them away. Mischka,

you pass the word ahead.”

“No, my brother. You have a family. I have none. You go

deliver the word. Besides, we need someone strong at the end of

the procession, just in case they do catch up.”

“She’s right, Gyorgy,” Tobar said. “Shandor and I are single

men. Your children depend upon you.”

“Papa will kill me,” Gyorgy whispered in a heated voice. “I

can’t leave you, Mischka. What if you’re caught?”

Shandor raised his chin high. “We shall not be caught. How

ridiculous.”

Mischka didn’t comment on Shandor’s ego. “We don’t have

time to debate. Go. Leave it to us, Gyorgy. We’ll meet you at the

bottom of the mountain.”

“Yes,” Tobar whispered. “Here, take Palko.” They quickly

transferred the youth from in front of Tobar to Gyorgy’s horse,

and once he was settled, Tobar shook Gyorgy’s hand. “Go, my

friend. We’ll soon be back together on the other side of the

mountain.”

Snow Moon Rising 133

Gyorgy sighed, then in a firm whisper he said, “Meet us at

the campground in the low reaches of the south side of the

mountain. We will wait—or leave a lookout for you. If you’re

delayed more than a few hours, then travel southward through

the Slovak lands—to the farm village of Miskolc in Hungary.

We’ll post someone in the woods in case the town is in enemy

hands. Godspeed, my sister and brothers!”

They jockeyed their horses around, and bade farewell, and

almost immediately Tobar said, “They come. I hear them in the

distance. We must work together now. Make a lot of noise and

run west for at least two miles. Shandor, take the upper path that

runs there.” He pointed ahead of them to the left. “Mischka, you

shall take the middle path, and I’ll take the low path.“

“No, Tobar,” Mischka said, “you stand the greatest risk of

capture.”

“Don’t worry about me. Ox is the strongest, hardiest horse

and I have plenty of tricks up my sleeve. Shandor, do nothing

foolish. Stay out ahead of them. Make a lot of noise to attract

them to the west. Our families must make it over the pass. Once

we draw them away, circle up and over to the southwest.

Whatever you do, keep moving southwest and angling upwards.

Understand?”

“I wish we had Emil’s gun,” Mischka said.

Tobar smiled a wicked, toothy grin. “We’ll kill them with

our bare hands if it comes to that.” He took a deep breath. “All

right, time to run like foxes through the forest.” Palms up, he

held his hands out, and his companions grabbed his big mitts.

Through her leather gloves, Mischka squeezed his hand tight.

“Go like the spirits,” he said. “I’ll bring up the rear.”

Mischka spurred her horse forward, her heart beating fast in

her chest. Behind her, Shandor let out a whoop. The Snow Moon

had gradually disappeared, and the bloody edge of the sun arose

over the horizon, spreading a pale stain of light over the foothills

that Mischka and her companions rode so furiously across.

MISCHKA WASN’T SURE how far she and Maisie traveled.

The sun was up, casting rays, and she felt faint warmth on the

back of her neck. Although she saw mist gushing out of her

mouth with each breath, she wasn’t aware of the cold. She felt

only worry, extreme fatigue, the heat of exertion. Both she and

the horse could see the ground better now that more light was

filtering through the scrub. She heard sounds of pursuit, but far

off in the distance. Should she slow her flight? What if they

stopped giving chase and went back after the caravan? Torn, she

134 Lori L. Lake

decided to continue on so long as she could hear the hoofbeats

and shouts.

She wondered if Bersh would be able to make the mad

scramble up the mountain into Slovak territory and if soldiers

would be there, too. Even if the kumpania managed to make it

into the Slovak lands, how long would it take them to cross into

Hungary? She hoped Tobar and Shandor were faring well and

that the three of them had a chance of reuniting at the pass and

traveling on together.

She came to a fork and angled uphill to the left, deciding she

had traveled due west long enough. The little mare stumbled on

the incline. Clacking her tongue against the roof of her mouth

and nudging with her knees, Mischka urged her forward. So

intent was she on spurring the horse that she didn’t see the

washout until she was almost upon it. A huge section of rock had

slid down the hill forming a twenty-foot-high barricade that

couldn’t be crossed.

She reined in her horse, and the little mare skidded to a halt,

sides heaving and sweat pouring off her flanks. Sick with panic,

Mischka looked behind her. She could hear the pursuers and

guessed she had only minutes to find another path to take. She

had to get down to that fork and come at this from a different

angle. She coaxed Maisie around and loped back down the trail to

take a different route at the fork she’d passed earlier. Much to her

dismay, she saw how much in the open she was and how easily

her brown horse and dark brown clothing must stand out in the

midst of so much gray and tan. But Maisie’s hooves found

purchase, and when she’d gone far enough to bypass the washout,

a surge of adrenaline coursed through her. It was now or never.

Tightening her grip on the reins, she tucked in behind the velvety

brown head, and prodded the little horse back up the hill.

At the next turn of the trail, she broke through a thicket of

low-hanging branches and yanked Maisie up short—face-to-face

with a band of soldiers.

“THEY GOT HER.” Shandor couldn’t meet Tobar’s gaze.

“Oh, no.” His breath coming in rushes, Tobar took in the lay

of the land. Now that daylight allowed it, he could see

movement in the valley below the foothills. He counted a half-

dozen soldiers and seven horses. His heart sank, knowing that

there were likely more Germans they couldn’t see.

Through gritted teeth, he said, “Ride like the hounds of hell,

Shandor. Save yourself. I’m going after her.” He turned his horse

on the narrow trail, paused a moment, and looked back. “You

Snow Moon Rising 135

tell her father that I will rescue her or die trying, do you hear?”

Without waiting for a reply, he left Shandor behind and

spurred his horse back toward the pass.

He had no weapons other than a hammer, branches, his own

brute strength—and his wits. Surely he could somehow extricate

Mischka. He headed down the hill as fast as the horse could

carry him, his head spinning. He tried to console himself that the

kumpania had aimed for the pass four or five miles east of here,

and because of the diversionary tactics, they may have gotten

away free. He barely had time to reflect on that, when a voice

yelled, “Halt!” and two German soldiers stepped out of the trees,

their rifles trained on him.

Tobar did as he was told and slid off the horse with legs that

felt rubbery. The soldiers came closer, speaking too fast for him

to put his rudimentary German to work. They wore soiled

uniforms, and they both shivered from the cold. One of them

gestured toward Tobar’s coat, then poked him in the forearm

with the barrel of the rifle. Understanding, Tobar removed his

jacket. The soldier snatched it away and put it on, prompting an

argument from the other soldier. For a moment, Tobar thought

he might be able to jump one of the men and get his gun, but

they stopped fighting and one motioned for him to get up on his

horse. They then proceeded down the trail, one soldier walking

behind, his gun trained on Tobar’s back, while the other took the

reins and led the horse. He chose to cooperate, to wait, hoping

they would lead him to Mischka and then he could free her.

They seemed nervous, reacting at every bird that rustled the

trees, every small animal in the brush. Looking closer, Tobar

could see they weren’t much more than boys—perhaps in their

late teens. He wanted to ask them why they were rounding up

people like so many wild horses but he kept silent, preferring to

let them think he didn’t understand any of their language. When

they passed the edges of the foothills and entered the valley,

they encountered a middle-aged officer dressed in a much neater

dark green-gray uniform. He was shouting at a group of

bedraggled soldiers.

“Two riders? You’ve got to be joking. Two dozen horses or

more have passed through here, and this is all you apprehend?

You’re pathetic!”

He stomped over to Tobar and sneered up into his face. “Has

anyone searched him for weapons?”

The soldiers didn’t answer. “My God, you men are stupid.

You, over there! Prepare the wagons for travel. The others have

escaped, so we may as well return with our quarry.” He pointed

to a trio of soldiers lined up next to a cart. “You will pursue the

136 Lori L. Lake

escapees on foot.” With salutes, they broke formation and moved

double-time toward the foothills.

A soldier came and led Tobar’s horse away. Another

searched his pockets, taking his pocketknife as well as

everything else of value. As the rough hands moved over him,

Tobar scanned the surroundings until he found Mischka—or the

edge of her figure, to be more exact. She sat on the other side of a

cart, partly hidden by the wheel. The soldier gave him a shove in

her direction, and when she saw him, her mouth dropped open.

“Tobar!” She was near tears. “You should have gotten

away.”

Tobar squatted in front of her. “We leave no one behind,

Mischka. No one.”

“But now we’re both captives. You could have saved

yourself. One loss is better than two.”

With a hint of a smile, Tobar said, “If it had been me, you

would have come back. Admit it.” She refused to look at him. “I

could never have lived with myself if I’d run away and left you.

How could I face your father? No. You keep your eyes and ears

open. We’ll get out of this together. I’m sure of it.”

“You’ve always wanted to marry me,” she said dryly. “Act

like you’re my husband now, and perhaps they’ll allow us to

ride together.”

He lowered his big physique and sat stiffly beside her. “We

will escape, Mischka. Wait until nightfall. We’ll get away.”

“I can only hope you’re right.” He shifted closer to her, and

she leaned into his solid warmth.

BUT IT SOON became clear to Mischka that Tobar’s

optimism was unfounded. Tied securely to thick metal bars

inside the cart, they rode for hours into the night without a break

to eat or relieve themselves. At daybreak they reached a tiny

dilapidated shack adjacent to railroad tracks. A row of carts

waited in the late morning gloom. Most were full of civilian men,

but Mischka was untied and dragged roughly to one occupied

entirely by women.

Outraged, but unarmed and still tied up, Tobar could only

shout at the soldiers to leave her alone. The men behaved as

though they were deaf. They shoved her up into the cart, and

Mischka settled heavily next to a plump blonde woman. The

soldiers re-tied her, and her only consolation was that she could

still see Tobar who towered over everyone near him in his cart.

She stared helplessly into his dark eyes and bit her top lip to

ensure she didn’t cry. She could swear she saw tears running

Snow Moon Rising 137

down into his beard.

Hours later they were taken from the carts and herded to a

train of cattle cars. The women were pushed into one car and the

men into several others. After the train set off, Mischka lost track

of time. At first she attempted to look out the slats to see where

they were going, so she would know their location when she

managed to escape. But she soon grew too tired and thirsty to

continue and sat down on the wooden floor. She fell asleep and

dreamed of her family on horses, riding at breakneck pace over

the mountains. She shouted, “Don’t stop!” to them over and

over. “Run hard, run fast.”

When she awakened, the train car’s door was sliding open.

Soldiers shouted for them to get out, and the women stumbled

out into the dusk to bring up the rear of a large pack of men,

surrounded by rifle-carrying soldiers and being driven forward

like a herd of animals. Mischka saw they were near a wooded

area with no signs of either a town or a campfire, no farms,

nothing nearby. She followed the crowd, sure-footed, but

fatigued. Some of the women around her, most of whom spoke

Polish, complained and cried. One kept saying her feet were

bleeding while another repeatedly called out “Mercy” in Polish.

After many miles of her weeping and wailing for mercy, a

young soldier yelled, “Be quiet.” The Polish woman went silent.

The woman with the sore feet continued to cry out. Through

gritted teeth, the soldier shouted, “Shut your mouth.”

Mischka winced to hear the woman keep sobbing. Why

didn’t she just shut up like he told her?

But she didn’t comply. The soldier shouldered his rifle and

pulled her out of the group. He let loose a torrent of German,

which she obviously didn’t understand. She only cried more,

pointing down and repeatedly screaming, “My feet. My feet are

bleeding.”

He lost what patience he’d had, seized her roughly by the

arm, and dragged her away from the group toward the woods.

Mischka covered her ears, not wanting to hear what she feared

would come next. When the shot came, she shuddered and

pressed her gloved fingers to her lips. The women around her

drew closer; some who apparently knew one another were

already holding hands. No one spoke—not a single utterance.

They simply walked, their faces pinched with fear.

Running footsteps came behind them, and in an aggrieved

tone, the German soldier muttered, “Now not only her feet

bleed.”

Mischka was glad that most of the women around her didn’t

seem to understand what he said—or if they did they gave no

138 Lori L. Lake

indication. A faint rain oozed from the sky, and they continued

their forced march in silence.

At one point, the sea of people ahead parted, and Mischka

veered to the right just in time to avoid stepping on a figure on

the ground. A white-haired man lying on his side gripped his

chest, his face twisted in pain. Someone should help him. This

wasn’t right. But Mischka knew there would be no help for him,

nor for her should she fall. Placing one foot in front of the other,

she didn’t look back when a single shot echoed a few moments

later.

Late in the night they came to railroad tracks on a flat plain.

The soldiers ordered them to halt, then motioned for them to be

seated. The ground was wet with rain, and Mischka didn’t wish

to soak her skirt or the wool pants underneath, so she squatted

and arranged the skirt around her. No one spoke, but she heard

sighs and a few grunts of pain. A peculiar clicking noise began to

her right, and she hazarded a glance. The plump, blonde woman

who had followed her all day was so cold her teeth were

chattering. She wore only light shoes, a thin dress, and a shabby

jacket.

The soldiers were paying little attention, so Mischka

removed her coat and pulled off her top two sweaters, which she

handed to the woman.

The woman’s stunned eyes filled with tears, as though she

could not believe the kindness offered. In Polish, she whispered

her thanks and hastily pulled on the thick sweaters.

“What’s your name?” Mischka asked.

“Aurora Wolnick. And yours?”

Mischka hesitated a moment. “Marona Lovell Gallo. Please

call me Mischka.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mischka. Thank you

for the sweaters. They took me from my yard and left me no time

to dress in warm clothes.”

“Are you alone?”

“No. My husband and two sons are up ahead somewhere.”

“How old are your sons?”

“Fifteen and sixteen. I have two grown daughters and

another son, but they live over the mountains.”

Mischka brightened, feeling a tiny thread of excitement for

the first time in two days. “Over the mountains? They are safe in

Hungary?”

“They’re in Czech territory. Why do you ask?”

“My family and relations are headed for Hungary. I just

wondered if I could be allowed the luxury of believing they

would make it to a safe realm.”

Snow Moon Rising 139

Aurora put her face in her hands, and when she raised her

head, tears glittered on her cheeks. “We were so far south, we

thought our farm was safe. But the Germans are relentless. They

took our horses, our cattle, all of our pigs. Pigs and chickens

rode in carts while we walked. This is the third day we’ve

walked.”

“Any food?”

“No. None.”

“Where can they be taking us? I don’t understand.”

“Before they separated us, the men from my village said

we’re being taken to work camps.”

“We won’t be able to work if they don’t feed us soon,”

Mischka said in a hissing whisper that was loud enough to

attract the attention of a soldier smoking nearby. He looked in

their direction with suspicious eyes. He obviously didn’t want to

bother with the chore of abusing them and instead began talking

with a comrade nearby.

Aurora huddled closer to Mischka and said, “I hope you

don’t mind me sitting so near.”

Mischka, sad at heart, shook her head. “No, I think human

warmth may be all we have left.”

Chapter

Sixteen

Tatras Mountains, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

WHEN SHANDOR CANTERED up behind the line of horses

on the snowy trail, Emil breathed a sigh of relief. They were

returning. Somewhere up the line, a cry went up, which was

hastily muffled. They couldn’t afford for sounds to travel

through the crystalline air and be heard by sentries anywhere

ahead or behind.

Shandor drew closer, and all the hair on Emil’s arms stood

on end. The young man’s eyes were wild. “They’re lost.”

“Lost? What do you mean, lost?”

“The Germans got Mischka. Tobar went back for her.

They’re lost.” Gyorgy was suddenly standing next to Emil.

“What happened?”

Emil saw that Shandor was doing all he could to keep from

crying. His dark eyes, haunted and welling with tears, wouldn’t

meet Mischka’s brother’s gaze.

Gyorgy grabbed Shandor’s boot where it rested against his

mount. “I knew I should have been the one to go. I knew it was a

bad idea.”

Emil said, “It was the only thing we could do, Gyorgy. The

only thing. We’ve lost two to save more than eighty.”

“Yes,” Shandor whispered.

Gyorgy pulled Shandor off the horse. Through gnashed

teeth he said, “You tell my father, then. You be the one to share

news of this most excellent trade-off. What will we do without

Tobar? Without Mischka—” His voice broke.

“I’ll tell Mikhail,” Emil said. “And we have to go on now.”

“No. I’m going back to get them.”

Shandor said. “It will do no good. You’d have to kill fifteen

or twenty soldiers.”

Emil met Gyorgy’s gaze. “For the sake of the children—your

children and mine—we must move on.”

Snow Moon Rising 141

“I’ll be the one to tell my father then. And you—” He gave

Shandor a scathing look. “Stay out of my way.” He turned and

walked off toward the front of the convoy.

“It’s not your fault,” Emil said.

Shandor turned his face into his horse’s withers and would

speak no more.

EMIL STOOD WITH Mikhail on the side of a snow-covered

slope. In a few short hours, this man, who had always seemed

like a kindly uncle, had gone from a lively sixty-year-old man to

a stooped and defeated one. Emil stood shoulder to shoulder

with him, wanting to allow Mikhail a measure of privacy in his

grief.

Mikhail said, “It was one thing to lose her to the marriage

vows all those years ago, but when she came back, she was like a

gift to her mother. I’ve been selfish, keeping her here with us all

this time. And now…now what will we do without her?”

Emil had no words of comfort for his friend, no calm

assurances. Nothing he could say would change things.

Suddenly, he reached over and grabbed Emil. “You’re

German. What will they do to her? What will they do to Tobar?”

His voice was laced with desperation.

“I don’t know, my friend. I don’t know. I’ve been gone so

long from that society. I haven’t a clue what happens when they

take people East.”

In a strangled voice, Mikhail said, “But no one we have

heard of has ever returned. No one.”

Emil didn’t know what to do or say. Over the last few

months, they had heard reports of people being taken from

homes, from churches, from towns. Whole kumpanias had been

swept up, leaving behind broken crockery and smashed vardos.

No one could say what happened to any of the people forcibly

taken by the Nazis. Few were exempt. Jews, Gypsies, Catholics,

Poles—even tramps with German papers weren’t safe. Emil

could only imagine what the authorities would do if they caught

him. A clean execution would be a blessing.

Bersh approached them, panting. “We must move on.” He

put a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder. “Thank you for the offer to

lead us to your family’s farm, but I have decided we should

move west to the Czech lands. We’ll head for Brno.”

The expression on Mikhail’s face went from hopeful to

shocked. “But Bersh, traveling south into the Slovak lands will

be warmer and easier. Going all the way to the Czech lands—

that’s an incredibly long journey.”

142 Lori L. Lake

“Don’t you think I know that? However, Hungary is

occupied, and I believe the Czech lands will be safer. We have no

assurance that your father’s people even live in the area any

more. A Kapo I know and trust travels in the upper Czech region.

We will go to him.”

Mikhail looked thunderstruck, so Emil nodded and thanked

Bersh. He put an arm around his grieving friend and guided

Mikhail to his wife. Lumi was inconsolable as were Mischka’s

younger sisters. Drina, Emil’s wife, sat astride a mare and held

her sleeping son, Xavi, in front of her.

Lumi’s head rose and she looked blindly at Emil, then to

Mikhail. “We should never have let her be so headstrong, so

willful. This is our fault.”

She broke down into sobs, and Emil turned away, tears in

his eyes. Little Mischka—such a joy. So exuberant and loving.

She had lost a lot of that exuberance after her husband’s

beatings, returning from the ill-fated marriage as a quiet and

enigmatic woman, not quite herself anymore. She was smarter

than Bersh—smarter than most of the men—but to be heard, she

had to speak through one of her brothers or Emil or Tobar. Now

she was gone. He couldn’t believe it.

He hastened to his horse at the rear. Shandor was already

astride his mount and looked like someone had knocked the

wind out of him. A memory of one of his friends, a man named

Gruenwald, came to Emil just then. Gruenwald had shared the

last foxhole with Emil in the Great War, and the man had known

so many naughty jokes—enough to keep several men chuckling

through long, cold nights. He had been gut-shot in an

unexpected assault and died a slow, painful death at Emil’s side

More than two decades had passed, but Emil could still

picture Gruenwald’s face, see his reddish hair, and recall how he

pinched damp cigarettes between thumb and forefinger while

trying to remember limericks. He realized that in surviving, he

and Shandor had something in common, and he hoped he would

get the opportunity to talk about this with the young man one

day. He hoped they would live to have idle conversation over a

hearty meal. To love their sons and daughters. To tell their

stories to grandchildren. Such miracles could happen. Emil, of

all men, knew that.

Chapter

Seventeen

Southern Poland, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

THE MORNING SUN rose as a new train arrived belching

black smoke, and the captives were loaded aboard for yet

another stage of their torturous journey. The doors closed before

everyone had chosen a spot, but they managed to seat

themselves comfortably enough, if sitting on the floor of a cold

train could be considered comfortable.

Aurora leaned into Mischka, snuggled her back against her

for warmth, and both of them eventually fell asleep. Mischka

dreamed she rode in the back of a swaying vardo, the sound of

horses clopping along ahead and behind. A spray of long blonde

hair fanned out on the thick rug on which she lay. Mischka lifted

her hand and reached out to touch it. She collected up a hank of

hair and let it run through her fingers. It wasn’t as thick as her

own curly hair and felt soft against her palm. She leaned to the

side to see who lay with her and saw the face of a young woman

who looked achingly familiar, but she couldn’t be sure who she

was. Open your eyes. If you open your eyes, I can be sure.

As if reading her mind, the woman stirred and awakened.

She looked up at Mischka with a frown on her face. She didn’t

open her mouth to speak, but Mischka clearly heard her say, “I

know you. You’re my friend, my love, bonded by heart and

spirit.”

Mischka awoke, surprised to find not Pippi, but a strange

woman, snuggled into her arms. She slowly came to recognize

that she sat in a damp, dimly lit train car, not the back of her

parents’ warm, dry vardo. She thought she had been asleep for a

long while, but she didn’t feel refreshed.

The rhythm of the clacking wheels changed, and she peered

through a crack in the boards. The train slowed to a halt, and

Aurora awoke and sat up. A few minutes later the door was

wrenched open. Bright sunlight poured in. Mischka blinked and

144 Lori L. Lake

her eyes watered. She made out the bleary image of a soldier

with his rifle pointed at them, and several women let out gasps.

Mischka sat, tense, awaiting instructions, but no words were

said to them. Instead, soldiers shouted, and a mob of women

swarmed up into the dirty car, crowding against the current

occupants. Mischka frowned as she and Aurora had to shift

along the wall. A shivering girl who smelled of sour milk

pressed up against her other side. Mischka knew she dared not

speak, but she grew angrier by the moment. What were they to

do? Levitate to make room?

As abruptly as the door opened, a soldier slid it shut,

leaving everyone in semi-darkness.

“My God,” a voice whispered, “what have you done to us?”

“God has nothing to do with this,” another woman said. Her

nasally voice was loud and accusing.

“Shhh! Stop it.” This plea came from someone seated on the

floor near the door. “Just find a place to sit.”

“As if there were a place to sit,” the nasal voice said. “This

place stinks.”

Far ahead a whistle blew, and the car jerked forward.

Women stumbled and fell causing angry complaints from those

trampled.

“Ouch! Get off my hand,” someone called out. Other women

groaned.

The nasal-voiced one said, “I need to pee.”

“Well, don’t do it here, Petronela,” a woman said. “I’m

sitting below you.”

Aurora squirmed into a more comfortable position, shoulder

to shoulder with Mischka. “This is such a big train. Why do they

cram us all into one car?”

Mischka shrugged. “I suspect that all the cars are filling

up.”“Good Lord. How many people have they captured, I

wonder?”

“I don’t know.”

Over the next several minutes, the original occupants shifted

and made room for the newcomers until they were packed

shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Mischka’s back and neck were

cold, but the cracks in the wood walls brought fresh air and

helped to clear away the stench of sweat and urine and fear.

After a time, she closed her eyes once more and drifted into a

half-sleeping state where minutes passed slowly and the hours

lingered.

Mischka thought about her family, seeing them in her

mind’s eye as they made it over the mountain and down into

Snow Moon Rising 145

safer territory. She prayed that none of them had been taken

prisoner. Squeezing her eyes shut tight, she imagined the horses

carrying all of the kumpania down the hill and into the forest

region below. She saw her mother’s face, her father’s smile. She

knew they would be frantic with worry, but as soon as she could

escape, she would make her way back and join them once again.

LATE IN THE day, the train pulled to a stop on a flat plain

near a stone station house and a makeshift outhouse. Mischka

watched through a narrow gap as a half-dozen soldiers marched

toward the train.

Chains rattled, and the unlocked door opened. A man

pointed a rifle at them while another gestured and in German

said, “Get out.”

Mischka rose, softly whispering “get out” in Polish,

Hungarian, and French for good measure. The women piled out

onto the hard dirt like a stream of lemmings. The smell of burnt

coal was pungent, as was another smell, something cloying and

rotten. Mischka wrinkled her nose and breathed through her

mouth.

A soldier said, “Move. Over there.” He pointed toward the

front of the shack. “You will line up in rows of eight, one behind

the other.”

“Rows of eight,” she said in various languages. “Over here.”

Mischka found it hard to believe how many human beings

had been crammed into so few train cars. Men staggered from

the other six cars and were directed to either side of the shack.

Her companions hurried along with her, but as they moved,

she walked on tiptoe searching to the right and the left, hoping

to catch sight of Tobar. She stopped and women hastily formed a

line on either side of her. “Eight across,” she said.

Women squeezed past and behind, and when she looked

around, there were eleven rows. An angry argument began

outside the women’s car. Puzzled, she looked out toward the

train. A soldier appeared in the doorway, kicking a large bundle

of rags. The conglomeration teetered on the edge, then fell the

four feet to the ground. Only then did Mischka see spindly arms

and legs windmilling out the door. A woman. Oh, no. Oh no. Her

breath caught in her throat. That could just as well have been

her. She tried to swallow, but all the moisture in her mouth had

dried up, and she thought she might be sick.

Frantically, she looked left and right...and then she saw a

tall figure in the front row of the group lining up ten yards to her

left. He waved, and she called out, “Tobar!” first feeling relieved

146 Lori L. Lake

to see him, then fearful that they would be separated again.

Soldiers ordered the men into formation at gunpoint,

shouting, “Quiet! Quiet!”

As she heard this, Mischka was shouting, “Are you all

right?” Tobar shrugged and put his hands up, palms out. A

soldier turned and strode toward the women.

“Who spoke?” No one answered. He halted in front of them,

rifle gripped loosely, butt down toward the ground. “If no one

admits to it, I will shoot one of you at a time until someone

confesses.”

Mischka knew that most of the women did not understand

his fast, loud speech, but she did. She looked into the soldier’s

flat blue eyes and in a weary tone said, “It was me.”

“Step out here.”

She took one tentative step.

He shrieked, “Here! Now!” He grabbed the front of her coat

and jerked her forward. “On your knees.”

He pushed her to the ground, and Mischka closed her eyes,

waiting for the shot. An image came to mind. She sat high on a

black stallion, looking back at her brother Stevo who knelt in the

coarse dirt under a blood-red sun. Was this how he had felt? This

cold fear?

She heard a shout, recognized a voice. “No! No! No! You

must not—no!”

Her eyes popped open as Tobar’s shouts drew nearer. Sick

with dread, she watched as the Nazi turned his rifle on Tobar

and two other soldiers, guns aimed, rushed over. Tobar stopped

and put his hands up.

In broken German he said, “Please not hurt her.”

“Stop!” a soldier bellowed. “On your knees. Right now.”

The look on Tobar’s face changed as he raised his chin high,

and she knew he understood the command. “Tobar,” she

whispered. “No.”

The big man’s eyes never left the Nazi. “Never on your

knees, Mischka. Never. You get up. Get up. If they put you on

your knees, they mean to kill you anyway.” He stopped and

spread his arms wide. “Be brave, little one. Be proud and full of

courage. I love you, Mischka.”

“On your knees,” the soldier repeated as he inched closer.

“Nein,” Tobar said softly. Then he closed his eyes. “You can

bury me standing. I’ve been on my knees my whole life.”

Mischka opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.

Instead, the crack of the rifle took her breath away. Tobar stood a

moment, a stain of fuschia spreading from the center of his chest,

then he fell.

Snow Moon Rising 147

A scream ripped from Mischka and she rose, beating her

fists against her chest. “No!” The tears she had been holding so

long burst from her. Stricken with horror, she could only take in

small gasps of air. I’m drowning. She felt herself float down and

down into a suffocating abyss.

A door slammed somewhere behind her, and a well-dressed

officer shoved her aside and marched over to the soldier who

had shot Tobar.

“What in Der Führer’s name do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah, Commander—”

“You idiot! The Fatherland has gone to huge expense to

bring these vermin to work, and look what you’ve done.” He

kicked at Tobar’s shoulder with the toe of his black boot. “This

brute is the biggest one here. He could have done more work

than a dozen oxen, and what do you do? You kill him.” The

commander’s face grew redder by the second. “I have a deadline

for this project. I will write you up myself for this

insubordination.”

The soldier stood at silent attention, his face entirely white.

“You will personally deliver this body for disposal.”

“Yes, sir. Heil Hitler.” He made the Nazi salute, right hand

outstretched, not meeting the eyes of the officer scowling at him.

The officer addressed the rest of the prisoners in reasonably

fluent Polish. “Get back in formation—all of you. If there is any

more trouble, I’ll shoot every one of you myself.”

In a daze, Mischka stepped back. Hands reached out for her

and pulled her back into line. Waves of shock and disbelief

rolled over her. Her stomach, tight and empty, roiled, and the

only thing preventing her from being sick was the fact that she

had nothing to vomit. A roaring in her ears gradually abated.

The group around her moved, and she shuffled along

automatically. Her skin crawled, and a painful pulse beat behind

her right eye. Tobar, she cried out in her mind. Tobar, not you,

not you.

When she closed her eyes, she saw the big man’s face. Tobar

smiling; Tobar laughing as he pulled at his thick beard; Tobar

picking up a small child and swinging him round and round.

And then she heard his voice, over and over, speaking the very

last words before his death: “Bury me standing. I’ve been on my

knees all my life.”

She couldn’t bear it, and her mind went blank. Rhythmic

strides. Shallow breaths. The sound of tramping all around. A

peculiar woozy numbness settled over her, and later she could

remember nothing at all about the five-hour march from the site

of Tobar’s death to the next train.

148 Lori L. Lake

MISCHKA CONCENTRATED ON moving one foot forward

and then the other. As every mile passed, the entire group with

which she traveled seemed to slow more and more until she felt

they shuffled through waist-high water. Next to her, Aurora

huffed and wheezed, and air puffed from her mouth like chilled

white smoke. All that could be heard was the creaking of shoes,

the thud of footfalls, faint moans, and muffled exhalations.

Mischka drank from puddles when the soldiers allowed

them to stop. This happened seldom, and they’d been walking

since dawn. She couldn’t remember being this physically tired or

experiencing such extreme emotional lassitude, except after the

last terrible beating her husband had inflicted. She stepped over

a puddle covered with a scrim of ice and yearned to break

through it and cup some of the liquid to her parched lips. On

either side of their column, perhaps thirty yards away, grew

stands of pine and spruce trees. Stalwart and old, they shifted in

the wind, their branches covered with dull green needles.

Something was off. Many things were off, Mischka thought, but

she felt a void. The reason came to her in a rush—no birds. She

had heard no birdsong, seen no birds in the trees, and none were

in the sky flying south to warmer climes. In November, surely

some birds remained? But no, she could not recall seeing a single

bird in two days. Nor had she seen many ground animals. Where

were they? What was this land that seemed a living hell?

They drew near the crest of a hill, and as the line of men in

the front topped it, Mischka heard a collective gasp. The soldiers

on either side moved in, cursing and shouting directions, and the

prisoners limped forward.

Aurora grasped Mischka’s hand as they came over the hill.

“My Lord.”

About a mile ahead, down in a valley, a vast camp spread

like a malignant growth between the rolling hills on either side.

As far as she could see, row after row of one-story oblong

barracks marred the valley. Mischka tried to count them, but

they blended into one another and she couldn’t tell how many

there were. Beyond them, two multi-story buildings belched out

black and gray smoke.

Every step they took brought them closer to a huge structure

in front of a fence that surrounded the camp. Through the

bobbing heads before her, Mischka eyed the building. Out front

sat three vehicles the likes of which she had never seen. Two

were big, like train cars on wheels, and the third resembled the

few automobiles she had seen, but looked like a squatty, all-

green vardo. A soldier sat in the front seat. Even from five

hundred yards, Mischka heard the sound of the engine turning

Snow Moon Rising 149

over, and the vehicle jerked toward them, dirt spitting out from

its rear wheels.

“Halt,” one of their guards called, and Mischka and the

others came to a standstill.

Suddenly the soldiers around them grew edgy, and their

hands gripped their weapons tightly. The soldier nearest

Mischka was close enough that she could see him scowling. His

watery blue eyes glanced from side to side.

The man brought the military vehicle to a stop and stepped

out. Mischka knew little of military rank, but he was clean and

neat in his dress uniform, and he was older than the soldiers

who had traveled with them. In her mind, she designated him

the boss man, the Kapo.

He conversed briefly with one of the soldiers, then they

broke off their discussion and the Kapo put his hands behind his

back and addressed the exhausted prisoners in German.

“Men will line up to my left, women to the right. Six across.”

He didn’t need to add that there would be dire consequences for

disobedience. Everyone had already discovered that their

captors did not answer questions or tolerate slow responses.

They started with the men. The first six were just barely in

formation before the Kapo went down the line, nodding,

pointing, considering. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, no.” An elderly

man in a dark blue pinstriped suit was sent off to the side near

two soldiers. He stood there wheezing, with the wind blowing

his white hair off his forehead. The others were sent down the

hill. This process continued with most men being sent toward the

camp and the few remaining assembled under guard.

The Kapo then stepped briskly along the rows of women. The

hardier women were definitely in the front, and no one in

Mischka’s row was singled out, but behind her, a woman in a

fancy fur coat was sent to the side.

As Mischka plodded down the hill, Aurora reached for her

hand and gave it a squeeze. Mischka knew she shouldn’t look

back, but she watched as the Kapo came to the final row of

prisoners. All but about a dozen men and women hastened down

the hill like a pack of frightened animals.

A shot rang out, and everybody jumped, then began to run.

Mischka’s heart stuttered as a trio of shots was fired. Someone

screamed, and Mischka looked back and saw most of the culled

prisoners trying to escape down the hill. The soldiers took aim at

them. Mischka seized Aurora’s arm and steered her to the

middle of the pack to avoid being shot if the soldiers missed

their targets.

150 Lori L. Lake

Another volley sounded, and gradually it registered with

Mischka that the escort soldiers were shouting and pushing

people on the outside of the group. A rifle butt thudded into the

woman next to Mischka, and she would have gone down had

Mischka not grabbed and righted her.

The soldiers continued to yell at them to slow down, and

eventually they came to a stop. She heard laughter from up the

hill, and when she looked back, all of the outcasts were so many

heaps lying on the ground. Only one man was moving—trying to

crawl forward—but a German was on his way over to him. He

pointed his rifle, and the sound of the shot reverberated in the

cold air.

One of the soldiers near her mumbled, “Damn them for

opening fire before we were ready.”

“Yes,” another said in a bitter voice. “Hecht thinks he is so

funny.”

The Germans shouted more commands, and Mischka

hastened to do as she was told. They were about halfway to the

gates of the camp, and Mischka saw a line of people far below.

Soldiers? She thought so. With every step, the group appeared

larger.

Her hand hurt. She looked down and realized that Aurora

still gripped it so tightly that her fingers weren’t getting any

blood circulation. Tears rolled down Aurora’s face. Her lips

moved silently.

“Are you praying?” Mischka asked.

“Yes.”

“Will your God hear and help us?”

“I don’t know. Truly, I don’t know.” She let go of Mischka’s

hand and wiped her face on her sleeve. “I’m not praying for me,

but for my husband and sons. I hope they’re not harmed. I wish

they were with me.”

For one brief moment, Mischka thought of Tobar, then

forced from her mind the image of his stricken face just after the

bullet tore into him. She couldn’t let herself think of him, of his

death. Nothing she could do would change what had happened,

and she needed to save all her strength for what lay ahead.

Aurora found Mischka’s hand again. “I’ve known you only

this short time, and you are the closest friend I’ve ever had the

honor to have. You must be my sister.”

Mischka allowed herself a smile, the first since she was

captured. “That is very kind of you. Thank you.”

“No, I mean it literally,” Aurora whispered. “Do you have

papers?”

“Papers?”

Snow Moon Rising 151

“Identification papers.”

“Some time ago, my people were all forced to declare

themselves,” Mischka said. “We were each given sheets of paper

with special stamps. My father carries them.”

“I see. That’s not good. What will you tell them when they

ask who you are?”

Mischka raised her head proudly. “I will say I am Marona

Lovell Gallo, daughter of Mikhail Gallo who is the adopted son

of the late, highly esteemed Palko Petulengro, second son of the

brother of the Roma Kapo.”

If Aurora’s face could blanch any further, it did. “You’re a

Gypsy? A member of the Roma?”

“Yes.”

“Mischka, you must listen. You cannot tell them that or

they’ll kill you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“They will murder you. You have to believe me.” Aurora

reached into her sweater and rooted around in her blouse, then

pulled out a folded packet. “You must take this. You are my

brother’s Hungarian wife, Anna Zelman. My maiden name

before Wolnick was Zelman. Your maiden name was Kozma. K-

O-Z-M-A.”

Mischka took the thin packet. “I don’t understand…” The

men at the head of the group were now only a hundred yards

from the line of soldiers who were standing shoulder to shoulder

in front of a barbwire gate.

Aurora leaned close, put an arm around Mischka. “I don’t

have time to explain. Please trust me. My husband Janek and I,

we have been providing aid to those fleeing. Mostly Jews, but

some political dissidents and even one Gypsy man who had been

shunned by his people. We get identification papers through the

underground, but these are copies of real papers. My brother is

indeed married to a wealthy Hungarian. They fled to the United

States when the troubles began in 1939. These Germans have no

way of knowing that. Just listen to me, will you?”

Mischka heard the panic in Aurora’s voice and saw the

concern on her face. “I cannot deny my heritage.”

“Yes. You can. And you must if you wish to stay alive. Look

back at those people up the hill. What was their sin? They were

older, foreign, sickly. These soldiers have no heart, no

compassion. Please, Mischka, do what I ask. I cannot see another

person murdered before my eyes.”

Aurora’s tears threatened to fall, and Mischka slowly

nodded. “All right then. I am Anna Zelman nee Kozma. Do I

have a middle name or a family name? Don’t Hungarians list

152 Lori L. Lake

their names differently?”

“Anna and my brother Albin lived in Poland since they were

married over ten years ago. They observed Polish custom.”

“Where did I grow up? What if they ask about family?”

“Look at the papers.”

Mischka unfolded the stiff paper, a Polish document with

several circular stamps. The flowing writing must have been

done in indelible ink. The edges of the paper were damp, but

none of the writing was smudged. “I don’t read Polish so

well…”

Aurora pointed at the lines and read them aloud.

Anna Sapphira Zelman

Date of Birth: 13 March 1913

City of Birth: Budapest

Husband: Albin Dominik Nicolas Zelman

The address and other citizenship information listed were

too much for Mischka to memorize quickly. “Why do you have

this, Aurora?”

“A woman who was captured was supposed to—”

“Halt!”

Weary men and women staggered to a stop all around her as

Mischka stuffed the papers into her sweater. Her mind was

abuzz with questions and worries. She knew the Germans did

not care for the Roma people. They’d pushed them out of

Germany’s borders several years earlier, but surely they would

not murder someone in cold blood for being identified as

“Gypsy”? How was that possible? What right did these sadistic

soldiers have to take her, to shoot Tobar, to kidnap Aurora’s

family, to kill those poor unfortunates up on the hill? The Polish

authorities would not allow it—would they?

Then she thought of Tobar standing tall, his arms spread

wide. His hands had always been large and strong as two vises.

Rope and axe calluses had scarred his palms. In her mind’s eye,

his huge hands beckoned to her as she heard his final words:

“Bury me standing. I’ve been on my knees all my life.” She saw

the blood, heard his body topple. She couldn’t prevent the gasp

that came to her lips.

“Be quiet,” a soldier’s harsh voice called out.

She would be quiet. She would work. She would call herself

by another name. She would do whatever it took to stay alive.

Every day, she would think of Tobar, how he sacrificed his life

that she might live. And live she would, even if it took every

ounce of cunning she could summon.

Chapter

Eighteen

Tatras Mountains south of Poland, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

THE ONLY THING that kept Emil from falling asleep on his

feet was the pressure of Drina’s horse nudging him forward.

Voices carried on the mountain, sometimes for many miles, so

when Drina shifted the sleeping Xavi in front of her and leaned

down, she whispered, and he almost didn’t hear it. “We can’t go

on like this, Emil.”

He jerked fully awake. Emil knew she was right, but what

were they to do? Throughout three days and nights they had

forged on, resting only twice for less than four hours each time.

They’d descended at least a thousand feet in elevation as they

followed the zigzagging trail, but were still surrounded by Stone

Pine and snow. As long as Bersh continued to guide them

southwest on these deer trails, they were not likely to find any

place where they could bed down safely for very long. There

were too many of them, and so many people were too easy to

see. Emil closed his eyes and tried to envision the topography of

southern Poland: the Tatras Mountains, the Czech territory to

the southwest, the Slovak region, and Hungary to the south. The

farther west they went, the more deeply they would find

themselves in the Czech territories, an area he didn’t know at all.

He frowned, wondering if Bersh’s route was best—or if they

ought to skip the Czech lands entirely and head south into the

forests below as Mikhail had suggested.

Emil felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to find Mikhail

behind him.

“None of this bodes well, Emil.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“We need to convince Bersh to stop traveling in a westerly

direction. We can make it through the Slovak lands to the

wooded area north of Miskolc. That would be an easy place to

154 Lori L. Lake

hide. But on this course, we’ll be plodding for days along the

Polish and Slovak border. Where will we get food? How can we

make it all the way to Brno?”

Emil leaned close to Drina’s horse and felt a small measure

of warmth from the animal’s flank. “We need to separate into

smaller groups and rendezvous somewhere south in a fortnight.

We could hide and rest more securely in groups of ten or

twelve.”

“I agree,” Mikhail said, “but I don’t think Bersh will. Still,

let’s go try to talk some sense into him.”

But when Mikhail proposed they head to Miskolc for safe

haven, Bersh said, “It’s been what? Five decades since you left

your homeland?”

“Yes, but I’ve heard plenty of news over the years from

Hungarian travelers. Miskolc might be our only hope.”

“Mikhail, we cannot operate on hope. I need certainty. There

are eighty-eight—” He stopped and a shadow passed over his

face, then he went on. “Eighty-six people depend upon me for

the proper decision now.”

Mikhail said, “That’s true, Bersh. Our lives depend upon

your wisdom. At the very least, you’ll want us to descend more

quickly—get out of the snow, right?”

Bersh looked away, lost in thought.

Emil passed his hand over his bleary eyes. “I’m dead on my

feet. Everyone else is, too. We need rest. We need hot food. We

need it badly.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Bersh’s voice was louder

than it should be. “What do you expect me to do? Snap my

fingers and produce a heated vardo for each of you?”

Emil said, “The shortest distance between two points is a

direct line. Let’s go south and travel the fastest route we can to

Hungary. It would be warmer, too.”

“How can you know Hungary is safe? The Germans have

taken over so many cities and towns, so much territory.

Everywhere we go is fraught with danger. Who is to say that

Miskolc or any other village there will be safe?”

Mikhail grasped Bersh’s arm gently in his leathery hands.

“That train of thought takes us only toward disaster. Let’s pick a

destination and travel there. If, along the way, something better

pops up, we will take advantage.”

“No. I lead this kumpania, and I don’t want to travel in

Slovakia. A large contingent of Roma live in Brno so we will

travel to the Czech lands.” Bersh turned to go forward to the

head of the line as Emil met Mikhail’s eyes. No words were

exchanged, but Emil glanced at Gyorgy, then Stevo. Mikhail’s

Snow Moon Rising 155

younger son whispered, “I didn’t catch the plan, but wherever

Papa goes, Stevo goes.”

“I, too,” Gyorgy said.

Mikhail clapped Gyorgy on the shoulder, and looked at

Stevo. “The next place the path splits, we need to think about

traveling due south.”

The four men nodded and dispersed. Emil looked up at

Drina, who sat wearily holding the sleeping Xavi. “Did you get

all that?”

“Yes.”

A short whistle signaled that Bersh was ready to go, and

Emil nudged Drina’s mare to follow.

They plodded on and on. An hour passed, and Emil wiped

his forehead, which was perspiring despite the cold.

Drina leaned down and touched his shoulder. “Emil.

Ahead.”

He stared blearily into the last of the light from the sun.

With dusk falling so fast, he had difficulty determining what she

was pointing at, but then his eyes focused on the path, which

forked.

“Emil.” He turned to locate Mikhail’s hoarse whisper.

“Emil.”

Mikhail hastened forward, slipping once on the snow. He

caught his balance and edged past Gyorgy. Emil nudged Drina’s

mare to a stop, and the horse following walked blindly into

them. My God, even the horses were asleep on their feet.

Mikhail, trailed by Gyorgy and Stevo, reached Emil. “It’s

now or never. We’re going to have to find shelter or bed down

off the trail. The women and children can’t go on like this.”

Gyorgy, too, was plainly uneasy. “I agree. We need shelter

soon.”

Emil took a deep breath. “I’m ready. I hope this is the right

thing to do.”

“As do I,” Mikhail said. “I have never gone against the will

of the leader. Are you sure you wish to follow?”

Emil’s gut told him something that his fatigued mind could

only partly grasp. He couldn’t explain why, but he believed

going forward was a mistake. He knew nothing of the Roma at

Brno, but the thought of continuing on to Czech lands repelled

him. So much travel, so many miles, and they lacked food.

Above all, he knew his tired brain and body needed rest. But

what if Mikhail’s father’s family had moved away—or died out?

West or south—either direction was fraught with risk.

Emil made his decision. “I’m going with you, Mikhail.”

“I, too, choose to travel south,” Gyorgy said. “Let’s head for

156 Lori L. Lake

warmth, Papa.”

Someone whistled up ahead. Emil gazed up into Drina’s

dark eyes. He was the head of his family, but for a brief moment,

he thought of his mother, of how she had always encouraged

him to treat women fairly and with respect. Drina did not expect

that of him, but he expected it of himself. “Drina, if we travel

south, you know your father will go with Bersh. Do you wish to

stay with the kumpania or come with me?”

Drina’s mouth turned up into the tiniest of smiles, and her

dark eyes seemed to drink him in. She looked at him with love in

her eyes—that was the only way to explain it. “My father is my

past, Emil, but you and our children are my future. I’ll stay by

your side.”

Even before she finished speaking, he had known what she

would say, and that made his chest expand and his head feel

light. He didn’t know what he’d ever done to deserve the love

and absolute devotion of such a good woman, but he vowed

never to take it for granted.

He pulled the reins of Drina’s horse and moved toward the

fork in the path. When he stepped from the well-trod path into

pristine snow, he realized that a tear in the fabric of his life—of

all their lives—was about to occur. He thought back to his arrival

and acceptance by this troupe. He was adopted and claimed, and

yet, though he was one of them, sometimes he still felt like an

outsider, a gajo whom they politely put up with.

Many changes had taken place over the years. The families

had expanded. The kumpania had split twice. So many of the

daughters had been married into other clans. His own

daughter—his oldest child—had been married last year and was

gone from him. Time had passed with a mind-numbing swiftness

that Emil had never expected. He was forty-three years old.

More than half his life was over. In a few years, his two sons

would be of marriageable age. Did he want to remain on the

road, always traveling, always on the move, suspected in every

town, and disrespected wherever the kumpania went? He would

rather settle somewhere, have a house, fields to grow things,

peace. When he thought of the future, he didn’t see himself

dying in the woods somewhere, surrounded by the traditional

draped tents and a dozen curious faces watching his death

throes. He imagined a warm bed, indoors, the warm hands of

loved ones, and quiet dignity.

He hadn’t thought about church for years, but suddenly he

remembered himself as a young boy, standing in front of the

regal church at Reims, the cathedral of Our Lady, in the

Champagne-Ardennes region of France where he and Pippi and

Snow Moon Rising 157

their parents had lived in his childhood. He recalled the intricate

stone carvings and the three giant portals with their High Gothic

sculptured engravings. Inside was always dark, lit only by

candles and any light that streamed in through the stained glass

windows. His favorite was the large rose window, and during

church services, he had often stared up at it, lost in the swirls of

color. He wished he were there now, safe and warm, looking up

at that multicolored window.

The snow crunched beneath his boots. The cool wind blew

snow off an evergreen branch into his face. Lumi’s horse

nickered and followed Drina’s on the wide path that led

downhill.

He silently counted: Mikhail, Lumi, their daughter Elena;

Gyorgy and his wife and fifteen-year-old son Mario; Stevo and

his wife and their nine-year-old Tem; and his and Drina’s two,

Palko and Xavier. Thirteen total. He couldn’t help thinking that

it should be fifteen, for Tobar and Mischka ought to be with

them. The realization made him heartsick.

He waved to Gyorgy, and the Gallo clan separated from the

kumpania.

“Stop! I command you to stop.”

Emil couldn’t see Bersh, but his voice traveled well in the

mountain air. So much for stealth and advancing quietly. If there

were any soldiers up there, the whole troupe was dead.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Bersh shouted. “I’m the

leader of this kumpania. You may not usurp my command. Get

back up on the trail.”

Emil didn’t think he’d ever seen their leader’s face so red. In

contrast, Mikhail’s face was pale. Red and white. Anger and fear.

Emil handed the reins to Drina and stepped to Mikhail’s side.

“I’m sorry, Bersh,” Mikhail said, his voice quiet yet firm.

“We’re going to Miskolc.”

Bersh heaved like a horse that had just run miles at full

gallop. “This kumpania will stay together, protect each other. The

safety of the group depends upon us all following the same plan

and working together.”

“We’re too many,” Mikhail said. “The closer we get to the

foot of the mountains, the more vulnerable we’ll be. Any time

now, this long line of horses and people will become visible to

those below. We need to split into smaller groups and travel due

south to bed down.”

“I’m leading us forward to that very thing.” Bersh stomped

closer and raised a gloved hand. With his index finger in the air,

he punctuated each of his words. “You…will…obey.” Mikhail

shook his head and didn’t say anything. “You think you know

158 Lori L. Lake

better than me?” Bits of saliva sprayed from Bersh’s mouth, and

a few flecks landed in his beard. “I am the son of Gunari who

was the son of Palko, your adopted father. You defy me? You

defy one who was your father, God rest his soul? He would come

back as a mulé from his eternal resting place if he knew what you

are doing. You’re no Roma—never have been. Imposter!”

Mikhail took a step back as though he’d been struck. He

stammered when he finally spoke. “I—I must do what I think is

right. My family’s lives are at stake.”

“All our families lives are at stake!” Bersh’s eyes raked over

the small group and came to rest above Emil’s shoulder. He

pointed, his arm making hatcheting motions. “You will not take

the horses. Those don’t belong to you.”

Mikhail’s mouth dropped open.

Emil said, “Wait a minute, Bersh. Someone ahead is sitting

on the five horses we do own. You can’t deny us these two.”

“You! My father took you as his son. I’ve treated you as a

brother, you gajo. And now you do this?” He spat on the ground.

“You are both nothing to me. When we reach safety, I’ll ask that

the Kapo declare you dead to all of us. If you walk away now,

you’re nothing to me. Nothing.”

Though he hadn’t eaten for hours, Emil felt something from

his stomach come up and burn the back of his throat. He

swallowed and couldn’t answer Bersh.

“This is your last chance, Mikhail. You will rejoin us. Now.”

Mikhail let out a long sigh, and a stream of white smoke

flowed from his nostrils and vanished into the frigid air. “We

will meet again, Bersh. After the war. When we’re all free to

travel again, we’ll meet at the yearly celebration. I will pay my

respects and ask for your forgiveness. You’re still my brother.”

Bersh drew in a sharp breath. He stood for a few moments as

the wind lifted his beard and worried at his cap. His expression

grew less wild, and for the briefest moment, Emil saw tears

spring into his eyes. Grief and anger and fear all pressed in on

the leader. He set his lips into a hard line and didn’t resist when

Nanosh took his arm and pulled him back.

Emil stood gulping air as the men negotiated the icy slope.

Bersh no longer seemed so towering, so bulky. With his head

hunched down into the collar of his coat, he looked like a

frightened turtle. Mikhail started downhill, but Emil watched

their leader a moment longer. Across the distance, his eyes met

those of Nanosh, and he gave the older man a final nod. Nanosh

raised a hand and waved, then he, too, moved away.

Emil couldn’t bear to watch anymore. To anchor himself, he

hooked his fingers into the top of Drina’s boot. When he looked

Snow Moon Rising 159

up into his wife’s eyes, he saw her face was covered with tears.

She didn’t hesitate, though. She tightened her grip on Xavi and

urged the horse down the hill.

He heard Bersh’s far-off whistle and the sounds of footfalls

and harnesses creaking as the kumpania resumed its westward

trek. With every step Emil took, the sound grew fainter and less

distinct until at last he no longer heard a single sound over his

own rough breath.

EMIL STIRRED FROM sleep as a horse whinnied. He sat

against a giant spruce tree with Drina nestled on his right. His

younger son Xavi lay sprawled across him and Drina, with his

face frowning in sleep. Palko slept on Emil’s other side, between

Emil and Gyorgy, his shoulder warm against Emil. Next to

Palko, and arrayed around the side of the tree’s thick trunk,

Gyorgy’s son Mario nestled between his father and mother, all of

them huddled for warmth.

Emil squinted through bleary eyes. The bulky shoulder bag

he carried in the front of him had afforded him some warmth,

but even with blankets spread over the space between tree roots,

the back of his legs and his rump were cold, and his face felt

numb. He heard the nickering sound again. The big red stallion

stood at the edge of the evergreen tree’s boughs, his profile dark

against the light of the gradually rising sun. He flicked his tail

and a tumble of snow fell from a low branch.

Mikhail’s and Stevo’s families huddled across the way under

another spruce. Usually men and women slept separately, but

that was neither wise nor practical now. Drina, Lumi, Tauna,

Chavi, and Mikhail’s daughter Elena were the only females. Left

on their own, Emil doubted they could generate enough warmth

to last all night. Perhaps it made the other men uncomfortable to

go against Roma rules, but Emil would just as soon have his wife

and two sons at his side. At heart, he was a practical German.

Keeping them all alive rose far above the need to adhere to social

mores.

The war had changed a lot of things, and he was sure there

would be more to come. This damn war! And that Hitler was

crazed and evil. What was wrong with the world? Had the

politicians gone mad? He had lived among these people more

than two decades, and they were good people. Just because they

were different from Germans or Poles or any other nation’s

citizens didn’t mean they should be hunted and enslaved or

killed. He suddenly realized that he was thinking of the Roma

separate from himself, as though he were not one of them. Well,

160 Lori L. Lake

he wasn’t anymore, was he? Bersh made that clear yesterday.

As he thought about it, though, Emil marveled at the

realization that he’d been undergoing a subtle change for many

months, ever since the numerous edicts had come down

restricting the Roma. If there had been no war to contend with,

he thought he would have been ready to leave the kumpania and

settle someplace. He wasn’t too old to find a position as a

schoolmaster or teacher. They could go to France, live with his

father’s people, and he could teach geography and world

history. If an opportunity arose to do that, he would explore it.

He turned his head and nestled his face into Drina’s hair,

which smelled faintly of smoke. He wondered whether Drina

would like living in a house.

Emil heard a sigh. He looked across the way and squinted.

Mikhail was awake and looking toward him. He gave a toss of

his head, Mikhail waved, and they both struggled to their feet.

Oh, good heavens. He felt a hundred years old. When he

leaned forward, his back shrieked with pain. He rolled his

shoulders and stamped his feet to try to get feeling back in them.

He wasn’t frozen solid, so he guessed that meant something.

Drina awoke and shifted Xavi away, then slowly got to her

feet. Emil started to say something, but she shook her head. “Let

me pass. I must wash.”

Emil couldn’t help the chuckle. Surrounded by miles and

miles of snow, he wondered where she thought she’d find

running water, but she walked a little way down the trail,

removed her gloves, and squatted to wash her hands in a snow

drift. “Old habits die hard,” he whispered. It sent a shiver

through him.

Emil yawned and reluctantly stripped off his own gloves as

he made his way into a stand of trees to relieve himself.

Afterwards, he cleaned his hands in the snow. I pray for a safe day

of travel—for us, for Bersh and his people, and for my little daughter,

who is far away from my protection. Also for Tobar and for Mischka,

wherever they may be.

Chapter

Nineteen

South Poland, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

IN THE COLD barracks, Mischka lay on one of the three-

tiered sleeping pallets. She was glad she had chosen the top of

the three shelves, even if there wasn’t much headroom. Aurora

had originally staggered toward the lowest bunk, but Mischka

convinced her to climb the rickety ladder to the top. “Heat

rises,” Mischka had told her in a whisper. “If there is any

warmth at all, it will be near the ceiling.” Aurora accepted that

and climbed up with her. One of the women across the barracks

cried out for blankets and a pillow. Their guard marched to the

middle tier, grabbed the woman by the collar of her coat, and

threw her to the floor.

The woman—really no more than a girl—let out a shriek

when her plump bottom hit the floor. She scrambled to rise, but

the guard kicked at her. “Stay right there. Perhaps you would

enjoy sleeping on the floor for your first night here at our lovely

hotel.” She looked around at the frightened faces watching the

scene. “Yes, you shall sleep here this night, and—” the sharp-

faced female guard looked accusingly around her “—if any of

you assist this filthy, greedy cow, you shall sleep beside her each

night for a week.”

Now Mischka lay closest to the wall, her back to Aurora who

was wheezing slightly as she slept inches away. Beyond Aurora,

two other women, scared refugees from central Poland’s Warsaw

area, also slept. They were packed onto the six-foot-wide shelf

with little room to spare.

The room smelled of mold and sweat and something else

rotten—a death-like stench that the dozens of occupants of the

barracks hadn’t brought in with them. In the distance, someone

made a snuffling sound. Someone nearby turned over and

muttered angrily about not having enough space. Below

Mischka, a woman wept, breathing raspy gulps of air and

162 Lori L. Lake

obviously unable to keep a quavering whimper from escaping.

Mischka surveyed what she could of the long, narrow room.

Wall to wall misery, that’s what this place was. From this wall

all the way to the other end, two long rows of the same three-

tiered wood frames held four or five women crammed on each

pallet, all of them uncomfortable and cold. When they had

arrived earlier in the day, each woman’s hair had been shorn off.

They’d been forced to disrobe and had been herded into a cold

and damp communal shower. Mischka had never bathed in such

a room. How could eight showers run simultaneously? She

thought there must be a mighty river somewhere nearby.

The water had been tepid and the soap harsh, and her skin

had dried out so much that tiny bits flecked off any time she

scratched. She touched the stubble on her head. In all her life,

she didn’t remember her hair being much shorter than an arm’s

length. Now her scalp felt naked, cold, crawly. Strangers had

touched her hair, seen her unclothed, applied some sort of

powder to her private parts, and then given her clothing that

was shabby, thin, and ill-fitting. If she hadn’t been so afraid of

the hatchet-faced guard handing out the clothing, she would

have demanded her own garments back. But one look into the

woman’s angry, steel-blue eyes shut Mischka up. She accepted

the sack dress, thin cotton coat, and shoes and socks without

comment.

For the first time in days, Mischka had time to think in

stillness. She wasn’t the slightest bit sleepy. Even though she lay

motionless in her little slice of space on the rough wood, she had

the peculiar feeling that she was still in motion. She had walked

for so many miles and been shaken around in trains and carts for

so long, she experienced a strange vertigo, as though she were

drunk. Perhaps the lack of food added to it. After receiving

mismatched garb, each woman had been given a battered tin cup

half-full of a thin broth that was in no way nourishing. Mischka

downed the tepid liquid without question or pause.

“All of you, keep your cups,” the woman with the ladle said.

“If you lose it, that’ll be your tough luck.”

Mischka tucked the tin cup carefully into the pocket of her

coat. Small, and nothing like the flowered clay bowl she used on

a daily basis with her family, it held little. But it was all she had,

so it would have to do.

The thought of home, of the wagons, of her father and

mother and the horses and the kumpania formed a lump of hurt

behind her breastbone. She stiffened and squeezed her eyes shut,

holding back the pain, willing herself not to call out, not to cry.

She drew a labored breath and clenched her fists.

Snow Moon Rising 163

Next to her, Aurora stirred. The Polish words were so soft,

Mischka nearly didn’t hear them. “Hush, now. You must sleep,

my sister-in-law. Save your strength.”

A hand slid along Mischka’s waist, patted her on the hip,

and remained. “Hush. There’s nothing we can do. Try to sleep.”

Mischka willed herself to relax. She opened her hands,

flexed her fingers. With one long inhalation, she realized Aurora

was right. Nothing could be done to change their circumstances.

Not right now anyway. They were all trapped, at the mercy of

these rage-filled, dour-faced Germans. She wondered what kind

of work the women would be forced to do. When they had come

down from the hills, she hadn’t seen any farms in the valley—

just black smoke. She had never been in a factory, but perhaps

that was where they would work.

Chapter

Twenty

Foothills of the Tatras Mountains, November 1942 (Snow Moon)

EMIL HAD BEEN on his feet so long that with each stride,

he wondered how he could force himself to take another step.

The way had grown harder as they descended. The higher

the sun rose, the more the snow melted, and by late afternoon,

the path was a spongy, slimy mess. Hillside springs had cut

down the mountainside for years; now additional streams of

water trickled from above. At one point, a shower of small rocks

and mud slid from an overhang and struck Drina’s horse’s legs

and those people at the back of the line on foot. The horse

skittered before Drina could bring him under control.

“Yowch!” Palko cried out. “I thought I was dirty before, but

look at this!”

Emil reached down to brush away some of the dirt from

Palko’s breeches. His sons—both of them—looked like

ragamuffins. Dirty and perspiring, everyone was mud-splashed

and unkempt. Even the shoulder bag Emil carried had a splotch

of dirt on it. He wiped drops of water from his neck and found

grime and sweat. Anybody with a good nose would be able to

smell them coming.

The farther they traveled down, the thinner the scrub pine

became. The foothills bled into ridges, which led down into a

wide valley flanked on either side by stands of deciduous trees.

The trail, now wide enough for two to walk abreast, zigzagged

down the hillside, and Emil could make out a bridle path a half-

mile below. Mikhail led the motley group, closely followed by

Stevo, his son Tem, and Gyorgy and his son Mario. Lumi rode

one of the horses with Elena, and Drina handled the other mount

with a very sleepy Xavi in front of her. Behind them were

Gyorgy’s wife Tauna, Palko, and Stevo’s wife Chavi, and Emil

brought up the rear.

They were so fatigued that each step was slow and

Snow Moon Rising 165

measured. Occasionally Emil stopped to listen, letting the group

ahead of him move on. Earlier he had sensed nothing unusual,

but now, with the late afternoon sun no longer overhead,

something didn’t feel right. He looked back up the slope, toward

the mountain pass where the trees were thick with melting snow.

To the left, a mountain saddle accentuated the height of the

peak. He gazed back the way they had come, then slowly

finished turning full circle. He shaded his eyes and peered out to

the skyline. He couldn’t see a town, but smoke billowed far

ahead, along the horizon. One’s eyes played tricks, so he

couldn’t estimate how far they would have to travel, but surely

now that they had eaten the last of their provisions, if they

didn’t find an animal to kill and roast, they would travel two

days or more without food before reaching a village.

They were more consistently exposed now than at any time

during their journey, but no matter where he looked, he saw

nothing unusual. Still, Emil felt the hair at the back of his neck

stand on end, and such a feeling of dread washed over him that

his head pounded. A split second later, a chestnut-sized rock

tumbled down the side of the hill and bounced on the springy

earth in front of his feet. He slung an arm around his shoulder

bag and ran, heart beating fast. He was still seventy-five yards

from the group when he heard a shout.

“Halt!”

Emil dropped to a squat. The guttural German order echoed

and faded, then was repeated. Emil wasn’t sure if it came from

above or below. It seemed to come from somewhere behind him,

but his hasty glances didn’t reveal anyone. He rose and took off

running.

“Hal-l-l-l-t!”

He saw Drina rein in her horse and look back.

“Don’t stop!” he called out, waving frantically as though

lobbing energy her way. “Run!”

Panic went up the line as the sleepy travelers jerked awake

and pressed forward. The horses lumbered on, and everyone

gradually gained speed. Ahead, the trail veered to the right and

broadened, leveling out into the bridle path Emil had spied.

Drina’s cantering stallion sped up. Great clods of dirt flew from

his hooves.

Emil slipped. He heard distant cracks. Then a volley of

echoes. His knee hit the ground and burrowed deeply into a

muddy spot. For a brief moment, a foxhole, mud, and the mad

crush of frantic men appeared in a swirling fog. He looked up,

expecting to see planes overhead, but the sky was clear. He

shook off the eerie memory and took a deep breath. As he

166 Lori L. Lake

pushed himself up, the muck separated from his knee with a

squelching sound. Another rifle shot cracked as he rose.

Someone far ahead screamed.

He rushed forward, panting, slipping, and sliding down the

last rise before the bridle path flattened out. Run for the trees.

Get out of the open. Emil wished he could shout these

instructions loud enough for the others to hear, but they were

too far ahead. He heard another gunshot and looked back, filled

with fury. You cowards! You scum!

On the zigzagging path far up the hill, he finally saw

movement. The soldiers were shooting at them like they were

wild game. His anger fueled his mad dash. The ground was still

boggy, but not nearly so slippery as the incline had been, and he

started to narrow the gap between him and his family. He heard

no more shots and wondered why. Perhaps their attackers were

merely getting into better position.

Up ahead, Lumi’s horse charged into the stand of trees,

followed by Drina and Xavi. Soon the first three on foot also made

it, but he could still see them as they staggered into the brush,

their dark-colored clothing visible against the naked trees.

He saw someone fall before he heard the report. “No!” For a

moment he thought the small body that hit the ground was

Mario, but when he drew nearer, he saw the dark blue and white

of Tauna’s diklo against her black hair. Mario ran toward his

mother and reached her before Emil did.

“Mama!” he screamed. He fell to his knees at her side.

“Mama?”

“Run,” Emil gasped out.

“But Mama—”

“I’ll get her. Run to your father now! ”

The boy rose and charged off. His booted feet carried him in

a straight shot toward Gyorgy who had turned back to get him.

Emil scooped up Tauna and gripped her high against his chest.

He hurried as fast as his legs would carry him. Something damp

trickled from the hollow of his neck and into his shirt. Afraid

that any minute a bullet would knock him down, he burst into

the jack-pines and dove into the low brush. He landed hard.

Tauna rolled away from him, a limp collection of lifeless limbs.

Gyorgy was suddenly there and lifted his wife into his arms.

“Tauna. Tauna.” Mario stood beside his father, his face pale and

mouth gaping open.

Emil scrambled to his knees, still breathless and gasping. He

looked down at the front of his coat and saw it was dark and

glistening. He touched his neck and drew back fingers red with

blood.

Snow Moon Rising 167

Gyorgy’s raspy voice was full of anguish. “She’s dead, Emil.

Dead.”

“I’m so sorry, Gyorgy.” Emil stood and scanned the grove.

He hitched up his breeches and adjusted the shoulder bag, then

leaned forward to catch his breath. A deer trail led farther into

the thicket. The rest of the group continued to crash forward,

leaving broken branches and trampled plants. Emil looked back.

“They’re still coming. We need to get away.”

Mario’s lips moved, but no sound came out. Emil cupped his

hand behind Mario’s head and leaned down. “Let’s go. Run.”

Mario didn’t respond. “Listen to me, Mario. We have to go.” He

met Gyorgy’s eyes, not daring to ask the big man what he

wanted to do. Roma custom did not allow for leaving a body

behind, unburied, but Emil didn’t see how could they carry

Tauna for long.

Gyorgy turned slowly, his wife cradled face-up in his arms.

His voice was pitched low, in a hopeless tone. “Come, Mario.

Follow me.”

“Hurry,” Emil urged. He went forward on unsteady legs to

lead the way for the grieving man and his son. In less than a

hundred yards, they came upon their group. Drina’s riderless

horse whinnied and moved restlessly, blocking Emil’s line of

sight. Until he stepped off the narrow path and pushed past the

horse, Emil had no idea why everyone had stopped. Stevo and

Lumi knelt on either side of Emil’s wife. Drina’s head rested in

Elena’s lap, and she held Xavi tight against her, face down

against her breast. Mikhail stood panting with the other horse’s

reins wrapped in his fist.

Emil met Drina’s pain-filled eyes. “What happened? The

horse threw you—”

“No,” she gasped out.

Emil shouted, “Give them some room.” Everyone leaned

back, but nobody moved away. Emil stalked over, rage fueling

his jerky movements. He didn’t want to look, didn’t want to

confirm his suspicion, but he knew. Tears of rage and grief

burned in his eyes.

“My son?” He fingered a ragged circular tear in the lower

section of the boy’s tan coat and brought his palm close to the

back of Xavi’s head, afraid to touch him. He was startled when

Xavi lifted his head.

“Papa.” His dark eyes bored into Emil’s. “The gun.”

“Yes, my boy. They shot at us, didn’t they?”

“Gun.”

“Xavi, my son.” He choked out the words as tenderly as he

could.

168 Lori L. Lake

“Papa, the…gun…” His voice grew faint and his eyes closed.

Shocked, Emil looked at Drina. Tears formed dark rivulets

that ran down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Emil. I should have ridden

faster.” Her cold hand gripped his. “I’ll miss you. I’ll love you.

Always. I’ll keep the mulé away.”

“What? No, no…” As if he were an eagle, he suddenly had a

vision of the bridle path, the horses, the running people—and

the image was clear. His son had been shot in the back while

sitting in front of his wife. She, too, must be injured. With gentle

hands, he pushed Xavi to the side, and there it was: an exit

wound and blood all over the front of Drina’s coat.

“No,” he whispered. “This can’t be happening.” He looked

up toward the heavens. “God, no! How could you let this

happen?”

He hooked his arm under Drina’s neck, pulled her up

toward him. “Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me, Drina.” He

rocked her against him.

“Shhh...” She breathed against his neck. “Run, Emil. Get

everybody out of here. Take care of Palko.” She coughed. “Find

our daughter. Leave this land.”

“I can’t leave you. I won’t.” He searched around until his

eyes lit upon Stevo. “Get the horse, Stevo. Bring it over here. We

have to get her to a doctor.”

“Shhh.” Drina raised her hand to his cheek. “There’s

nothing to be done, love of my heart. This is my destiny, to die in

the month of the Snow Moon. But…not your fate. Live. Live on,

and we’ll be together again one day.” Her voice grew weaker.

“Please don’t let those killers get the rest of us. Please...run.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes on his. Her chest slowly

sank as she exhaled. She didn’t inhale again.

“Drina?” He shook her. “Drina?” She seemed still alive, her

eyes upon him, but then the light faded from them, and he saw

she no longer focused.

A guttural and mighty scream left his throat. He closed his

eyes and heard it echo over and over in his head. Hands grabbed

his shoulders, and voices said soothing things.

His wife, his son. It was too much. Too much. He gently

settled Drina on the ground next to Xavi and rose to his feet with

his hands over his face. His legs shook, and he was having

trouble breathing.

A cold fear clenched the back of his neck and shivered

through his body. The murderers would soon be upon them.

Drina was right. They were probably already near, perhaps

within earshot. “Quick. Put our dead upon the horses and get

going. Now!” He pushed past Gyorgy and grabbed the stallion’s

Snow Moon Rising 169

bridle to pull the horse forward. Instead of leading the horse,

though, he moved off the path, stepped through the dead

vegetation, and circled the big animal.

Stevo scrambled through the undergrowth and grabbed his

arm from behind. “Emil! Emil, listen. What are you doing?”

“What I have to do.”

“No, no. Don’t you dare sacrifice yourself. We need you.”

He continued to plead, but Emil wouldn’t listen. “I’ll kill

them with my bare hands.”

“No, please help us escape. Come with us, Emil. Help us.”

Emil ripped his arm out of Stevo’s grip. “Take care of my

son.” He lurched back along the path.

When he glanced behind, everyone was gone, the wide spot

on the trail flattened and stained with patches of blood, but

otherwise bearing no evidence of what had just happened there.

Emil’s sense of disbelief was so great that everything around him

seemed to warp and wave. Trees appeared crooked. The ground

wasn’t level. A thin branch smacked him in the face and left a

stinging pain across his cheek.

His son was too young to die. His wife... Tauna… Xavi...

How could they kill his family, his people? If he lived fifty more

years, he would never forget the look on Drina’s face or how

fiercely Xavi peered at him, even though he must have been in

pain. His son’s last words—he knew he was dying. In his agony,

he wanted to tell what happened.

Or did he?

Emil stopped. A cold breeze blew into his face. His limbs felt

like lead, like they would no longer obey the commands his

mind sent. And then, as though under a spell, he brought up one

hand to search in his shoulder bag. Below his gloves, beneath a

rolled cloth, under a pair of socks too small for anyone but Xavi,

wrapped in a piece of leather, he found his gun. Unused for so

long, the tip of the tapered barrel had rusted. The bullets lay

scattered at the bottom of the satchel. One, two, three… His cold

hands fumbled for more of the cold little lumps of steel. He

found five shells and inserted them into the magazine with

trembling fingers.

He closed his eyes and pressed his feelings down, past his

throat, below his breastbone, and deep into the center of his

being. Later he would have time to take out those emotions and

examine them. For now, he was merely an avenging angel. His

vision cleared and he straightened his spine. The world righted

itself, and the ground felt solid under his feet. He saw branches

undulating in the wind, felt the bite of the early evening wind,

smelled pine in the air. Not so far away he heard huffing and the

170 Lori L. Lake

sound of voices.

Without vegetation, the trees didn’t hide him well, so he

hastened back the way he came to the spot on the trail just

beyond where he’d held Drina. The brush was thicker there, and

the hornbeam branches formed hedges in and around the larger

beech trees. He squatted among the lattice of branches, his face

against solid hardwood. He steadied his gun hand in the V of the

beech’s trunk and waited. In the dim light, he was sure to stop at

least some of the pursuers.

German voices floated toward him, growing louder by the

moment.

“I got the one on the second horse.”

“Maybe not. Might have been my shot.”

“No, you’re wrong.”

“This bunch wasn’t as easy as that other group.”

“Sitting ducks, those were.” He laughed.

Somebody coughed. His voice came out raspy. “We’ll catch

up to these vermin, and once we’ve dealt with them, we can

finally go back to camp.”

“Certainly will give us bragging rights.”

Emil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. They discussed

murder as though it were entertainment. His throat constricted,

and he broke out in a sweat. The first man came into view. He

wore a field-gray sidecap and a long gray coat that parted as he

walked, revealing dark breeches tucked into boots. A canteen

hung at his waist, a leather satchel under his left arm, and an

ammo bag on his right hip. He cradled a rifle in his arms and

carried a pack on his back with a combat helmet strapped to the

top. Two more soldiers followed.

Wait until I can see the buttons of his coat...

The man was young…clean-shaven…drawing closer…and

now less than twenty feet away. Emil pulled the trigger and his

target slammed backwards and went down.

“Oskar!” the second soldier shouted.

Emil took aim and shot him where his neck met his chest.

The third man dove into the brush, and the next bullet went

wild. Emil pulled the trigger again, but the gun misfired. He

hunched behind the tree and grabbed the hot barrel, frantic to

clear the jammed shell. His breath came out in short, sharp

gasps. His vision wouldn’t quite focus.

The soldier rose and pitched himself forward. His shadow

blocked Emil’s light as the pistol’s locking mechanism clicked

shut. The soldier’s rifle blasted. A brief flash of fire temporarily

blinded Emil before the German came at an angle around the

Snow Moon Rising 171

hornbeam tree, his bayonet tip glistening. Emil jerked to the

side. The bayonet missed him by inches. A solid body knocked

him back, and the soldier fell upon him, pinning Emil’s gun

against his chest and between them. An elbow struck him in the

face. He twisted and bucked trying to get the bigger man off

him.“No! No!” the German cried out. “You can’t—”

Emil slammed his fist into the side of the man’s jaw. The

soldier grunted and shifted enough that Emil was able to twist

the pistol and jam it into the man’s middle. He pulled the

trigger. The gun bucked between them, and the soldier let out a

high-pitched yowl. He collapsed upon Emil, and his breath

spurted out in ragged bursts. Emil struggled to push him off,

then seized the rifle and threw it near the dead Germans,

overhand, like a javelin.

The man rolled onto his side, his cap on the ground next to

his head. His pack prevented him from resting on his back. He

lay there panting, then he got a second wind and tried to dig in

his heels and lever himself away.

Emil stuck the pistol into the waistband of his pants. He

gazed down at the man below him. The insignia on his uniform

showed him to be an Obergefreiter, a corporal with six or more

years of service. His face was lined, and Emil thought him to be

nearing forty. His eyes were clear blue, and his dirty-blond hair

was longer than German soldiers usually kept it, so he must have

been in the field for some time. He would work the field no

longer. Emil grabbed for the strap of the soldier’s pack, but the

man fought him for it.

“No.” The soldier’s voice was strong, and his arms, despite

the wound, were surprisingly powerful. Working around the

man’s feeble attempts to ward him off, Emil searched him. He

carried no sidearm, but Emil pulled an army-issue knife from a

sheath at the soldier’s belt and held it close to his neck. “Stop

fighting.”

The corporal looked up at him, anger in his eyes, then let out

a groan and relinquished the pack. It contained no weapons, so

Emil got to his feet and searched the two bodies near the path,

removing the men’s belts, boots, knives, canteens, and other

items. When he discovered that each soldier carried a cloth bag

containing bread, dried meat, and fruit, his stomach spasmed

and he stole a moment to wolf one crusty chunk of

pumpernickel. In the near-darkness, he stumbled quite a bit

before he located the three rifles. He piled everything in the

middle of the path.

He stamped back toward the looming hornbeam to collect

172 Lori L. Lake

the corporal’s items and was surprised to find the soldier still

conscious and breathing. With one hand grasping the rough

wood of the hornbeam, Emil stood over the dying man. A wave

of fatigue washed through him. With the toe of his boot, he

kicked lightly at the soldier’s leg. “Why? Why did you kill my

people?”

“My duty. It’s my...duty.”

“But you take such pleasure in it.”

The soldier let out a strangled cackle. “What’s wrong...with

that?”

“These are people! My wife, my son, how could you kill

them like so many deer or—or—rabbits.”

“Gypsies,” the corporal said in a voice filled with disgust.

“Even deer are worth more.”

Emil had no time for thought. He took a step and kicked.

The man let out a pained gasp, and Emil’s next maddened flurry

of kicks propelled him back a yard.

“Stop. Please stop.”

“Like you stopped killing my family? Stop like that? Is that

what you mean?”

“Please.” He held up his hand. “Please. I’m dying. Just leave

me.”All the air went out of Emil, and he fell to his knees. Tears

welled in his eyes. “But how could you do this to other human

beings? I was a soldier once, long ago, but I could never do what

you’ve done.”

“You? A soldier? I don’t believe you.” He waited a moment.

“But you do speak decent German for a Gypsy.”

“Roma!” Emil roared the name. “We’re Roma. And I’m also

German. As was my son. You killed a German.”

The man scowled. “A half-blood. Nothing more. I don’t

regret it.” He shifted into a fetal position and tightened his grip

on his middle. “My life is fulfilled with the work I have done.

Not just to your party, but also dozens of others last night.”

Emil suddenly felt cold all over. “What? You killed other

Roma?”

“Yes. A very profitable day.”

Emil dove at him, grabbed the lapels of his coat, and

screamed in his face. “You killed several dozen helpless souls up

on the mountain?”

When the soldier smiled, blood oozed between his teeth.

“Actually,” he grunted out, “I killed more than my comrades put

together.”

“Did any escape you?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

Snow Moon Rising 173

“What did you do with the bodies?”

“They lie where they fell in a ravine up the mountain many

miles from here.”

Emil let go of the man and pushed himself back, squatting

three feet from him. “And you’re proud of this?”

“I’m achieving the work of Der Führer.”

“You’re lying. I don’t believe you. They had horses, and—”

“Not anymore.” He let out a choked-sounding giggle. “My

men relieved them of their livestock. Those animals now serve

the glory of the Third Reich. Heil Hitler.” His hand came away

from his body in a weak attempt to perform the salute, but fell

instead to the ground.

Emil pulled the pistol from his waist and pointed it at the

soldier’s head. “You deserve worse than death.”

The man’s eyes went wide and he let out a whimper.

Emil pulled the trigger. Click. Click. Click. “I’m out of

bullets. So you shall lie there, dying slowly after all.” He

stomped away, nearly tripping in some prickly gorse.

Now the night was fully dark, and if not for the moon

shining aslant through the trees, he wouldn’t be able to see a

thing.

The heat of anger and energy had passed, and Emil felt as

tired as he had ever been. He made his way back to the stack of

items piled on the path. One body lay near him, and it sickened

him to touch the man, but he made himself do it. He couldn’t

bring himself to take their tunics or breeches, but once he had

removed coats and field caps from both men, he dragged their

bodies ten yards into the trees and left them.

As he picked his way between the beech trees, he heard a

twig snap. Instantly his heart beat like a jackhammer. He

shouldn’t have left all the clothing and supplies right there in

plain sight. If other members of the corporal’s army came now,

he was dead. His handgun was out of bullets, and the rifles

would be little to hold off advancing soldiers.

“Emil?”

The whisper was so faint, he almost didn’t hear it.

“Emil?”

“Stevo?” He heard a whistle and a rustle in the bushes up to

his right.

“Where are you?”

“Here.” Emil made his way out to the path, and Stevo and

Palko materialized like ghosts, then became solid as they moved

closer.

“Papa!” Palko threw an arm around Emil.

“I’m fine. I’m all right. What are you two doing?”

174 Lori L. Lake

“We’ve hidden everyone,” Stevo said. “They’re safe for the

moment. We had to come back. I—I, well, we couldn’t leave you.

I thought you might—might—”

“Might be dead?” Emil grimaced. “God smiled upon me. But

not upon these three worthless bastards. I’ve scavenged food,

weapons, clothing. There’s even a pup tent. Help me bundle it all

up. We can use it.”

Stevo put his hands up, palms out. “Something makes my

skin crawl. Do these Germans have evil mulé? ”

“Probably. We will cleanse ourselves of them soon. Please

tell me there’s a stream ahead.”

“There is.”

They worked together for several minutes to pack and

organize things, then Emil rose and stumbled behind the

hornbeam. The corporal was dead. Emil stripped him of his coat

and boots and picked up his sidecap, then backed away. “Te

bisterdon tumare anava!”

“What?” Stevo asked.

“I curse them. May their names be forgotten.”

“I curse them, too,” Stevo said. “Now let’s hurry away from

this horrid place.”

They donned the packs, picked up the rifles, and grabbed

the ammo bags and other items. With Palko between them and

Stevo in the lead, Emil followed. He tried not to think,

concentrating on making his tired body move in a smooth

rhythm. But soon, the events of the day rose up in his mind and

overwhelmed him. Drina was gone. And Xavi, his son. He

couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. But even the

numbness of his exhausted mind couldn’t hide reality.

They reached an open clearing and waited in the shadows

for a moment to listen. Emil looked up at the Snow Moon rising

just over the tips of a stand of trees to his left. Wisps of clouds

scudded in front of the waning moon, giving it a peculiar rippled

effect. If you can hear me, Drina, give me strength. Send spirits to

protect us—to protect these last of our troupe. Show us the way.

Chapter

Twenty-One

Southern Poland, December 1942 (Oak Moon)

“HEY, STUPID. STOP that immediately.”

Mischka froze. The crate she was wrestling off the back of a

truck in the loading area was heavy, and the rough wood cut into

her callused palms. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder,

and was relieved to see that the German guard with the deep,

guttural voice wasn’t coming her way. He was scolding some

other woman. The crate Mischka was balancing shifted, and for a

moment she didn’t have control of it.

Then Aurora was at her side, grabbing, helping, whispering,

“Don’t try to do it all yourself. Let me help.”

“It’s so cold,” Mischka muttered. She wanted to trot around

the building a few times to warm up her stiff limbs, but of course

that wasn’t permitted.

The sun had been up for over an hour, but the loading area

was on the west side of a barn-like storage building next to the

main factory. Enclosed on two sides with a roof over the top, it

always remained bone-chillingly cold until well after noon. Even

then it didn’t get much warmer.

“Just be patient,” Aurora said. “If you drop this, Vogel will

take great pleasure in assaulting you.”

Together she and Aurora lifted the crate and set it on the

cement floor, then dragged it off to the side where their work

partners, Nelka and Lidia, helped them pry off the wooden lid

slats. Both young women were from strong Polish stock, and

since the four of them shared the same scant sleeping space, it

hadn’t taken long for Aurora and Mischka to unite with them for

protection. Mischka was thankful that despite background and

age differences, the four women had become fast friends. She

didn’t know what she would do if she felt the enmity for her

bedmates that some of the others seemed to feel. One woman,

Petronela, behaved so badly and was so rude and selfish that no

176 Lori L. Lake

one wanted anything to do with her. Aurora had warned

repeatedly that Petronela was going to get them all killed.

In the past couple of weeks, Mischka had not only gotten to

know the names of most of the girls and women on her work

detail, but she had also taken note of which of their guards had

hair-trigger tempers and which were more patient. Vogel was

not one of the patient ones. He had obviously been injured at

some point in the war. The right side of his ruddy face drooped,

and the one eyelid often winked involuntarily. This

embarrassment clearly enraged him, and he took out his fury on

the women he supervised. Vogel limped, too, and the right side

of his body moved stiffly. Most of the time he held his right arm

against his midsection, and although he tried to form that hand

into a fist, the big mitt was gnarled and wasted and wouldn’t

cooperate. So he held a long, narrow baton in his left hand and

wasn’t shy about using it as he was now on Edda. The girl turned

and bore the blows across her upper back, making an occasional

yelp. Mischka turned her attention to another heavy crate. She

lifted an unwieldy pry bar and forced the lid off a load of boots.

Aurora scrambled to grab for a nail that went flying. They saved

the lids. They saved the nails, no matter how bent. They saved

nearly everything. Once the boots were repaired or re-soled, the

crates they arrived in would be used to ship them back out.

Vogel stopped his ranting and used his baton to wave Edda

and several other women toward the side of the loading area so

that the cargo truck could pull away. Mischka examined the pry

bar in her hand. She had never considered herself a violent

person, but in only a few weeks, she had found herself

entertaining many visions of blood and havoc. Usually, two

soldiers oversaw the work of close to a hundred women in the

dock area, but at the moment Vogel was their only guard. And

he was one she dreamed of exacting a merciless vengeance upon.

Often at the end of his work shift in midafternoon, he looked

around the loading area, his eyes sharp and cruel like a rabid

ferret’s, and if someone struck his fancy, he beckoned to her. He

tended to choose the young, blue eyed, blonde girls. Mischka

supposed that this did not necessarily exempt her, but she was

thankful for her brown eyes and the dark stubble on her head.

Thankful, too, that he had shown no interest in Aurora, despite

her blonde hair. She was older and seemed to think that spared

her. No woman could object. The chosen one must meekly follow

the limping soldier through the door to the left of the loading

dock and into the bowels of the building. She would return

Snow Moon Rising 177

sometime later, eyes dull and face marked with the furrows of

tears. Most often, a friend or sympathetic older woman would

comfort her with warm words and encouragement. Mischka

knew she would not be so kindhearted if Vogel were to touch her

or Aurora. She was afraid of what she would do. She had already

been down that road, and she didn’t want to travel it again.

Vogel beat his baton on the side of a crate. “Get to work, you

sluts. You’re like sleepwalkers. Move.”

Eight arms reached into the crate and grabbed at jackboots,

motorcycle boots, and the few officers’ shoes, then dumped them

into the rolling metal cart. Pairs were usually linked by laces or

cording, but occasionally they were damaged too badly to be

attached, and the women had to be certain to keep the right and

left together. They got to the bottom of the crate and were left

with one lone jackboot, and Mischka’s heart sank.

“I’ll report it,” Aurora said.

Mischka shook her head. “Not you. I will.”

Nelka stifled a laugh. “Don’t be foolish, either of you. I’m

the ugly one, and I shall do it. Step aside.” She scooped up the

boot from the crate, lifted her chin proudly, and stood to the

side, waiting until she could catch Vogel’s eye and give a

respectful wave.

Mischka didn’t know why the guards were always so

suspicious about the receipt of one shoe or boot. The women

couldn’t help that whoever packed the boxes erred or that

perhaps some of the footwear had been deemed irreparable and

was disposed of before shipping. The guards acted like the

workers had somehow hidden giant pairs of jackboots on their

persons, as if they could be used as weapons or worn as one

overshoe to facilitate escape. Where would anyone hide a size 14

boot under her thin coat and cotton dress? Mischka wasn’t even

certain where in Poland they were; how could they use a lone

boot to escape? How ridiculous.

Vogel lumbered toward them, and Lidia, Mischka, and

Aurora turned away to work on the lid to another crate. None of

them wanted to draw his attention, and Nelka was,

unfortunately, correct about her face. When she had been

captured, she’d tried to run, and the pursuing soldier struck her

in the face with the stock of his gun, laying open the flesh from

cheekbone to chin. Mischka was amazed that it was healing

without becoming contaminated from any sort of poison, but the

angry, red, crooked rut did, indeed, look frightening. Nelka

firmly believed herself permanently ugly and therefore not of

interest to Vogel. Mischka was saddened to think that she was

probably right about that, and she felt terrible for the young

178 Lori L. Lake

woman whose shapely figure, blue eyes, and heart-shaped face

indicated that she had actually been quite lovely, even prettier

than her older sister Lidia.

Before and after. Many of the women were whole before,

and now, after such bad treatment by men, they were scarred

and mutilated. Once again, she wished to strike down Vogel—

and all his companions.

“What is it?” Vogel called out, his lip curled.

“A single, sir,” Nelka said in halting German. She kept her

eyes down. To look a guard in the face was to invite a beating—

or worse.

He snatched the boot from her and shook it, as if its mate

might come falling out, then looked around the crate and

shuffled closer to peer into the deep wooden container.

“All right then,” he said suspiciously. “You may deliver it to

the singles box.”

When she returned, Lidia whispered, “You’re brave, Nelka.”

“I suppose you never thought your little sister had the

strength to face a man like that.” Nelka picked up a boot and

tossed it in the cart.

Lidia shivered. “If he comes after me, I won’t be brave.”

Mischka leaned into the crate near her companions and

spoke in a low voice that all three of them could hear. “You don’t

have to be brave—just smart. We must do whatever we have to

in order to stay alive in this hellhole, and that means doing what

he says. We can still protect ourselves if we turn off our minds

and go to another place.”

“I couldn’t do that.” Lidia shook her head, and Mischka saw

the fear in her face. “Where would I go?”

“I don’t mean to actually go somewhere else, Lidia. You

have to think of something else, a place of refuge. Some place

where your mind can safely go while your body stays behind

and endures. This will work for beatings as well as other

indignities.”

“How can you be sure?” Lidia asked. “How do you know?”

“That’s of no importance. I just do. I’ll show you how

tonight.”

All three women paused, each holding at least one boot, and

Aurora frowned, her brow furrowed with wrinkles that became

more accentuated each day. “How can you show something like

that?”

“It’s easy. You and Nelka shall pinch Lidia, and I’ll help her

go to a better place. You’ll see. It works. You’ll understand

immediately.”

Lidia closed her eyes and shuddered. Mischka wanted to put

Snow Moon Rising 179

her arms around the young woman and tell her everything

would be all right, but she knew that was a lie. Instead, she said,

“It’s so cold. I wish the wind would stop whipping through

here.” She tossed a pair of mud-encrusted boots into the cart.

Nelka picked up the pry bar. “We’ve got to figure out how

to get on a work crew inside the building. It can’t possibly be so

wintry in there. Or even better, the big factory. With all the

steam coming off the roof, it must be warm in there. I heard

everyone working on one of the upper floors gets to sit while

they sew uniforms.”

“I thought this place was a boot and glove factory,” Mischka

said.“Oh, no. It depends on what the army processing center

decides to send. Apparently they have a shortage of fabric at the

moment. Usually this factory makes new uniforms for the army.”

“How did you learn this?” Lidia asked.

“In the latrine. If you sit there long enough, you hear all

sorts of conversations between the guards. Once even the

commandant came out and spoke to the guards, talking all about

the war. He was looking for someone to drive him somewhere

because his regular driver was sick.”

Aurora lifted her head. “Have you heard anything about the

war?”

Nelka shrugged. “It’s hard to tell what’s going on. They

were excited about some big aerial victory, but they were also

cursing about the Americans joining the war. So I’m not sure.”

Aurora’s shoulders slumped and the air seemed to go out of

her. “I can’t take this place anymore.”

Mischka shot a look at Vogel. The man stood at the rear of a

cargo truck, partially turned away from them with one foot up

on the back bumper. He held his bad arm tight against him while

he used a toothpick to dig at his teeth. Mischka put an arm

across Aurora’s shoulders. “We shall get by, living through one

hour at a time.”

“I just wish I knew about Janek and my sons. Where are

they?”

Nelka said, “This place is enormous. You probably don’t

even realize that north of our barracks there’s an entire town. If

you go out and look around after dark—”

Lidia’s jaw dropped. “Nelka!”

Vogel glanced their way, and all four women dipped

simultaneously to grab boots. Nelka came up smiling, the red

gash of her scar making the grin crooked and somehow elfin and

mischievous. Though Mischka was old enough to be the younger

woman’s mother, she felt a real sisterhood with Nelka. She was a

180 Lori L. Lake

woman of her own heart. And she had been braver than Mischka

if she had gotten out after dark and explored. Mischka had

noticed that Nelka had sometimes left their sleeping platform in

the night, but she had thought Nelka was using the latrine. In

her restless sleep, it hadn’t occurred to her that Nelka was gone

for any length of time.

Mischka retrieved more boots. “So you’ve gone out on

nighttime searches?”

“Yes, I call it reconnaissance.”

“I don’t know that word.”

“It’s French. Something soldiers do to survey the battlefield

and the enemy. Someone goes ahead to learn the lay of the land

and the power of the forces before all the troops are committed.”

“Ahh…a scout.”

“Mm-hmmm.”

All her life, Mischka’s people had apparently been doing

reconnaissance without knowing that was what it was called.

“What did you find out?”

“The enemy is cautious and well-armed. All exits that I was

able to find on this end are locked and guarded. The food and

supply storehouses are also locked.”

“So you’ve searched for food?”

“Among other things. There are some areas I’ve yet to look

at. Too bad the fence is so heavily guarded between our side and

where the town is on the men’s side.”

Mischka tossed a pair of boots toward the cart, and they

flew end over end, hit the side wall of the cart, and fell in.

“Hey,” Vogel hollered from across the floor. “Watch it.”

Mischka ignored him. They wanted the workers to move

swiftly, but none of the tactics Mischka would have used for

speed were allowed.

She looked around the loading area. Twenty other teams of

four to six women worked on crates just as she and her crew did.

If the guards would let them organize in a different manner,

Mischka was sure they could do the work in half the time and

have time to rest and maintain their strength. She was acutely

aware of how hard it was to be on her feet from sunup to

sundown, especially since they were given food only in the

morning and evening. A rainwater catchall sat in the corner, and

they could drink at specified times throughout the day, but no

one wanted to down too much liquid. They were allowed to visit

the latrines only in the morning and evening and in case of

“emergencies.” An emergency was defined only as the onset of

menstruation, though most of them had been known to lie upon

occasion.

Snow Moon Rising 181

“Come on,” Nelka said, gesturing with a toss of her head.

Mischka followed her to the cargo truck, and they wrestled

down another crate and dragged it over to their work area. “If

you like, you may come with me tonight to look around.”

“Reconnaissance?”

“Yes.”

Mischka hesitated only a moment. Hope ignited within her,

and her mind raced ahead to the discovery of an escape route.

“I’ll come,” she said.

MISCHKA LAY ON her back with her right arm behind her

head. The slab of hard wood that served as her bed felt cold, and

drafty fingers of air seeped into the room at irregular intervals.

Her stomach rumbled with hunger. The evening meal had

consisted of a chestnut-sized stale biscuit and watery chicken-

flavored soup that held a few chunks of potato, one pea, and no

chicken.

Petronela, the Polish woman who constantly complained,

lay two bunks down muttering in her nasal voice about the lack

of food. “How do they expect us to work?” she asked of no one

in particular. “We’re cold. We’re abused. We’re underfed.”

Someone groaned and said, “Shhh…”

“I’d like to speak to the commandant. This is inexcusable.

None of them look underfed.”

From farther down the barracks a voice rang out: “Shut up,

Petronela.”

“I will not. Someone needs to do something. At this rate,

we’ll all be dead by the new year.” One of her bedmates must

have elbowed her, because she made a grunting noise. “Stop

that. No need to be rude.”

A tired voice said, “Please hush. We need to sleep.”

Petronela settled down then, and Mischka was glad of it.

Despite the fact that the woman was a noisy nuisance, she had to

admit that Petronela was right. But there was nothing to be done.

Didn’t the silly woman understand that the German guards had

little patience and no mercy? Petronela’s constant grumbling

was dangerous to all of them.

Every two hours, all night long, a guard walked through the

barracks, in through the door near Mischka’s group and out the

door at the other end. The little warmth that had accumulated

swept out behind him, and all of them huddled closer together,

teeth chattering and miserable. More than once Petronela had

groused aloud, and Mischka was waiting for the day when the

guard chose to attack rather than ignore her protests.

182 Lori L. Lake

Outside, drunk voices singing “Stille Nacht” drew nearer,

then passed in front of the barracks and gradually faded away. It

didn’t feel like a silent night, holy night, and all was not calm or

bright. The only “glories” streaming from heaven afar were

raindrops. The nice thing about the rain was that it meant the

weather wasn’t quite so terribly cold; the bad thing was the

immense amount of mud everywhere. For two days the water

and dirt had gotten into the cracks in Mischka’s shoes, and she

hated the feeling of grit between her toes almost as much as the

aching chill.

The rain kept up a light patter on the roof. Mischka looked

above her head at her tin cup balanced on the flat of the bedpost

near the ceiling. In the pale lamplight streaming in from a

nearby window, she watched as rain dripped—plink, plink,

plink—into the cup. Within an hour, she would have a full cup to

drink, and she looked forward to something in her stomach, even

if only temporarily. Before too many more days passed, the

weather would be so cold that no more water would fall. She

wasn’t anxious to see snow.

Some of the “round yon virgins” in the barracks were

wasting away. Aurora had lost weight at an alarming rate. The

roly-poly woman’s stomach still maintained some plumpness,

but her legs and arms had reduced in size, and her face was

nothing short of haggard. Her haunted and worry-filled eyes

accentuated her gauntness.

When they had first arrived at the camp, ten lackluster,

emaciated women had been in the barracks to greet them. All of

them had looked beaten down and wary, like animals who’d

been caged and tortured. Now only eight of those original

workers remained. Mischka didn’t know where the other two

had gone. One had fainted in the loading area two weeks earlier

and been hauled off, and the other had simply disappeared when

Mischka wasn’t paying attention. She wondered if any of those

eight could tell her how long they’d been in the camp? And what

did the Germans do with those who were close to starving to

death? The logical thing would be to feed them and give them

rest so that they could soon work hard again, but she suspected

that was not the case. The Germans showed more care and

concern for the boots being processed than for the workers.

Mischka had been keeping track of the days she had been in

the camp, and according to her count, it had been forty-four. She

knew she might have missed a day, particularly at the beginning

before she thought to make marks on the wall. But she knew it

was near the end of Oak Moon, the time of the birth of the Christ,

which so many Germans and Poles celebrated. So the old year

Snow Moon Rising 183

was drawing to a close and the new one would soon be arriving.

Wolf Moon. The time to plan a ritual of protection around home

and family. She grimaced. There would be no planning, no

protection, especially considering the kind of wolves who had

her under their control.

She didn’t often allow herself to think about her family, but

tonight, with the rain showers buffeting the roof and walls and

the barracks so cold, she closed her eyes and imagined the

kumpania sitting around a fire in the dusky setting sun,

somewhere warm and dry. Her mother offered a cup of milk-

sweetened tea to her father, who sat on a log smoking his pipe.

Emil and Drina stood nearby, examining the fetlock of Mischka’s

horse, Maisie...

Abruptly, the fantasy stopped there and her eyes fluttered

open. Maisie. The dear horse she’d ridden for the last three

years. She’d never see the little mare again. Something burned in

the middle of her chest. As usual, she reminded herself that

Maisie was a fair sacrifice for the safety of the troupe. She and

Tobar were, as well. But it tore at her not knowing if her

kumpania was safe. Did they get away?

An elbow poked her in the side, and Aurora leaned over and

whispered, “Nelka is going now.” Mischka started to sit up, but

Aurora pushed her back. “She said count to five hundred, then

meet her in the alcove of the loading building across the way.”

Mischka’s heart beat fast. Did she want to do this? Would

their tracks easily be seen in the rain-soaked ground? She

thought of Tobar. He’d never been a big risk-taker, but he’d

always done what he had to do. She decided that she could do

the same. She took down her tin cup, drained and replaced it,

then lay back to count each beat of her heart until she reached

five hundred.

She thought it must be close to midnight. The only noises

she heard were the snores and heavy exhalations of exhausted

women. Aurora sat up, and their heads nearly touched the

ceiling as she squeezed past to the ladder. She hoped no one

would pay attention to her, and if they did, that they’d assume

she was on the way to the latrine. Every scuff of her feet, each

rustle of her clothing sounded to her like a crash, a shriek of

sound. But no one stirred. She opened the flimsy door and went

quickly into the night’s soft rain to slide along the south edge of

the building, listening. Far away she heard the faint sounds of

revelry. By the rise and fall of the tones, someone was singing to

the north.

Above each barracks, at their east ends, sturdy posts twenty

feet high were sunk deep into the ground. A string of dim lights,

184 Lori L. Lake

like tiny beads on a droopy chain, dangled near each barracks

and threw enough light to illuminate the rows between. Every

third or fourth light was out, and near the loading building,

none of the bulbs were burning. She wasn’t sure whether that

was intentional or not, but Mischka took it as a sign of good

fortune as she crept across the open area to an alcove where the

loading building attached to the storage barn. Even when she

was in the mouth of the doorway leading into the building, she

didn’t see Nelka. She jumped when a cold, wet hand grasped her

forearm and pulled her into the dark.

“Wait,” Nelka whispered. They stood listening. All Mischka

could hear was her own blood rushing in her ears. After a

moment, Nelka leaned out, then pulled back. “We can thank

these idiot Germans for being so orderly and precise. I’ve never

gone too far toward the north end of the camp, but I can tell you

they have placed the latrines at the same intervals, after every

two barracks. If you run into a guard, your only chance is to

duck into the latrine.” Mischka nodded, and Nelka took her

hand and squeezed it tight. “Don’t go to the other side of this

building or the factory. There are always guards along the

fence.”

“All right.”

“Remember, if a guard appears, head for the latrine and try

to act like you’re sleepwalking or sick. You can’t help me if I get

caught, and I won’t help you either. We can’t take the chance of

being seen together. You know how suspicious these Germans

are. They’d think there was some sort of plot or rebellion. So I’ll

go first, you follow. We’re looking for food or supplies or

clothing—probably in a storage building. If either of us finds

anything, let out one faint whistle.”

With a final squeeze, Nelka slid away along the side of the

building. Mischka counted to ten, then peeked out. If she stared

up and to the right, in her peripheral vision she could just barely

make out Nelka’s dark shape, and then she couldn’t see her any

longer. She took a deep breath and stepped into the drizzle. Her

coat wasn’t going to do much to keep out the cold, but it was

surprisingly water-resistant. Too bad she didn’t have a hat or

hood.

Behind the building where they worked everyday sat a

motorcycle with a sidecar, a cargo truck, and two Kübelwagen

vehicles, which could carry a driver and three passengers.

Mischka paused and scanned the area. When she saw and heard

nothing, she crept forward across the muddy open space. She felt

exposed here, like a hungry mouse caught in the middle of the

kitchen, and she hastened to the shadows of the factory wall. An

Snow Moon Rising 185

overhang, far above, shielded her from some of the rain. She

stopped again to listen, then went on, trailing the fingers of her

left hand along the blackened, gritty bricks. The wall seemed to

go on and on. Every so often, she stopped to determine where

the latrines were, though looking toward the light tended to

slow her down because for at least another minute, her vision

was clouded. When she came opposite a brick, two-story

building, she squatted down. The main floor was ablaze with

light and the windows in the second story were curtained. The

front door, painted white, was closed, but the windows on the

ground floor—two on either side of the door—sparkled with the

glow of a candle in each. Beyond one window and back some ten

feet or so in a corner of the room, sat a green tree decorated with

little bits of something silver and shiny.

Someone moved into the far right window, and Mischka

started so violently that she very nearly fell back. She caught

herself by grabbing the factory wall. They couldn’t see her. No

need for fear. The house was too well-lit inside for them to see

out. A blond-haired man in a dark uniform lifted a glass high in

the air, then tipped back his head to drink from it. Afterward, he

made a grand gesture with his other arm, as though he were

asking someone to dance.

To the left, out of the corner of her eye, Mischka caught a

blur of motion as a figure emerged from the dim light of the back

of the factory. Nelka cut across the expanse of mud and

disappeared into the darkness next to a shed to the left of the

brick quarters. A moment later, Mischka heard a quiet whistle.

She willed her legs to stand, but for some reason, they did not,

and a split second later, she realized her instincts had served her

well. Behind her she heard the rev of an engine and stared in

shock as a vehicle came weaving its way down the muddy row

between the factory and the barracks. Though she was crouched

low, in a few seconds the headlights would surely illuminate

her. She had no hope of not being seen.

With a squawk, she lunged to the left, around the corner of

the factory. She landed on her knees and folded down into as

tight a ball as she could manage.

A Kübelwagen, its leather roof glistening wet, careened

around the corner. Water and mud sprayed behind like a rooster

tail until it came to a stop close to the doorway of the building. A

soldier leapt from the driver’s seat and ran around to open the

passenger door.

As if they had been waiting, the front door of the quarters

opened, and a voice called out, “Sergeant Klein. Welcome.”

Despite the drizzle, the sergeant stopped in his tracks,

186 Lori L. Lake

saluted, and called out, “Heil Hitler.” The man on the front

porch, as well as the other two men exiting the car, repeated the

greeting. A woman came to the door and Mischka recognized

her. She was the guard, Braunhaus, who so enjoyed inflicting

pain. For once, the guard’s face was smiling and not twisted into

the hateful expression she usually showed the prisoners. She

swung open the door, and the men trooped in.

Mischka rose with difficulty. Her knees and calves were

stiff, and she was wet and muddy. She moved as quickly as she

could along the back of the factory, took a deep breath, then ran

toward the shed where Nelka had disappeared. She backed up

against the wooden wall of the shed with her eyes frantically

scanning. Her breath came out in wheezes. Someone grabbed her

arm and covered her mouth.

“Shhh. Took you long enough. Guess what I’ve found.”

“What?” Mischka whispered.

Nelka tugged at Mischka’s damp coat and pulled her around

to the side of the shed. “Of course this useless hut is locked. I

think it only has tools in it anyway, but this isn’t locked.” A

metal bin, about five feet wide, sat under the shed’s overhang. A

steel lid, hinged at the back, covered it. Nelka pulled up the lid.

“You’ve got longer arms than I have. Can you reach?”

The edge of the bin hit Mischka at the level of her ribs. She

couldn’t see well, but she smelled the ripe, rotting smell of old

garbage. “Mahrime.”

“What?”

“It’s unclean.”

“Uh-huh. So what else is new? This whole camp is a filthy

sty.”Mischka couldn’t disagree. Forcing herself to lean farther in,

she saw butcher paper, wadded up newspaper, and some empty

tins interspersed with coffee grounds, bread crusts, half-eaten

apples, and a pile of what looked like fried potatoes. She leaned

down and plucked out one of the apple halves. It came up

through the air to her mouth before she fully realized what she

was doing, and she bit into it. Sweet and pungent. Chewing

slowly, she savored it. Though it was certainly unclean, it tasted

better than any food she’d had since Snow Moon before her

capture. She offered the remaining quarter to Nelka.

“You eat it. I’ve found something, too.”

Mischka chewed away at the apple until all that was left was

the core, then tossed that in the bin. Nelka handed her a rubbery

pancake. One triangular wedge was cut from it. She took a small

experimental bite. Dry on the outside, but moist inside. She ate

half of it, then stuck the other half in her coat pocket. “I’m

Snow Moon Rising 187

bringing back what I can for Lidia and Aurora.”

“Me, too,” Nelka whispered as she hefted an over-ripe apple

and reached back in. “Let’s eat these potatoes and the peelings,

and we’ll take the crusts and fruit back to them.”

The potatoes were cold and congealed, but they were laced

through with grease. She choked them down, and for the first

time in weeks, Mischka felt satiated. She hoped the food wasn’t

too badly spoiled. That it had been out in the near-freezing

weather was a good sign.

They cautiously closed the bin’s lid and crept away with

food for Aurora and Lidia bundled into their clothing. When she

got to the shadows of the factory, Mischka looked back to the

brick quarters. Two women stood near the Christmas tree,

glasses in hand, speaking to the sergeant. He stood with his back

to the window, one arm behind him. She wondered if it was

Christmas Eve or perhaps Christmas Day. As she crept along the

edge of the factory, something seemed different and she

hesitated, heart beating fast. Then she realized the rain had

stopped. At least it had washed the mud off of her clothing. The

clouds roiled in the sky, sailing along like wisps of smoke, and

the moon, nearly full, smiled down upon her.

Chapter

Twenty-Two

Outside Eisenhüttenstadt, Germany, February 1943 (Storm Moon)

PIPPI SAT AT the sewing machine, piecing together two

panels for a shroud. She pumped the treadle and her shoulders

hunched tight as she strained to make the seams as perfect as she

could. On the floor at her feet lay a pile of woven cloth and a

stack of folded shrouds. So many men—boys, some of them—

were being killed in the war that the two morticians in

Eisenhüttenstadt could hardly keep up with the number of

funerals. They’d placed a special order for burial shrouds for

families unable to afford caskets.

“Pippi,” Camille called out from the kitchen. “You must stop

and eat something. Your soup is getting cold.”

The machine chose that moment to jam, and Pippi let out a

huff of frustration. “Sometimes I just hate this sewing machine.

That second thread is always getting tangled.”

“It couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve

been going without a break for three straight hours.”

“All right, Mama, all right.” Pippi rose and clumped into the

adjoining kitchen. “I’m sure it’s not me causing the problem.”

Camille poured tea into their china cups from the flowered

teapot. “Someday, maybe after the war is over, we’ll be able to

get a chain-stitch machine. Perhaps even one that runs on

electricity.”

“If this horrible war ever gets over.” Pippi sat down and

examined her cabbage soup. She was sick of soup. She was sick

of rationing. She was sick of the gloomy weather and of the

constant talk of war. Ever since she’d moved back to Germany

from France, her life had indeed seemed dismal, but her mother

had needed her far more than Richelle, her mother-in-law, so

here she was, stuck sewing for the war effort and praying for an

end to this nightmare.

As was the norm over meals, her mother regaled her with

Snow Moon Rising 189

the latest speculation. “At the shoe shop yesterday, Herr Galt

and Herr Hofstetter both predicted that the war will go much

longer and be much bloodier than we were first told. Hitler

wants Italy, and the Americans and British won’t let him have

it.” “Oh, that fool Mussolini. I can’t believe Skorzeny and those

fascists rescued him from that old hotel. They should have

bombed the Grand Sasso and done away with him as soon as

Italy surrendered.”

“Pauline Stanek! I can’t believe you’re wishing death upon

someone.”

“Mother, it’s fascists like him and Herr Hitler who are

wishing death upon all of us. They don’t deserve to lead our

country. This war is one hundred percent wrong and the world is

in chaos because of it.” She spooned up some of the thick broth.

“I suppose I should be glad we have food and a warm house,

especially when others don’t. Still, who will be left when Hitler

gets done pillaging and killing? Some of the elderly, a few

orphaned children, and a bunch of heavy-hearted widows like

me?”“Oh, Pippi. You’re still very young.”

“I’m thirty-seven years old—no longer a fresh blossom.” Her

tone was sarcastic. “I have nothing to lose by admitting what

most good Germans already know. This war is a travesty, and

Adolf Hitler is an overreaching madman.”

Camille brought her palms to her forehead. “I don’t think

I’m ever going to get used to how strident you’ve become. It’s

not safe to be so bull-headed, Pippi.”

“I lost my husband to that lunatic and—”

Camille placed a hand on Pippi’s forearm. “Hush, my dear.

You think we’re insulated here, but there are spies and informers

everywhere. Why, Frau Huber told me just the other day that her

cousin’s husband in Eisenhüttenstadt was arrested and held for

three days—three days! He was kept in a cell with political

troublemakers and accused of being a Jew.”

“Is he?”

“Is he what?”

“A Jew.”

“No.” Camille looked startled at the question. “I don’t think

so. What does it matter?”

“That’s the point. It shouldn’t matter.” Pippi pushed away

the half-eaten bowl of soup. “None of this should matter.

Lebensraum is a sin. Living space for Germans? At whose

expense? Who gave us the right to seize Poland? Or Italy or

France—or to invade any of our neighbors? The French are a

190 Lori L. Lake

miserable occupied country. Their economy is in a shambles, and

their people are downtrodden. It’s a sin.” Pippi took a deep

breath, then looked up into her mother’s blue eyes. The lines in

Camille’s face had grown deeper, and she looked worried. “All

we’re doing is biding time, waiting until the war is over. If we

lose, we’ll go back to the dreariness and squalor I remember

from my early years, back when we thought Emil was lost for

good. If we win the war, we’ll live in fear, and the world will

loathe us. Both are bad possibilities, but the latter is the worst.”

Camille looked at a loss for answers. “What else are we to

do?”“That’s my question. I ask it every day. All we’re doing is

supplying the dead with shrouds. How meaningful can that be?”

“It matters to the families who have lost a son or a brother.

Or a husband. It’s a small thing, but it’s needed. It’s—”

Three sharp raps sounded at the front door.

Camille picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth. “I

wonder who’s come calling. I haven’t forgotten a customer, have

I?” Pippi shrugged. The sound of a heavier pounding shook the

walls so much that a decorative plate hanging nearby rattled.

“I’m coming,” Camille called out.

From her vantage point, Pippi looked past her mother as she

opened the door. A soldier, dressed in a neat uniform, stood on

the front stoop. His rifle was slung over his shoulder by the

leather strap. “Heil Hitler.”

Her mother glanced back toward Pippi. Camille’s mouth had

dropped open, and all the color drained from her face. Pippi felt

a shock course through her. Had he been listening to her

speaking to her mother? How could he have? She had only raised

her voice slightly. One day last week, she had spoken frankly to

the butcher at the meat market, but he shared her political

viewpoints. At least it seemed that way. He wouldn’t have told

anyone…would he?

The soldier removed his cap. “Good afternoon, Madam. I am

Corporal Richter sent here on special assignment. May I come

in?” Camille didn’t seem to know what to say. Pippi rose, tossed

her napkin on the table, and strode to the door, pretending a

confidence she didn’t feel. “Hello, Corporal. Come in. How can

we help you?”

He stepped inside, bringing with him a giant gust of wind.

He wasn’t a large man, but he seemed to take all the air out of

the room. His eyes were a muddy gray-green, and his hair, cut

very short, was light brown and thinning. His whole face

Snow Moon Rising 191

smoldered with the fire of one pledged to carry out his duty, no

matter what.

Pippi straightened up and nudged her mother with an

elbow.

“I’ve forgotten my manners, Corporal,” Camille said.

“Please come into the kitchen and have a seat. Would you like a

refreshment? Some tea? A cool drink of water perhaps?”

“No, Madam, but thank you.” He didn’t make a move

toward the kitchen, instead turning to examine Pippi. “I assume

you are Fräulein Pauline Stanek?”

She didn’t comment on the fact that her married name was

Delebecque and “Frau” might be the more appropriate address.

“Yes, I am,” she said, even as her heart threatened to thud right

out of her chest. He reached for his low side pocket, unbuttoned

it, and removed a folded packet of papers, which he thrust at

her. “These are orders for you to report to Reich headquarters at

Eisenhüttenstadt for transport cross-country where you will be

employed as a supervisor at the textile plant.”

“What?” Camille’s mouth dropped open. “My daughter isn’t

a soldier. She cannot be ordered—”

“Excuse me, Madam. Each and every citizen must contribute

to the war effort. No one is exempt. Your daughter possesses

skills critical to Der Führer and the Fatherland. It is a great honor

for a woman to be selected to provide such help.”

Camille brought her fingers to her mouth for a moment.

“But—but we have a business we’re running here.”

He gave a curt nod. “Yes, and thankfully all of your good

work has brought Fräulein Stanek to our attention. She comes

highly recommended by many prominent businessmen in

Eisenhüttenstadt.”

Pippi’s mind raced. She didn’t want to work at a textile

plant. However, she could think of no way to protest, so she

stood, fingers interlaced in a grip that hurt her knuckles. They

couldn’t force her. Could they?

“Corporal, my daughter isn’t trained as a soldier, nor does

she have a factory background. You cannot expect her to pack

up, leave her home and family, and go off to some unsafe region

on the war front.”

“The area to which she has been assigned is in Poland,

which is now German territory controlled by our troops. It is

safe, and the factory is modern, but understaffed. Fräulein

Stanek is needed, and she will receive compensation for her

work.” He looked at his watch. “I will be gone for approximately

one and one half hours. I will return at two o’clock. You will be

ready for transport.”

192 Lori L. Lake

“Today?” Camille bent forward, taking the news as though

the soldier had struck her in the stomach. “You can’t mean

today.”

“Yes. That is exactly what I mean. Fräulein Stanek, you will

pack one suitcase and perhaps a purse or shoulder bag. Another

soldier and I will accompany you. We will arrive in

Eisenhüttenstadt this afternoon. There will be some paperwork

and an opportunity for you to shop for any travel necessities,

and then you will catch the six o’clock train to embark upon a

trip of approximately three days.”

In disbelief, Pippi said, “It’ll be all right, Mother. Don’t

worry.” She wondered if this was all a ruse. Was he speaking the

truth, or was she really being taken somewhere to be punished

for her radical beliefs? She unfolded the papers in her hands, but

before she had a chance to read them, the corporal came to

attention, his chin held high and eyes focused on the wall behind

Pippi’s head.

“Have I made myself understood, Fräulein Stanek?”

“Yes, Corporal, you have.”

“Very well, please be ready when I return for you. Heil

Hitler.” He executed a crisp about-face, turned the doorknob,

and was gone. Pippi felt as though a train had just chugged

through their living room.

“Oh, my God. This is terrible.” Camille pressed her fingers

to her mouth as tears coursed down her cheeks. “You must run.

Hide somewhere.”

Pippi let out a sigh. “There’s nowhere to run—or hide.”

“To France. To my people—”

“No. I couldn’t find safe passage. Besides, it’s no safer there.

Remember? That’s why I left.”

“But what if—” Camille couldn’t finish the question.

Pippi pulled her mother close. “Don’t cry. Listen to me. You

don’t have time to cry.”

Camille pulled back. “What do you mean?”

“Look at that stack of sewing over there. You’re going to

have to work double time to get all that done without me.”

“Are you kidding? Those morticians in Eisenhüttenstadt are

probably the ‘prominent’ businessmen who opened their big

mouths about you. If they think I’m going to rush their order,

then they’ve gone crazy.”

Pippi tried to smile, but she knew it came out looking grim.

“The whole world has gone crazy. There’s nothing for us to do

but accept it.”

Chapter

Twenty-Three

Southern Poland, February 1943 (Storm Moon)

FOR WEEKS ON end, Mischka and her three companions

had worked hard at the loading dock, each day managing to get

by on scavenged food whenever they could as they submitted to

every indignity their keepers threw at them. But the day came

when Vogel’s eyes lit upon Lidia, and with one toss of his head,

their bubble of protective security burst. Vogel beckoned, then

turned, dragging his bad leg as he made his way to the side

door.Mischka’s heart sank. She sought out Lidia’s frightened eyes

and tried to send her a silent message of strength, but the

terrified girl didn’t seem able to focus on anything or anyone.

Nelka made a gurgling sound. Mischka turned and her eyes

widened. Nelka stood, hands in fists and arms shaking. Her face

was red—so red that her scar hardly showed up. Mischka

stepped in front of the girl. “Shhh…shhh. She’ll be all right.

There’s nothing we can do.”

Vogel glanced over his shoulder, then wheeled around with

a frown on his face. “You! Get over here. I gave you an order.”

As if in a trance, Lidia stepped forward looking like each

step required a psychic shove from behind. Vogel resumed his

weaving path. Braunhaus hadn’t been paying any attention, but

when she looked their way and saw Aurora, Mischka, and Nelka

standing idle, she hollered, “Get back to work,” and slammed

her baton against the side of a cargo truck. The hollow-sounding

bang startled Mischka. She bent and reached into a crate. In a

moment she heard Braunhaus shrieking at someone else in the

far corner, so she tossed a pair of boots into a cart and looked at

Aurora whose eyes glistened with unshed tears. Nelka was

crying—hot, angry rivulets cutting down her face.

The waiting was terrible. Every nightmare vision Mischka

could imagine flashed through her mind’s eye. For the first time

194 Lori L. Lake

in years she had a visceral memory of Arben—of his rough hands

and the violent way he had so enjoyed taking her. But then,

mercifully, another vision filled her mind—of Tobar’s face and

his kind eyes and bushy beard. She thought of Emil, laughing,

and of her father and Gyorgy and Stevo. Even Cam’s face flashed

into her memory, and she was surprised. He had tormented her

when they were children, but he became a good man. There were

many good men who would not hurt women. Vogel just

happened not to be one of them.

Though it felt like time had slowed to a crawl, no more than

ten minutes passed before the side door opened and Lidia

emerged. Mischka realized that they had all been holding a

collective breath. She took a gulp of air and waited, standing

still, just as Nelka and Aurora did.

Lidia, unmarked and not looking any different than usual,

walked like an automaton toward them, her gaze on the ground.

She stepped past Aurora and lifted a jackboot out of the crate,

then stuck in a hand to hunt for its mate.

Nelka muttered, “Are you all right?” Lidia didn’t answer.

She grabbed her sister’s arm. “Lidia! Did he hurt you?”

Lidia lifted the uncomprehending eyes of a whipped puppy.

Braunhaus came up behind Mischka and smacked her baton

against the back of her legs, then Nelka’s. Nelka whirled to face

the guard, and Mischka had no trouble recognizing the blood-

lust in the young woman’s eyes. Once again she stepped in front

of the Polish girl, but it was Aurora who addressed the guard.

“This young one,” Aurora said, pointing to Lidia, “would

appreciate a few moments to visit the latrine.”

“I’ll bet she would.” The look of disgust on Braunhaus’s face

was evident to anyone in eyeshot. “I saw her go off for special

treatment. The slut gets no special favors from me. Get back to

work. All of you.” She raised the baton, and from the expression

on her face, Mischka thought she was begging for someone to

give her an excuse to rain down blows.

Throughout the exchange, Lidia had continued to bend and

reach, sort and drop. She was going through the motions of

pairing boots, but none of the items she picked up matched. She

snagged a pair of jackboots, both right feet, and wound the laces

together to prepare to tie them off. Aurora took them gently

from her hands. “Let me help.” She didn’t look Braunhaus in the

eye, but politely said, “Thank you for the reminder, ma’am.

We’re back up to full speed now.”

“You’d better be,” Braunhaus said. Someone near the

doorway of the loading area stifled a surprised yelp, and

Braunhaus squinted toward the entrance. A soldier was backing

Snow Moon Rising 195

up a cargo truck, but the way he weaved, he must have been a

novice. She stomped across the floor calling out, “Halt. Halt!

You’re driving like a moron. Watch out there…”

Nightfall couldn’t come soon enough. The three women

worked carefully at shielding the ineffective Lidia from the eyes

of their guard. When Braunhaus finally blew her whistle, it was

well past dark. Going through the motions, they’d all been

stumbling and ineffective for at least twenty minutes. None of

them could see to match two boots to save their lives. Mischka

was glad the workday was over.

Later, after they had eaten runny porridge and a half-slice of

bread, Mischka lay on the platform in their icebox barracks. As

usual, she was nearest the wall, then Aurora, Lidia, and Nelka

closest to the ladder. The entire barracks was quieter than usual.

The cold and fatigue continued to take its toll, and for most of

the women, slumber was their only escape. But Mischka couldn’t

sleep. She heard the whispers of Nelka and Aurora as they tried

to get Lidia to speak, but Lidia wasn’t cooperating. “She’s gone

to that other place I told her about,” Mischka said.

“What?” Aurora asked.

“She’s blanked everything out, Aurora. But it will pass.”

Nelka whispered, “How do you know? How can you be

sure?”

Mischka shrugged. “I can’t, but it would make sense.” She

thought of Valentina, her favorite sister-in-law from her days

with Arben’s kumpania. Donka and Terom had never been very

sympathetic, but sometimes after Arben beat her, Valentina and

Simza had been kind to Mischka, bringing cool compresses for

her bruises and stanching any blood flow from her face and nose.

Valentina was always the gentlest. A few times she had stayed

the night in the tent with Mischka, lying close, comforting her.

“Hold her,” Mischka told them. “Just hold and soothe her,

and that’s all you can do.”

MISCHKA DIDN’T FUSS over Lidia as Aurora and Nelka

did. She watched the girl closely, seeing little signs of life: an

increasing focus on the never-ending pile of boots, a quiet thank

you when Mischka scavenged and brought back a piece of coffee

cake for her, and eyes that gradually lost their vacantness. Lidia

took many days to emerge completely from her self-induced

walking coma, and by then Nelka was nearly mad with worry.

Mischka kept telling her to be patient, but Nelka would hear

none of it. Finally one day, behind one of the cargo trucks, Nelka

got into Mischka’s face and said, “He didn’t take you back there

196 Lori L. Lake

and savage you. How the hell would you know?”

Mischka gazed down at her. She admired Nelka’s spirit, but

her sister didn’t have that same fire. Lidia was a softer, gentler

person who had been wounded by a crude, thoughtless animal.

Lidia saw no way to fight back, not like Nelka did. Nelka had

made it clear that she would sacrifice her life in order to strike

out at Vogel or anyone else who came at her or her sister again.

“Lidia isn’t you, Nelka. She’s not a fighter at heart. And

sometimes there is no fight to be fought anyway.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing to be done. You have to close

your eyes and endure the pain.”

“That’s not acceptable! And it’s oh-so-easy for you to say.

You’ve never had to deal with such an abomination.”

Mischka shook her head sadly. “A thousand times have I

borne it.”

“Oh, please.” Her tone was mocking.

Mischka sighed. She wondered if it was important for Nelka

to understand her life with Arben. “Every day, sometimes twice

a day, except when I got my bloods, my husband dealt with me

as Vogel used your sister.”

“That’s preposterous. He was your husband.”

“Should husbands be allowed to beat their wives senseless

before seeking their pleasure? Most of his attacks were fueled

first by a beating, then by using me as though I were nothing and

nobody. He gave no thought toward my comfort or pain. Nor did

he ever seek my permission to use my body in such a cruel way.”

Nelka stared at her in horror. “Daily?”

“Yes, which is why all of our focus must be on keeping Lidia

out of Vogel’s line of sight. Instead of wishing him death and

staring daggers at him day in and day out, you need to work to

make her as unobtrusive as possible. If you don’t, he’ll do it

again. In fact, we may not be able to prevent it—but perhaps we

can keep it from happening so often.”

For the first time since Mischka had known her, Nelka burst

into tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and contorted her face

into a mask of such pain and despair that Mischka wanted to

reach out for her. Instead she crawled into the cargo truck to

wrestle out the next crate.

Nelka crawled in next to Mischka. “It’s not fair, Mischka.

It’s not. Without this scar, he could have taken me instead of my

sister, and I would have been able to kill that lazy, crippled

bastard.”

Mischka smiled at the ferocity in her friend’s voice. “No,

you wouldn’t. That would endanger every woman on this work

Snow Moon Rising 197

detail, and you wouldn’t do that to all of us.”

“I can’t bear it,” Nelka whispered through her tears. “I can’t.

If I knew where he bunked I’d sneak into his quarters and slit his

throat. It’s all I think of, all I dream of. I can’t restrain myself.”

“Yes, you can. They’d catch you and kill you, and that

would hurt Lidia much more than anything else could. She needs

you now, Nelka. Be solid, be angry for her, be strong. You’re

keeping her going. You’re helping to keep us all going with your

fire. Don’t let them put that fire out.”

“What are you two doing in there?” Vogel stood behind

them partially blocking the light. Mischka gave a mighty pull,

and the crate slid a few feet toward her. “If I catch you napping

in there, I’ll beat you to within an inch of your lives.”

“Yes, sir,” was all Mischka said. She pulled at the crate as

she crawled out of the truck. Vogel lost interest and wandered

away. Looking back at Nelka, Mischka grinned. “I was sure you

were going to shove the crate on top of him and try to crush the

life out of his useless carcass.”

“I hadn’t thought of that. What a good idea. I’ll have to try it

next time.” Nelka wiped her tears on the dirty sleeve of her coat

and leaned into the crate.

Chapter

Twenty-Four

Southern Poland, First Day of March 1943 (Chaste Moon)

THE LAST FEW days of Storm Moon passed quietly. When

March’s Chaste Moon was not yet two days old, the first of many

storms blanketed the camp with heavy, moist snow that was at

first sloppy. Then the multitude of footprints and the

indentations from car tires formed frozen ridges overnight,

making walking slippery and treacherous. More than one woman

fell on the way to the loading dock.

The snow fell drier and harder as the days of bitter cold

continued. It slipped into collars, blew against bare calves, stuck

to uncovered heads, and made everyone’s lives miserable. The

sun had not yet risen when Mischka awoke on yet another

freezing morning, lying on her side, pressed against Aurora’s

back, with her hands tucked under her armpits. The front of her

was adequately warm. But her calves and feet felt like blocks of

ice. Mischka tried to absorb what warmth she could for a few

minutes, then crawled over the three women next to her,

descended the ladder, and made her way to the latrine and back.

She was often the first to rise. Usually she grabbed the broom

and swept the barracks. The tidier they kept it, the less the

guards had to attack them for. The angry blonde woman,

Braunhaus, had been assigned to them since the beginning of the

new year, and it took little to set her off.

Mischka swept with vigor while occasionally stopping to

hop in place and flex her legs. Just to get the blood to flow was a

struggle, but her feet were gradually feeling warmer.

She was at the back end of the barracks when the front door

slammed open, and Braunhaus stepped in, yelling, “Awake!” She

followed this with her usual whistle blast, a sharp, shrill burst of

painful sound, and strutted down the center aisle rapping her

baton against the sides of the wood platforms. “Up. Up, you lazy

Snow Moon Rising 199

hags. Up, up.”

As she drew near, Mischka stepped to the side, her eyes

lowered.

“Tsk, tsk—why are you the one always sweeping. Give me

that.” Braunhaus wrenched the broom from Mischka’s hands.

With the wooden end, she jabbed the midsection of a groggy

woman just emerging from a lower bunk. “You. You shall

sweep.” She prodded Mischka with the broom. “You are not to

sweep.”

“No, ma’am. Thank you.”

“That’s right, you should thank me. I don’t know why

they’ve forced the job upon you, but you’re relieved of the duty

for the rest of the week. Let some of these other ne’er-do-wells

take a turn. Now, go get ready for Zählappell.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

All around, women were crawling from their bunks and

moving sleepily toward the doors. They had very little time to

visit the latrine, and as the moments passed, they moved more

quickly.

Mischka could not understand why the Germans were so

obsessed with morning and evening Zählappell, when the

prisoners lined up outside and were counted. Based upon the

location of their sleeping pallets, they were made to line up in

rows up to twelve. Because Mischka and her three friends were

near the door, they were in the front row, along with the women

who slept in the middle pallet below. Row two consisted of the

women crammed in the bunk across from them, and rows three

and four were for the next two bunks and so forth. Some of the

women trod out immediately and stood shivering in the snow,

but Mischka waited in the barracks for as long as she could. The

temperature outside was at least twenty degrees colder.

When she could stall no longer, she stepped through the

door and found her spot, fourth in row one. The wind from the

north wasn’t very forceful, but it was bitterly cold, and she

hunched over, her hands in the useless pockets of her

lightweight coat. The other women gradually assembled,

standing silently, waiting for Braunhaus to send them to a shed

where their meager rations were distributed. They were

expected to consume them quickly on the walk to the loading

dock.Braunhaus wore sturdy black leather boots and an olive-

colored wool coat that nearly reached her ankles. Under the

heavy coat, Mischka knew she was clad in a long skirt and tunic,

both made of wool, over a white blouse. Black, lined gloves

covered her hands, and her neck was swathed in a drab-olive

200 Lori L. Lake

muffler. Perhaps her ankles would feel some chill, but there was

little chance that she would suffer ill effects from the weather.

What interested Mischka the most was the leather and animal fur

hat Braunhaus wore pulled down low and over her ears. None of

the other guards had such a hat. It resembled the style of

headgear that Gyorgy had been very good at creating, and

looking upon it made her lonesome for her brother.

She forced her mind away from that painful train of thought

and stared up at the colorless sky. She could just make out the

Chaste Moon, still lingering in the early morning. The Storm

Moon had passed before she thought about planning for the

future as she normally did in February. She wondered if she

would even have a future. Would any of them survive this? What

would happen when the war was over? The Germans were

obviously going to prevail, and wouldn’t they keep them all

here, wasting away, working until their deaths? The prisoners

were nothing to them. Nothing. Her anger burned, the slight

warmth moving up from the middle of her chest and into her

face. Too bad that couldn’t keep her warm through the night.

Braunhaus blew her whistle and jerked Mischka out of her

thoughts.

“The count is off. One of you is missing. Who is missing?”

Mischka felt a hysterical giggle and forced it down. If

someone was missing, how could the person answer that it was

she? Braunhaus walked along the side of their formation. “Row

one, row two, row three. I believe there should be eleven in row

four here. Who is missing from this row?”

Mischka stared at the ground, willing someone to speak up

and identify the missing woman. If someone had escaped, it

would go badly for all of them.

As if to echo Mischka’s thoughts, Braunhaus stomped her

booted foot in the hard-packed snow. “By God, if you have

collaborated to help her escape, you shall all suffer.” She

shouted, “All of you!” Gripping her wood baton in her right

hand, she smacked the end of it against her left palm, and

Mischka could tell the German was growing angry. “Where is

she?”A little slip of a girl at the end of the row whispered,

“Excuse me, ma’am, but I believe her name is Basia.”

“Where is she?” Braunhaus said, her voice low and ominous.

“I don’t know.”

The guard tapped the girl in the middle of the chest. “You

will go search the barracks.” The girl turned and ran toward the

door. “The rest of you will stand here in the cold until this Basia

Snow Moon Rising 201

is found. If she isn’t found, you will stand here all day, through

snow and storm.”

The barracks door slammed open, and the girl trotted out,

wringing her hands. “Oh. Oh.”

“What is it? Report immediately.”

“I think she’s dead. She’s just...lying there. With her eyes

open.”

“Very well.” Braunhaus tucked her baton under her arm,

obviously relieved that she wouldn’t be found derelict of duty.

“I shall adjust my count. You are dismissed.”

They knew well enough to proceed line by line toward the

soup shack, but since they were the last barracks to arrive, only

half of them received a whole bun. The other half had to split

theirs. Mischka had eaten a potato and two burnt pieces of toast

the night before, so she allowed Aurora to have her half of the

bread.

Petronela clucked her tongue and made a whining sound.

Mischka turned to make her way to the loading dock, and

whatever Petronela muttered Mischka did not hear.

DAYS OF BITTER cold passed, and Mischka did not know

how each of them managed to stay alive through the nights. The

weaker and thinner women and girls on the lower pallets

suffered terribly and were most likely to be found frozen stiff in

the morning. More than once Aurora said, “Thank God you

steered us to the top rack.”

Petronela slept on a top pallet between two other women.

One of the sad-eyed girls, Jannie, who now slept alone on the

bottom shelf of Petronela’s bunk, pleaded to be allowed to move

up with them, but Petronela refused her saying, “This is where

we were assigned, and you aren’t allowed to get us all in trouble

by moving.”

No amount of begging by Jannie would change the obstinate

woman’s mind. Mischka thought it sheer cruelty on Petronela’s

part and was relieved when three women on a middle pallet

made room for Jannie.

As each day went by, it grew harder to differentiate between

any of the women, so none of the guards, Braunhaus included,

knew who was who. Each prisoner wore the same defeated, wan

look, and stayed hunched over in a perpetual attempt to stay

warm. Each woman’s hair had grown out an inch or two, so some

were obviously blondes or brunettes or with a chestnut tinge,

but that didn’t help the guards keep track. None of the guards

ever called anyone by name. “Hey, you,” coupled with a pointed

202 Lori L. Lake

finger was the most common address followed closely by “Hey,

stupid.”

One night, as she lay in her bunk, Mischka realized that no

new prisoners had been brought to the camp for some time. No

one had to sleep on any of the bottom shelves now. Women in all

the barracks were falling ill, starving, dropping dead. With a

quick calculation Mischka counted forty-six in their building.

From over sixty healthy women down to these scrawny, half-

dead wrecks. The forays with Nelka into the garbage were

nowhere near enough.

Aurora moved from her side to lie on her back and was

humming a tune.

“What music is that?” Mischka asked.

“A psalm.”

‘I don’t know what that is. Psalm.”

“It’s from the Bible—words set to music. Or they can merely

be spoken as well.”

“I see. Are there words?”

“Yes. Want to sing it with me?”

“I have no voice, never have. You sing it for me.”

“The refrain is easy—mostly all on three notes. You can sing

that.” She took a breath and sang:

You are my refuge, O Lord;

my portion in the land of the living.

“Try that.”

They sang it together once, then again, and on the third try

Nelka chimed in, then said, “I’ll sing that part with you,

Mischka, so you’ll know when to sing the refrain.” Quietly at

first, Aurora sang the first part:

I cry to the Lord with my voice;

to the Lord I make loud supplication

I pour out my complaint before him and tell him all my trouble

When my spirit languishes within me, you know my path

Where I walk they have hidden a trap for me

With a raspy voice, Nelka sang the refrain heartily along

with Mischka and Lidia. “Good,” Aurora said, then went on:

I look to my right hand and find no one who knows me

I have no place to flee to, and no one cares for me

I cry out to you, O Lord, I say,

“You are my refuge, my portion in the land of the living.”

Snow Moon Rising 203

Now the women nearby sang with them, and their voices

rang out loudly. Someone else farther down the row voiced the

next part in harmony with Aurora:

Listen to my cry for help, for I have been brought very low

Save me from those who pursue me,

for they are too strong for me

Bring me out of prison, that I may give thanks to your Name

When you have dealt bountifully with me, the righteous will

gather around me .

Mischka wasn’t sure she believed in this Lord they sang of,

and she had little hope that they would all be bountifully dealt

with any time soon. Still, she sang the refrain one last time.

You are my refuge, O Lord;

my portion in the land of the living.

The voices from other bunks faded, and Lidia said, “The

psalm makes me feel sad.” No one disagreed, and the absence of

the music left a hollow emptiness in the air, but no one tried to

fill it.“I’m glad we’re still in the land of the living,” Mischka said.

“And I as well.” Aurora’s voice cracked, and Mischka knew

she was weeping.

“Don’t cry, don’t, Aurora.”

“But my boys, my husband…” She choked up. “I think it’s

likely that I’ll never see them again.”

Mischka said, “Don’t think that way. We don’t know.”

“Just keep praying,” Lidia said. “It’s all we can do.”

Mischka threw an arm across Aurora’s waist and found

Lidia’s arm already there.

They lay huddled like that until Aurora’s breath evened out,

and Mischka knew she was asleep. The face of an older man,

gray-haired, came to mind, and for a moment she wasn’t sure

who he was. Then she remembered. Old Jaworski. The farmer-

veterinarian. She wondered why he’d come to mind after all

these years, and then she recalled him talking about his God and

the prophet Jesus. Verily I say to you, whatever you do to the least of

us, that you do unto the Christian God. She knew her memory of

the words wasn’t quite accurate, but the sentiment was right.

Their captors must be godless, and no refuge would be found

here, in the land of the uncaring.

After that night, Mischka didn’t ask Aurora to sing again.

Chapter

Twenty-Five

Southern Poland, March 1943 (Chaste Moon)

PIPPI STEPPED OFF the train into cold gusts of snow-swept

wind. She had no idea where they were, but she’d been on the

train for two days, and the fresh air, despite its frigid

temperature, smelled good. The interior of the train stank of

sweat and old, dirty laundry. The compartment in which she

rode was tinder-dry from the furnace in the corner that cranked

out far more heat than they needed. The furnace was either

completely off or on full blast, and when turned off, the car grew

cold and unbearable far too quickly. So she and her three

compartment mates suffered the swelter.

She pulled up the collar of her coat against the wind and

walked briskly from one end of the wooden platform to the

other. A wind-battered roof covered the middle section of the

platform, but that was it. She went to the end of the wooden

planks and stood staring out across a vast expanse of snow.

Other than the snow-encrusted train tracks, the area was

empty—no trees, no houses, no visible roads, just endless white

drifts of snow for as far as Pippi could see.

A boot clumped on the plank behind her and she turned

slightly. A tall, blond man in a dark brown uniform moved next

to her. He carried his hat under his left arm, but his posture was

not as stiff and upright as she was used to seeing from other

officers. She hadn’t yet figured out what the various stripes and

slashes on uniforms meant, and she really didn’t care. His blue

eyes met hers respectfully as he gave her a nod. “Be careful

there, Fräulein. If you went over the side in this wind, we might

not see you buried in all that snow.”

“Yes, sir.” She stepped back a few inches.

“Actually, it’s Major. Major Friedrich Fischer. And you

are?”“Pauline Stanek. Pleased to make your acquaintance,

Snow Moon Rising 205

Major.” She reached out, and their two gloved hands grasped

briefly.

He smiled, revealing small, straight teeth with one chip on

the left front tooth. He had a cleft in his square chin, and he was

so clean-shaven that his face had the appearance of being wind

burned. She thought he was probably about thirty years old.

“May I assume that you are on the way to the factory along

with some of these others?”

“Yes, I am, Major, but I’m not aware of who else is going

there.” She had purposely kept to herself. She had no idea

whether any of the other travelers were spies or rascals, and she

wasn’t taking any chances.

“What is your skill, Fräulein?”

“Sewing.”

“Very much needed. I’m glad that you, a civilian, were

willing to come to the aid of the Reich during these trying

times.”

“Yes, of course.” Pippi wondered if all soldiers were given

some sort of special training to phrase things in that

unbelievably ridiculous manner, as though the German war

machine was gifted by God above. The major sounded just like

the corporal who had conscripted her.

“And since you did not correct my address of you as

Fräulein, am I to assume that you are unmarried?”

“Widowed.” She shivered, and he gave a nod. Pippi thought

he probably assumed her husband had died in the war. Well, he

had—just not on the side of Germany.

The train whistle blew twice. “Time to resume our journey,”

Major Fischer said as he took her elbow and guided her back. As

she passed the porter and stepped up onto the box to the

entrance stair, the train belched out black smoke. It wafted back

her way, engulfing her for a moment, and smelling sooty and

dank. The wind carried it away, and she glanced behind to see

the major grab the rail and pull himself up the stairs, his left arm

held tight against his stomach.

AGNES BRAUNHAUS LEANED against the doorframe of

Pippi’s tiny bedroom, smoking a cigarette. Pippi hated the harsh,

acrid smell and was appalled that she was stuck with the rough,

hard-faced woman as her roommate.

The metal edge of the narrow bed frame dug into the back of

Pippi’s legs. She swept another quick look around the drab

room, little more than a cell. Two tiny beds hugged adjacent

corners, and a tall bureau sat between them. The window was

206 Lori L. Lake

very clearly painted shut, and whatever wallpaper had once

adorned the walls had been painted over in an ugly dun color.

Even the ceiling was the same dismal tan. She felt for the center

of the bed. The sheets and blanket had been pulled tight and the

corners made square, but underneath, the center of the bed sank

into a deep depression.

“It’s not much, I know,” Agnes was saying. “Not any too

comfortable, but we’ve got three hots and a cot, as those damn

British Royal Marines say, and it’s the best we can expect. Where

are you from, Pauline?”

“A village on the edge of Eisenhüttenstadt—on Poland’s

western border.”

“Lucky you.” Agnes took another drag. “When they brought

me here a year ago, I had to travel from Duisburg. Western

Germany, that is—near the Netherlands.”

Pippi knew her German geography and didn’t need the

explanation. She found the woman annoying and didn’t reply.

“Long hours here. We’ve lost so many of the men in this

camp. They let them work light duty out here while recovering

from injuries, then snatch them away a few months later. A

regular revolving door. How about that Major Fischer?

Handsome, isn’t he?”

Pippi didn’t like the predatory gleam in the woman’s eyes.

She tried to smile, but between physical fatigue and her disgust,

she must not have looked very convincing.

Agnes sucked hard one last time on the cigarette, then put it

out by jabbing it against the doorframe. “I’ll let you get

unpacked now. I’ve got the top three drawers. The bottom three

are clear for you.” She pointed to the wall near the foot of their

beds. “As you can see, I have the hooks there on the left. Yours

are on the right. If you need anything, give me a call. I’m always

Agnes-on-the-Spot. You’ll see.” With a bright smile, she turned

and tap-tapped down the hallway.

A sense of bleakness overwhelmed Pippi, a hopelessness so

soul-wrenching that it was all she could do not to rise and run

from her quarters. But where would she go? Her view of the

camp had revealed little—a well-guarded front gate, row after

row of snow-covered barracks, their grim-looking, square

quarters, and an immense and dirty building which coughed out

more black smoke than the train had.

She rose and went to the one window in the room. Through

a haze of lightly falling snow, she could see nothing else. How

long would she be stuck in this horrible barren place?

Snow Moon Rising 207

THE NEXT MORNING, Pippi appeared in the dining room

at the appointed time. The meal was served family style from

chafing dishes at a table that seated twelve. The meal times had

been staggered in ten-minute increments, and Pippi didn’t have

to wait when she entered the room. The various members of the

household slipped into seats, ate quickly, then excused

themselves. The chafing dishes held oily sausages and scrambled

eggs slimy with sausage grease. She took small amounts and

choked down what she could. At least the milk was cold and

rich. As she pocketed an apple for later, Agnes swept into the

room.

“Good morning, all.” Agnes smiled at a tired-looking man

who was just leaving the room. Pippi looked at him, wondering

who he might be. With his terrible posture, he obviously wasn’t

a soldier. He brushed by, a linen napkin in one hand.

Thomas, the cook, pushed past with a fresh chafing dish to

replace the near-empty dish of eggs. His belly hung far over his belt,

and no apron could possibly disguise the rolls of fat he possessed.

“There you go,” he said, and waddled back into the kitchen.

Pippi moved her chair closer to the table and watched Agnes

lean in and take the lid off a pan of eggs. They looked as greasy

and congealed as the last batch, but Agnes didn’t seem to notice.

She served herself an enormous helping, speared four sausages,

and sat down. “Looking forward to your first day, eh?”

Pippi nodded, feeling queasy from more than just the food.

She waited in her chair and listened to the others around the

table as they spoke of the weather and the war. She wasn’t sure

what to do next, and then the man with the linen napkin came

back into the room and tossed the napkin on the table by his

vacated seat. He wore a wrinkled dark blue business suit that

looked none too fresh.

“Fräulein Stanek.” She rose, and he held out a hand. “I’m

Felix Schuster, the manager of the two factories here. I’m

prepared now to escort you to your workplace. Would you

please come with me?”

She found her coat crowded among others in the front

closet, and he led her across the snow-packed area out front.

“It would be much easier if we had a door on this end of the

building, but it’s a pity, we do not. So we must walk around to

the side.” He led her toward the fence, a monstrosity of barbed

wire and metal some twenty feet high. They walked near the

dirty brick building with the fence a stone’s throw to their right.

At about fifty-yard intervals, armed soldiers stood inside

wooden shells that would give scant protection from the

inclement weather. She looked back over her shoulder. Shells

208 Lori L. Lake

lined the fence as far as she could see.

Schuster led her up some slick cement stairs. “Here we are.”

He wrenched open the door and allowed her to step ahead of

him into a huge, drafty space. She saw scores of crates, some

partially unpacked and others stacked nearly all the way up to

the 18-foot-tall ceiling. “Storage here,” he said. “Mostly you’ll

find leather and boot-making materials which end up being used

at the other factory. You won’t have anything to do with that.

Follow me.”

He led her down a short corridor to a stairway, laid his hand

on the banister, and looked back at her. “This is the staff-only

stairway. None of the laborers are ever to use these steps.” He

strode up the long staircase, rounded the top at a small landing,

then went up another flight. He paused at a small alcove and

gestured toward a door. “Second floor is where leather goods are

assessed, cleaned, and recommissioned or sent over for repair to

the leather-works building on the men’s side of the camp.”

After two more flights to the third floor, he said, “Storage,

packing boxes, and the like. If any of your seamstresses need

replacement clothing, this is where you can find it.”

By the fourth floor, Schuster was huffing and not moving

nearly so quickly. He stopped at the landing. “I try not to trot all

this way too often. Whew! It always seems the steps grow

steeper these last two floors.” Pippi, too, was a bit out of breath,

and she noticed a strange, rank odor. Schuster was wheezing and

pushing at his knees with the palms of his hands. He paused to

inhale and exhale several times and then said, “On this floor, we

warehouse sewing goods, mostly yardage and thread. You and

the other girls will spend a lot of time getting the supplies you

need from here. There’s a dumbwaiter you can use, too.” He took

a deep breath and continued up the stairs.

The fifth floor landing was dark and dingy. The smell of

dust and something burning assailed her nose. With every step

she took, whirring and grinding noises grew louder. She

followed Schuster into an alcove outside a double-wide

doorway. He strutted through the doorway into a room no less

than fifty yards wide. Pippi had seen pastures smaller than this.

But she’d never seen a pasture with row after row of sewing

machines humming and clacking. She stood in the doorway,

amazed at the number of workers hunched over the machines. At

first guess, there must be at least two hundred. Two women in

gray sweaters and olive green skirts walked slowly along the

walls, watching the workers.

A pair of desks sat to the left of the door, a few feet from the

wall, providing anyone who sat at them with a view of the

Snow Moon Rising 209

workers from behind. Next to the desks were huge folding tables

loaded with packaging materials. The dumbwaiter Schuster had

mentioned was built into the rear wall. She assumed it was used

to transfer goods to and from the various floors.

The entire east wall was made up of long, narrow windows

that started four feet from the floor and stopped about two feet

from the ceiling. Sunlight, dulled by an overcast sky, cast pallid

beams through the dirty glass.

“Herr Schuster, are the windows our only source of

illumination?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Lightbulbs are in short supply, so the

seamstresses work only from sunup to sundown. That’s all the

time we can manage.”

“And my task here is to do what?”

“Improve speed and efficiency. That’s it in a nutshell.”

IN THE THREE days that Pippi spent observing the

seamstresses, she discovered a number of unpleasant facts. For

one thing, the room stank to high heaven. She could smell the

unwashed bodies from the stairwell by the time she reached the

fourth floor, and the closer she came to the sewing workroom,

the stronger and more sickening the odor became. The women

were ill-clad, dirty, and apparently never allowed to bathe. This

troubled Pippi almost as much as the haunted looks in the

workers’ eyes. And how frightened the women were! Few ever

raised their heads much less looked at her.

She quickly learned that the majority didn’t speak much

German beyond basic phrases. Polish, Hungarian, French, Czech

and Slovak dialects, and even Russian were more likely to be

their native tongues. Two French women at side-by-side

machines nearly fainted when she tried out a few French phrases

near them. If only she knew more languages. Simply shouting

louder in German didn’t help any of them understand

instructions.

As she wandered out on the floor, she saw the women

ranged from young to middle-aged, and she quickly learned that

they possessed widely varying skill levels. Some worked the

cloth through the machines with agility, while others fumbled.

About a dozen rarely seemed to jam up their machines, while the

majority were constantly stopping to untangle spools of thread

or rip out badly sewn seams. She wondered how much of the

inefficiency had to do with dehydration and lack of

nourishment, and she planned to ask about that after she got

better acquainted with how the operation ran.

210 Lori L. Lake

An endless stream of torn or damaged tunics, breeches, and

coats arrived for repair, but there were also daily orders for new

uniforms. Looking over the records, Pippi quickly saw they were

weeks behind in production.

It took her a while to figure out that the other three German

women who supervised the area didn’t know much about

sewing, but they were able to process the orders received and

ensure that the completed projects were properly crated and sent

off. And they meted out discipline, but other than keeping the

workers quiet and at work, Frau Greta, Fräulein Bernadette, and

Frau Elke were unable or unwilling to correct the problems Pippi

could so easily detect.

She thought them an odd lot. They had been conscripted

much the same way as Pippi had. Greta was in her late twenties,

while Pippi guessed Bernadette was near forty. Elke had

mentioned that she’d just celebrated her fiftieth birthday. The

latter two had been working at the factory since it was captured

shortly after 1939, when the assault on Poland began. Greta had

joined the staff only a few months ago.

Not only because of their looks—blue eyes, blonde hair—but

also because of their behavior and lack of drive, Pippi thought

all three could have been sisters. They barked orders and were

unsparing with the use of the batons they carried. They didn’t

wield heavy-duty soldiers’ batons, but thinner wands of wood

about a meter long. Felix Schuster proudly presented Pippi with

a matching baton, and she accepted it with trepidation. If she

carried it around with her, she’d have nowhere to put it when

she stopped to untangle a bobbin or correct the sewing of any

worker. No wonder everything moved so slowly and poorly. She

quickly learned that Greta, Elke, and Bernadette did little other

than yell and threaten.

Near the end of the third day, as the sun went down in the

late afternoon, Pippi had had enough. She sat at one of the desks

and pondered the changes that needed to be made. Two hundred

and three seamstresses worked in the giant room. Just in front of

the supervisors’ desks, the sewing machines were arrayed in

three groups of four, with each seamstress facing the far wall—

just like students in school. Twenty-two rows total started at the

back and went to the far end. Twelve times twenty-two, Pippi

thought...but not all the machines were in use. Sixty-one units

sat empty, and Pippi asked why. “Are we short on

seamstresses?”

Elke, who sat at the other desk sorting buttons, said, “No,

there’s plenty more where they came from. The machines are

broken.”

Snow Moon Rising 211

“Broken?” Pippi asked. “Broken in what way?”

Elke shrugged. “I’m no mechanic.”

“Have we had a mechanic up here to look at them?”

Bernadette came to stand by Pippi, then slid a hip along the

side of the battered gray desk, leaned her weight there, and

crossed her arms. “The soldiers are busy, and Felix is less

mechanical than we are. He’s great with sums and totals, but he

knows next to nothing about sewing machines.”

Pippi looked out the dirty window nearby. “I see scores of

barracks out there. Aren’t they full?”

Bernadette frowned. “Yes.”

“Surely there are men—or perhaps even women—who are

mechanics. Why don’t we get someone in here?”

Elke rose. She was half a head taller than Pippi and a decade

and a half older, so Pippi wasn’t surprised when she lifted her

nose in the air and said, “You’ve been put in charge. Feel free to

stroll through the barracks and ask.”

Pippi smiled politely. “I have another idea.” She looked at

the sea of backs hunched over their machines. Before she could

speak, she heard Greta let out a string of criticism. Greta stood

several rows up, squeezed between two of the sections of four.

The pale wood of the switch whisked through the air three times

and struck a dark-haired woman. The hum of the sewing

machines wavered. Greta shouted, “This is none of your

business. The rest of you attend to your work.”

Pippi raised an index finger and beckoned Greta. The young

woman strutted toward them as though proud of her

performance. Anger burned in Pippi, but she didn’t dare express

it. Instead she said, “I’ve got some productivity ideas, and I hope

you’ll all go along with me and help me try them.”

Greta looked her up and down, then shrugged. “What’s it to

me. This job doesn’t matter. It’s awful work. These ungrateful

women are impossible to motivate. I hate them all.” Elke and

Bernadette murmured agreement.

“That may be so,” Pippi said, “but if we can get additional

workers, we can produce more.”

“Yeah?” Greta said, one hand on her hip and the other

flicking the switch. “How do you propose to do that?”

Pippi didn’t answer. She called out, “Halt. I’d like your

attention. Now.” She had to circle the room once before she was

able to get everyone to stop. When the room was silent, she said,

“I know some of you may not understand me, but those who do,

try to communicate with those around you. I want you all to

stand.” About a third of the women rose hesitantly. After a lot of

whispering and hand motions, the rest of the women rose and

212 Lori L. Lake

faced the far wall.

Pippi strode to the windows and walked along the little aisle

to the far end of the room so that she faced the workers. “Turn

around your sewing machines and chairs.” With both hands, she

made circular motions. Greta stood near the doorway at the

other end of the room, a look of disbelief on her face. Pippi

clapped. “Now, please. Spin your sewing machine the other

direction—toward Fräulein Elke.” Pippi stepped up to a terrified

little slip of a woman, pulled her chair back, and grabbed hold of

the sewing machine. “Turn your machine to face that way—like

this.”She had to walk around the room and up the middle aisles

and keep urging them to follow the directions before finally they

understood. A few looked like they might faint, but nervously

they all turned their machines 180 degrees. Scarecrows in dresses

was the phrase that came to Pippi’s mind as she helped one

woman. “Good,” she said. “Now resume your seats.” She patted

the nearest chair, motioned for the woman to sit, and rejoined

the supervisors in the front of the desks.

Elke said, “Fräulein Pauline, what is the use of this?”

“Now we can see which of the machines are running and

which aren’t.”

“Couldn’t we have just turned the broken ones? There

would have been less of them.”

Bernadette said, “This is ridiculous. I don’t want these

tramps looking at me all day!”

Greta stood to the side frowning. “Couldn’t we merely have

put signs on the unoccupied machines that are broken? Is this

really necessary?”

Pippi shrugged. “I suppose we could have, but actually, I’d

like to be able to see the faces of the workers anyway.” Pippi

turned back to the seated women. “See these other machines that

are broken?” She pointed at the units that still faced the other

end of the room. “Does anyone know how to fix them?” She

repeated the question in German and French, then used her

limited Polish words to try to get the idea across.

She waited for a low murmur to die down as the women

consulted with one another, and then they were silent. A few

looked up at her, but the majority stared down at their sewing

machines.

Pippi hadn’t examined any of the broken units, so she didn’t

know what was wrong with them, but she had a hunch she’d be

able to fix some of them. Out of 203 people, there must be

someone who could help her, though. She said, “Tell me who is

mechanical and willing to help me, and you shall receive a small

Snow Moon Rising 213

ration of food.”

Again, a murmur of discussion went on, and some of the

women on the right side pointed to a scrawny, brown-haired girl

in the middle.

“You.” Pippi pointed. “Yes, you. Come here. The rest of you

may get back to your sewing.” It took a minute for people to get

their material in place and adjust their treadles, but soon the

room was humming as usual.

The girl who had been called forward stood with one fist on

an unused machine. Pippi saw that her knuckles were white

from gripping it so tight. The loafer-style shoes on her feet were

at least two sizes too big, and her pale peach housedress was

thin and specked with dirt.

“Your name?” Pippi asked. The girl looked up, wide-eyed,

and clearly terrified. Her eyes were dark brown and her face

very pale. Pippi repeated the request.

“Mariel.”

“You speak French?” The girl nodded. “Excellent, Mariel,”

Pippi said in French.

Greta made a grumbling sound. “You don’t need to know

these sluts’ names, Pauline, that’s for sure. Believe me, you don’t

want to know their names.”

Pippi gave her what she hoped would pass for a sincere

smile while wishing she could rip the switch from Greta’s hands

and use it on her. She pulled the unused sewing machine into the

walkway in front of Elke’s desk and motioned for Mariel to sit.

The girl grabbed the chair and lowered herself into it. Pippi

handed her a scrap of material about six inches square. “Give

this a try.”

Mariel pumped the treadle but the needle didn’t move.

When she met Pippi’s eyes, she looked like she expected to be

beaten. Pippi waited. “Well? What shall we do?”

The girl lifted the metal unit from the wooden frame and

rolled it back to look underneath. Pippi barely heard her next

words. “Treadle belt is off.”

Pippi could see it and nodded. “What do you do?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, nothing?”

“I have to punch out the plug and feed the belt over that

groove in the hand wheel and down to the drive wheel.”

“Show me.”

If it were possible to get any paler, Mariel did. “I—I would

like to…to help, but I have no tools to do it with.”

Pippi let out a cackle of surprise that obviously startled the

girl. “You’re joking, right?”

214 Lori L. Lake

Mariel shook her head. “No, this is the problem many of the

broken machines have.”

“Let’s get to work then. Elke, where are the tools for

tinkering with the machines?”

Elke, who sat slouched behind her desk, said, “I’ve got a

pocketknife and a screwdriver.” She unlocked a desk drawer and

rooted around, then came up with both and slammed the drawer

shut.Pippi took them and held out the screwdriver to Mariel.

Greta and Bernadette rushed at Pippi and pulled her aside.

“Wait a minute, Pauline. You can’t give her that.”

“What? Why not?”

Greta grabbed Pippi’s elbow. In a sharp whisper she said,

“It’s a weapon. You can’t let her get hold of it.”

Pippi sighed. “What’s she going to do with it? Stab all of us

and run? And if she did, where would she go?”

“Why do you think these women are here?” Bernadette

tapped her temple. “They’re not quite right up here. Or else

they’ve been arrested for crimes. You can’t trust any of them.”

“I’ll carefully supervise her, Bernadette. Stop worrying.”

Pippi wrested her arm away and returned to the sewing

machine. “Mariel, you punch out the plug with this, and I’ll help

you pry the belt onto the wheel.”

With a nod, Mariel accepted the screwdriver, and in two

minutes of tugging and coaxing, they fixed the belt. The girl

tried out the machine, and now the treadle moved the needle up

and down. “I’ll have to adjust the tension for the top and for the

bobbin case, too. Is that all right?”

Pippi grinned. “Of course.” Five minutes later, the machine

was back in place and running smoothly. Pippi stood holding the

screwdriver and knife and feeling satisfied. “Good work, Mariel.

Turn it around to indicate it’s running, and please take a look at

the next one over there. If you need my help or the screwdriver,

please wave or call out ‘Fräulein Pauline,’ and I’ll be there.”

When she headed over to Elke’s desk, she wasn’t prepared

for the resentful looks the three women shot at her. She chose to

ignore them. “I’m going to run over to quarters. Does anyone

need anything?”

Scowling, Greta shook her head, and Bernadette and Elke

did the same.

Pippi handed Greta the screwdriver and knife. “Please let

Mariel have these when she needs them, all right?” Greta’s eyes

narrowed, and she didn’t give her assent, but she accepted the

tools.

Feeling rather pleased with herself, Pippi took the stairs and

Snow Moon Rising 215

headed out of the factory. When she found the cook in the

kitchen of the quarters, she said, “Herr Thomas, I need a biscuit

or cracker for my workers.”

He pointed at a small package of shortbread cookies on the

counter next to the coffeepot. “I know Elke likes those a lot.”

“No, not for them. I mean for the seamstresses.”

“What?” He looked at her, amazement on his unshaven face.

His dark eyes raked her up and down. “We don’t feed the camp

from our stores.”

“Where do I go then?”

“There’s an outbuilding where their food is prepared. I’m

not quite sure where it’s at. I haven’t been here long enough.”

“Look, Thomas, I’ve seen the pantry. We’ve got more stuff in

there than we could eat in a year. Just this once, will you let me

have some of it? I made a promise.”

He shook his head. “I cannot let you do that.”

She let out a gasp of exasperation. “What if I help you with

kitchen clean-up after the meal tonight?”

Thomas examined her face for a good five seconds, then

wiped perspiration from his forehead with a meaty, fat-fingered

hand. He slipped out of the heavy-duty apron he wore and

waddled for the door. “I’m going upstairs for a cigarette and

much-needed ten-minute break. I won’t be back for ten minutes,

and in ten minutes you’d better have cleared out of here. I look

forward to chatting with you over pots and pans after the

evening meal.” As he passed through the doorframe, he looked

back and winked.

Pippi scuttled into the pantry, which was nearly as big as

the kitchen. She quickly examined rack after rack, each shelf

jammed full of packages and bags and dried foods and staples.

In one corner she found neat stacks of almost a hundred boxes of

German tea cookies. She picked one up and looked at what was

printed on the front. Forty count. The women could have two

apiece, and Mariel would receive most of a box herself. Pippi

grabbed a gunnysack from a basket on one shelf, stuffed in

eleven boxes, and headed back to the factory.

ON HER FIFTH day at the sewing factory, Pippi was down

on one knee working on a broken machine with Mariel and

another woman named Pilar. They had repaired seven machines

by taking parts from two other units that had metal pieces

literally broken. Pippi didn’t know how anyone could

completely break off the foot, but someone had. They’d dragged

those machines aside and cannibalized them for screws, bobbin

216 Lori L. Lake

assemblies, and treadle belts. After having some success, they’d

been stymied by three unrepairable units in a row.

“What do you think the problem is, Mariel?”

The girl put her thumb to her chin and shrugged. “I can’t

tell. It feels like something with the tension of the foot and

treadle, but nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Pippi shook her head in frustration. “I guess we move on to

the next—come back to these later. We need someone who

understands mechanical devices better than I do.”

She heard heavy steps outside in the hall, and a young

soldier, his face ruddy from the cold, appeared in the doorway

and announced, “Message for Pauline Stanek.”

Pippi rose, wiped her hands on her dusty skirt, and wended

her way past seamstresses. She accepted the paper, a thick bond,

folded in half. She opened it and saw a Nazi swastika embossed

in the upper left-hand corner. Below, in a smooth, flowing script,

was written:

Fräulein Stanek,

Unless you are otherwise engaged in critical work,

please come at once to camp headquarters to receive

further instructions regarding your assignment. The

soldier who delivered the message will accompany you.

Regards,

Major Friedrich Fischer

Pippi controlled the expression on her face, making sure to

display the slightest wisp of a smile. “I must go see the major

now, Elke. Please monitor the workers for me.”

Elke inclined her head, her eyes glittering, and Pippi turned

away wanting to scratch the malicious blue right out of Elke’s

head. She took her time donning her coat and gloves and

wrapping a muffler around her neck. Outside she found the

soldier standing at attention.

“Soldier?”

“Yes, ma’am. Please follow me.”

They marched down the stairs and out into the cold. She

slipped her gloves on, and the sharp wind whittled away at her

face like a woodcarver’s knife. Everything around her was gray or

muted brown: the sky, the buildings, the dirty snow packed into

slick furrows. She gazed into barracks windows as they passed,

realizing for the first time how spartan they were. The only

furniture she could see through the icy panes were wide, three-

tier bunks with no bedclothes or blankets anywhere in sight. Pippi

assumed that the occupants must be required to place their linens

Snow Moon Rising 217

and bedding in a closet or chest during the day.

The soldier led her on a long journey of perhaps a quarter-

mile before they stopped at a high line of fencing that cordoned

off one side of the camp from the other. “Excuse me,” Pippi said

to her guide’s back. “Why is there a checkpoint like that right in

the middle of the compound?”

The soldier looked over his shoulder. “The men’s side here

is partitioned from the women’s side.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Pippi had been able to look out over a portion of the camp

from the fifth floor sewing area, but the factory’s sightlines

didn’t show all that much on this end. Now, from the ground,

she had the sense that it stretched out much farther than she had

imagined. Far in the distance she saw another multi-story brick

building much like the factory she worked in. The endless lines

of barracks petered out, and off to the left, a paved street with a

line of shabby little bungalows cut through what must have once

been a town. How odd. A village right in the middle of this giant

compound. Beyond the cottages were larger houses that became

progressively more lavish.

The soldier led her along a neatly shoveled sidewalk that led

to stairs up to a wide, covered porch, then asked, “Is there

anything further?”

Pippi shook her head. “Thank you.”

He turned on his heel and marched off. She looked up at the

three-story stucco house. A Nazi flag, rippling in the sharp

wind, hung from the second story and blocked much of her view.

She mounted the stairs and stopped in front of a wood door so

dark, it was nearly black. She touched the wood grain, rough

with deep ridges, and her glove snagged a bit. Pippi reached for

a brass knocker, but before she could lift the gold boar’s head,

the door opened.

A thin man, bald on top, and wearing a shabby dark gray

suit, addressed her in German with a thick Polish accent. “You

are here for the major or the captain?”

“Major Fischer.”

“Right this way.”

He didn’t offer to take her coat but simply turned and took

short mincing steps across a foyer. Black beams bisected the

ceiling at regular intervals. The walls were a dingy gray, and the

wood of the staircase and banister was dark and dull. Many

booted feet had obviously crossed the hardwood floor. Pippi

thought it would take more than one mopping to clean it, and

first someone would have to scrape up and sweep out the dried

mud and pebbles.

218 Lori L. Lake

The man led her down a short hallway into what looked like

a waiting area, then stepped to the side next to a double set of

doors, both of which were closed. He leaned back against the

wall like a limp marionette, face gray and slack. Pippi thought

he must be ill.

She paced slowly around the antechamber. The fireplace on

the far wall was so large she very nearly could have walked into

it. The ornate wooden mantle above it was empty of any items,

and above the mantle the wall was streaked with soot—except

for a very large, perfectly square light spot. She wondered whose

portrait had been there and where it had gone.

The ceiling was at least fourteen feet high, and unlit brass

sconces hung at regular intervals around the walls. A dusty

chandelier hung from a trompe l’oeil decoration around a

multicolored, flowery ceiling medallion. She stared up for a

moment, wondering how long it had taken to painstakingly

paint each of the roses, orchids, and red poppies along with the

flourishes of green stalks and tendrils.

At one time, townspeople probably came to this fine house

and were shown into this anterior chamber to wait for someone

important—a high official? The mayor? Pippi could only guess.

The place had fallen upon hard times.

Packed tightly along one wall sat a dozen or so velvet-

covered Queen Anne-style chairs and Dutch smoking tables.

Before the war, each of the smoking tables would have held a

humidor, an ashtray, and perhaps a match holder or old-

fashioned lighter, each made of shiny brass or silver. Now all

that remained was dusty furniture shoved to the side. Slipping

her hands out of her gloves, Pippi inquired of the bald man,

“Sir? What am I to do?”

He glanced up, opening heavy lids, and she realized he

seemed to be in pain. He slid back his cuff and examined a

wristwatch. “We are not to disturb the major before ten o’clock.”

Pippi scowled. “That makes no sense. He summoned me,

insisting I drop my work and hurry. Now I’ve rushed here and

I’m made to wait?”

“I’m sorry. Please be patient.”

“Nonsense.” She took three steps to the door and raised a

fist. “No!” the man whispered. “Please. They’ll beat me again.”

Too late. Pippi’s knuckles had already made contact.

A muffled voice called, “Come.”

The servant stood at attention with difficulty, still looking

wan but now frightened as well. Pippi turned the leaded crystal

knob and stepped into a grand study. The wall to her left was

Snow Moon Rising 219

lined from floor to ceiling with books. A doorway interrupted

the bookcases, and through it, Pippi caught sight of a row of file

cabinets, but she couldn’t see what else was in that room.

Slightly behind her an alcove contained a divan, two

smoking chairs, and a glass table with an old-fashioned

hurricane lamp resting on a doily. To the right, along the wall

was a long mahogany table and chairs. Straight ahead, across a

sea of plush maroon carpet, Major Fischer sat behind one of the

largest, most ornate desks Pippi had ever seen. Neat piles of

paper lay in an orderly fashion across the fine wood surface, and

as she watched, the major finished writing something with a

flourish, picked up the sheet of paper, and put it in an out-

basket.

“Ah, Fräulein Stanek. We meet again.” He looked past her.

“That will be all, Klaus.” Pippi heard the door click shut behind

her. Fischer turned off an antique desk lamp. The curved stem

matched that of the medallion in the ceiling in the other room.

The alabaster glass diffuser looked exactly like one from a set on

her mother-in-law’s desk in Reims, and Pippi was assailed with a

strong feeling of homesickness.

Major Fischer rose, back-lit by a bay window that took up

much of the wall behind him. The drapes were open, but sheers

masked what little light came in. Still, with the light at his back,

she saw him in shadow and couldn’t read his facial expression.

“Hello, Major. How is your health?”

“Fine, thank you, quite fine.” He gestured to his left. “Shall

we be seated at the table?”

She shrugged out of her cloak and unwound her muffler.

She stuffed it and her gloves into the coat’s sleeve, then laid it

over the top of a Queen Anne-style chair at the table. She didn’t

want to feel afraid, but her heart pounded. All she wanted to do

was grab her things and run out, but she waited for him to direct

her. He pulled out a chair.

“Thank you.” She lowered herself onto a most

uncomfortable walnut chair with cabriole legs and a drop-in

seat. The needlework on the back was beautiful, but obviously

the stretcher underneath was broken or too loose to hold up the

seat. She sank so low that she felt like a child at the big people’s

Christmas table.

The major slid into a chair directly opposite her. “Are you

finding your accommodations to your liking?”

Pippi held back a smile. What was she supposed to say? No,

they’re abysmal—and apparently even worse for the camp

workers? Instead she chose tact. “It’s war time. No one is

220 Lori L. Lake

entirely comfortable, Major, but we shall get by.”

“Yes, that’s the spirit.” A stiff smile revealed teeth that were

small and pointy, feral like a cat’s. She wondered how he’d

chipped the left front one. Smile fading, he said, “Let me get to

the heart of this business as I know you’re in a hurry to return to

your responsibilities. How is the work going at the factory?”

“I believe well, sir.”

“It may come as a surprise to you, but if you were a soldier

under my command, you would have been disciplined for your

actions two days ago.”

Heat rushed to Pippi’s face. She scrambled to think of what

she could possibly have done to warrant punishment, but

nothing came to mind.

“You are not, however, a soldier, and in fact you have been

left in charge of a function about which few soldiers know

anything. I consulted with Herr Schuster, and he admitted that

you have had little oversight. We have no one to train you,

Fräulein Stanek, and the administration here has little time to

attend to matters. So your use of scarce stores and the complete

and utter disregard for protocol will be forgiven. This time only,

though, and you shall forfeit amounts commensurate to the cost

of the staples which you squandered.” His eyes narrowed and

his lips pressed together so tight that the cleft in his chin

smoothed out. “Am I understood?”

“Yes, sir. Very clearly.”

“Now, on to another matter. I understand that you have

very quickly become too familiar with the resident workers.”

“What!” Pippi knew where this was coming from, and she

didn’t know who to hate more, Elke or Greta. She didn’t think

Bernadette would have said anything, but the other two were

vindictive enough. “I believe you have received inaccurate

information, Major.” She tried to sit up as tall as possible in her

chair, but failed miserably.

“Please explain, then, why you provided the seamstresses

with provisions meant for camp personnel such as yourself.”

“I considered it a gesture of goodwill.”

“You confound me. We don’t need to show goodwill to these

laborers, Fräulein Stanek. They are criminals and deviants,

lawless, homicidal and depraved enemies of the Third Reich. We

owe them nothing.”

Pippi looked into Fischer’s angry eyes. She didn’t know him

well enough to evaluate whether he was dangerous to her

physically. Would he hit her? Hurt her? Someone had beaten the

doorman, and he looked like a civilian just as she was. For the

briefest moment, she remembered the Roma fortuneteller from

Snow Moon Rising 221

her childhood, who, all those years ago, had warned her to

“beware of the fisher.” Pippi wondered if this was the Fischer

the woman had had in mind, and she bit back a smile.

“Major, I have analyzed the sewing operation. I have 203—

no, 202 workers. One did not appear for work today. Unless

there are sewing machines hidden away somewhere that I don’t

know about, I have approximately 262 machines to employ. That

means I have some five dozen machines idle.”

He sat back in his chair with barely suppressed impatience.

“I was given a report indicating that a quarter of the machines

were broken.”

“Because of my gesture of goodwill, five have been repaired,

two have been scavenged for parts, and even as we speak, the

remaining units are being worked on.”

“I authorized no repairs.”

“Major Fischer, the military personnel in Eisenhüttenstadt

sent me here because I am a sewing expert. I am able to

supervise the repair of sewing machines without wasting

precious resources that the Reich is currently in need of due to

the war efforts.”

“I see.” He cleared his throat and met her eyes reluctantly.

“I’m sorry that we have no repairmen available to assist you.”

He paused. “I must say, it would be helpful if we could assign

more seamstresses to the factory.”

“I reviewed the manifests,” Pippi said. “At our present rate

of production, we are backlogged two months in creating new

uniforms and perhaps three months in mending and

reconditioning the hundreds of pieces stored in the lower floors

of the factory. I can offer you a plan to initially increase output

by ten percent with an approximate twenty percent increase in

four weeks and fifty to sixty percent within eight weeks.”

A flicker of interest registered in his cold eyes. “How is this

possible?”

“I’ve been told there are many women in the barracks who

could be made available to work for me. I already require five

more seamstresses at this very moment, Major. They could be

sewing even as we speak, turning out as many as twenty-eight

new uniforms today for trainee soldiers or for existing troops

badly in need of replacement garb.”

“I wonder how it can be that no one has informed me of

this.” He raised his voice, sounding more furious with each

word. “I run the day-to-day operations and am expected to

produce results.”

“As you already said, Major, I’m not a soldier. I was brought

here to do a job, shown to my room, taken to the factory, and

222 Lori L. Lake

told to get to work. Until today I had no idea you were the man

in charge. Do you understand? I have been given no guidance or

information beyond the obvious.”

“You and I arrived simultaneously,” he said curtly.

“Had you been here before to know the lay of the land?”

“No. I came from—directly from combat.”

His hesitation made her watch his face closely. She intuited

that there was more to the story than he was telling her, but she

could not inquire about that now. “Have you toured the camp?”

“But of course. I can’t run day-to-day operations without

understanding the scope of what I command.”

“Yes, yes, Major, that’s exactly what I’m getting at. I lack

knowledge, partly because I am a civilian, but even if I were a

soldier and had been given so little information, I couldn’t do

my job properly.”

Fischer took a deep breath and held it in. She thought for a

moment he was going to explode at her, but then he sighed. “All

right, what do you want to know?”

“What is this place?”

“Poland, of course.”

Pippi smiled. “No, no. Whose house is this? Who possessed

it before the army took charge of it?”

“Ah, well, you didn’t make yourself clear. This was the

home of the industrialist who built and ran the factories.”

“What happened to him?”

The major raised his nose in the air and looked down at her,

his blue eyes piercing. “Who knows. This house belongs now to

our Führer.”

“It’s a beautiful building.”

“That it is. Dining and banquet halls, a music atrium, and a

kitchen are here on this floor—along with the parlor out there

and this study. The floors above have eight bedrooms and two

lavatories each. We use the middle floor as offices and to store

records. My staff and I have quarters on the top floor.”

“You must be quite comfortable.”

He looked at his wristwatch. “Fräulein Stanek, may we get

back to the matter at hand?”

“Why certainly.”

“What do you need to increase production?”

“I’ll need to gradually add another fifty or so seamstresses.

Five or six by tomorrow.”

“Easily arranged.”

“I shall need a few tools and perhaps some sewing machine

supplies.”

“I will try to get you what you need, but I may not be

Snow Moon Rising 223

successful. Many items are hard to come by.”

“My workers need better nourishment.”

“That isn’t possible.”

Pippi debated how to approach this and opted for sheer

utilitarianism. “Major, it will take me several weeks to train new

girls to sew with speed and finesse. If they fall over from hunger,

they cannot work. If they cannot work, we cannot do our part for

the war effort. If we fail to provide sewn goods, we are failing

our troops.”

“Providing your workers with larger rations means others

will have to go without. We are rationing, Fräulein Stanek,” he

said with some heat. “Rationing.”

“There must be some way.”

“There is not!”

She didn’t speak for a few moments, allowing him to get his

temper under control. “Perhaps, then, as spring draws nearer

we’ll see some improvement in our stores. In the meantime, I’ll

do the best I can to increase output. You will allow me to find

some more workers and train them?”

He got up stiffly from the chair and moved over to the desk

to take a piece of paper and pen. He came back to the head of the

table and leaned over it to write something, signed it, and slid it

across to her. “Tell Felix Schuster to take you to Sergeant Vogel.

Give this note to Vogel. He’ll assign you as many workers as you

need, whenever you need them.”

Pippi summoned up as genuine-sounding a voice as she

could. “You’ve been very kind, Major. Thank you for your

guidance and your honesty about the situation here. I will do all

in my power not to let you down. Is there anything else?” She

donned her coat and muffler and pushed the gloves into her

pocket.

Fischer stood at attention, though his posture was not as

erect as most soldiers managed. “We have concluded matters,

Fräulein Stanek.” He looked down at the hand she extended,

then took it gently. “I forget that civilians do not salute.” He let

go and stepped back, his face flushing pink. “You will report to

me personally each week, Fräulein, starting a week from today.

Before noon. I would like to be kept abreast of every

improvement.”

“It would be my pleasure, Major.”

“Shall I find you an escort or are you able to find your way

back to the factory?”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

She headed for the door, acutely aware that his eyes were on

her. At the threshold, she looked back and raised a hand. “Good

224 Lori L. Lake

day.” He still stood in place and gave her a curt nod.

The house doorman was nowhere to seen, so she let herself

out. She buttoned her coat over her muffler and stuck her hands

into her gloves. Though it was cold, she took her time strolling

back to the factory, carefully picking her way through the snow-

encrusted ruts. What a strange situation she had got herself into.

Major Fischer was a loose cannon, and she would definitely heed

the Roma fortuneteller’s advice.

Chapter

Twenty-Six

Southern Poland, March 1943 (Chaste Moon)

MISCHKA SQUATTED IN shadows next to the little shed,

her forearms on her knees, and waited for an unexpected guard

to shuffle past the fence sixty feet away. With every breath, puffs

of white mist wafted from her. She hoped they weren’t apparent

from the distance. She tightened into an even smaller lump,

pressed her forehead against her forearm, and waited, her heart

pounding. Soon, all was quiet, and she rose slowly. The moon

was out, shining on the embroidery of sparkling snow.

Nelka had already cut across the open space for the safety of

the factory shadows. Now Mischka made her way over. Tonight

they’d found little food in the bin. Mischka had eaten half a

piece of toasted bread and the white of a hard-boiled egg. In her

dress pocket she carried half a biscuit for Aurora, and that was

it. Her stomach ached with hunger.

She crept along the side of the factory and stopped often to

listen. The bite of the wind and the heavy air presaged snow.

Just what they needed. More cold. More snow. More misery. She

had gotten to the point where she no longer summoned up

outrage that resulted in a physical response, but her mind still

rebelled and puzzled over the unfairness of it all. She looked up

at the moon. How could there be a God if such terrible people,

such terrible experiences were allowed? How could any God

stand idle through all this?

Now came the risky part of the evening reconnaissance.

Mischka stood in the gloom of the alcove across from the

barracks. She would wait until clouds obscured some of the

bright light of the moon. Most nights the snow-laden clouds

cooperated, but some nights—like tonight—the moon peeked

through and shed more light than Mischka was comfortable

with. So she waited.

The day before, she’d been shivering in the loading area

226 Lori L. Lake

when the door next to the dock opened and a blonde-haired

woman emerged. Mischka was off to the side, near the wall on

the opposite end of the area, so she couldn’t hear what was going

on. Vogel limped over, suddenly very animated. He made a

grand gesture with the hand holding the baton, and the small

woman moved a few more steps. She wore flat black shoes and

an unbuttoned, dark blue wool coat over a forest green dress.

Before she had said more than a few words, she shivered and

pulled her coat over the front of her.

Vogel preened and smiled, somehow managing to puff out

his chest like a wounded peacock. He dragged his leg a few steps

and grabbed a girl by the elbow, jerking her around in front of

the woman. He pointed to another girl and crooked a finger. She

dropped the armload of uniforms she held and approached. Even

from the distance, Mischka could see the young girls were

terrified. She turned her attention back to the woman, puzzled

that something was oddly familiar about the turn of her head,

the line of her jaw...

“Mischka?” Aurora whispered. “What is it?”

Mischka dropped a boot and took a step, then another, her

heart pounding in her chest. She slipped around a crate and

inched her way toward Vogel.

“Do you know how to run a sewing machine?” the woman

was asking in German.

“Yes, ma’am, a little.”

“Come with me then. You, too.”

Mischka stopped. Pippi Stanek? It couldn’t be. She stared,

drinking in the sight of her friend. But it most certainly was

Pippi. She willed her to turn, to glance up and look her way, but

Pippi was directing more girls toward the door. The sound of it

slamming echoed through the loading area.

Vogel tucked his baton under his arm and coughed into his

glove. Most workers bent back to their work. “What are you

looking at? You. You there.” He pointed toward Mischka. “Get to

work. Now.” Mischka stumbled over toward her friends.

Nelka frowned, the scar on her face a red slash against her

pale face. “What was that all about?”

“I thought I knew that woman.”

Nelka grinned, and her expression looked savage. “After a

while, everyone starts looking like someone I know—most of

whom are dead. I’m thinking it’s a cruel little joke to play on all

of us—to make me think I see people I love. My father, my older

brother. Why, yesterday I saw my grandmother coming out of

the latrine—and she’s been dead for six years.” She giggled and

elbowed Lidia. “I’m thankful I’ve got my big sister with me. At

Snow Moon Rising 227

least I know she’s not a ghost.”

Lidia’s expression was one of fright. “Stop it, Nelka. Work.

Don’t draw attention to us.” Her voice was pleading, and she

shook from more than the cold.

Nelka scooped up a handful of boots all knotted together.

“Yes, work. Work, work, work. That’s all there is here. I hate it.

How much longer do they think we’ll last? I ought to die just to

spite them. We all ought to. Let that fat flatulent whore’s son do

this work himself.”

Nelka had continued to rant on about their situation

yesterday, but Mischka had tuned it out then and concentrated

in her mind’s eye on the fair-faced, blonde woman—just as she

was doing now, hiding in the shadows trying not to end up

dying for the sake of a crust of stale bread.

What was Pippi Stanek doing in this godforsaken labor

camp? Where had she taken those six girls? They hadn’t come

back. Was Pippi responsible for their deaths? It couldn’t be

possible. Could it? No. Mischka wouldn’t believe it for one

moment. She wished she knew how to find Pippi. Where in the

camp was she staying? She certainly wasn’t a laborer. Her hair

had been long and shiny, her clothes warm, clean, and well-kept.

No, Pippi Stanek wasn’t a laborer.

A gust of cold curled around the edge of the alcove in which

Mischka stood, and she shivered and let out an involuntary gasp.

The slight noise almost covered another sound—but not entirely.

She held her breath and peeked out. Two guards, their rifle

barrels poking above their shoulders, were on the move, walking

briskly. They passed within fifteen feet of her hiding place and

angled away from her, toward the front barracks—her barracks.

Mischka stood frozen for a moment. She knew she had to do

something. With a glance to the left and right, she saw no one, so

she took off across the road, careful not to trip over the frozen

ridges and arriving breathless at the latrine near her barracks.

She unfastened the leather loop, pulled open the flimsy door,

and stepped in. It smelled so badly of shit that her eyes smarted

and watered. Outside she heard running footsteps—boots, not

shoes. She wondered where Nelka was. Had she made it back

safely?

Though it was painful, she hiked up her skirt, pulled her

undergarment down, and forced herself to sit back on the frigid

cold wood. Not a moment too soon. The door wrenched open.

Mischka looked up in shock and fear. A hand reached in,

grabbed the collar of her thin coat, and tossed her out onto the

hard, icy ground.

A guard shouted, “What are you doing?”

228 Lori L. Lake

Mischka struggled to her feet, pulling at her undergarments.

A large form loomed to her right and she cowered.

“For God’s sake, Rolf. The stupid woman was in the

latrine—what in hell do you think she was doing?”

The guard pointed an index finger in Mischka’s face. “Get

back to your bunk. Now.”

Mischka didn’t need to be told twice. She turned and ran,

her breath coming out in wheezes. She nearly overshot the door,

grabbed it as she slipped on the ice, then twisted the knob and

burst in. She hit the top of the ladder, and her friends pulled her

up so that she lay along the outside.

Aurora gripped Mischka’s forearms. “What happened?”

Mischka panted, impatient for her eyes to adjust to the dark.

“Where’s Nelka?”

Lidia’s face came into focus. “Isn’t she with you?”

“We split up.”

“What?” Lidia sat up. Her face hovered close to Aurora’s.

“You have to go get her.”

“No,” Aurora said. “We all have to stay put. They’re on the

move out there. Something’s wrong.”

The squeak of a door at the other end of the barracks

signaled someone’s approach. Mischka heard a murmur, then a

sharp, angry yelp.

“Get away!” someone said.

Someone else hissed, and then Petronela’s voice could be

heard quite clearly complaining. Before Mischka could figure out

what was going on, heavy boots stamped in. Braunhaus and two

armed soldiers stood, dark outlines against the light of the moon

shining in behind them.

A plaintive voice whined, “It’s not our fault.”

Mischka peered down the line of bunks. She heard a scuffle,

some mutterings, and then suddenly a bundle of rags appeared

on the floor—a bundle that squirmed and reconstituted itself

into a person, crouching, waiting.

“Who’s there?” one of the guards shouted. “Come this

way—into the light.”

Oh, no, Mischka thought.

With every step she took, Nelka’s physique became

increasingly identifiable. She kept her hands away from her

body, palms out. “Please do not shoot me. I mean no harm.”

When Lidia heard her sister’s voice, she sucked in a big

breath of air as if she were going to scream. Aurora got her

hands over the girl’s mouth before Mischka could.

Lidia thrashed, and Aurora whispered, “No. Stop it. Shhh.

Shhh. Shhh.”

Snow Moon Rising 229

The guard’s deep voice was sharp. “Where’s your partner in

crime? Two of you were observed. Where’s the other?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Nelka said.

The butt of a rifle hit Nelka in the chest, and she fell to the

floor. The guards stood over her, ready to strike again.

Braunhaus said, “Wait.” Her voice was calm and cunning.

“We can always talk some sense into her.”

“Or we can skip the talk and beat it out of her.” The soldier

laughed. Standing in profile to Mischka he pulled something out

of his pocket, then squatted. A golden light flashed, and for a

moment his face was illuminated by the flame of a cigarette

lighter. He was young, perhaps no more than twenty. The lighter

made a clicking sound as it shut, and he tucked it into his breast

pocket. The scent of tobacco floated up, and the man let out a

sigh.“Who is your accomplice?” His head came up and he

surveyed the bunks. Mischka made sure not to meet his eyes. He

grabbed the front of Nelka’s coat and yanked her to her feet.

“Tell us who you were with, or we shall put to death each of

these women here. Every one.”

“Who would do your dirty work then?” Nelka spat out.

The guard’s hand was quick. A solid thud was all Mischka

heard, and Nelka was on the floor again.

“You will tell us or—” He grabbed a woman from three

bunks down from Mischka. She fell to the ground, shrieking.

Nearly every woman in the barracks was cowering against the

wall, many of them moaning and crying. The guard blew out

cigarette smoke. “Tell me, or she dies.”

“All right,” Nelka shouted. “Now you may let her go.”

Mischka took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She felt a

calm come over her even while feeling frightened. She didn’t

know what they would do to her and to Nelka. Perhaps it didn’t

matter any longer. She’d cheated death once already with Arben.

She’d lived through her marriage, long enough to escape and be

with her family for a time. That was enough.

And now it was all over. She regretted that her life would

end at this squalid, dismal camp.

“Please. I promise I’ll cooperate.” As Mischka made a move

to sit up, Aurora sprang at her and burst into tears. Both she and

Lidia clutched at her, sobbing, trying to keep as quiet as

possible.

“It’s over for me,” Mischka whispered.

The guard’s voice was impatient. “It’s the middle of the

night, and we have better things to do than wait for your

cooperation, you Polish hag. You will get your comrade, and

230 Lori L. Lake

we’ll go.”

Later Mischka thought she must have been mistaken, but she

swore Nelka smiled and winked at her. And then all Mischka

could see was the back of Nelka’s head, moving away. She

stopped halfway down the barracks and said, “Come on out,

now. We can’t jeopardize everyone. Let’s go.”

Mischka heard a collective gasp of inhalation that was not

followed by an exhalation. Every woman in the barracks held her

breath, waiting.

The guard with the cigarette demanded, “Dammit, point her

out. Which is she?”

Nelka’s arm came up, pointing. “Her. Come along,

Petronela.”

A shrill scream sent a shiver down Mischka’s spine. “Wait a

minute!” Petronela screeched. “She’s lying. She’s—she’s—it’s a

lie!”The second guard hauled her out, and Petronela shrieked all

the way to the door and out into the yard. Nelka followed,

walking on her own next to Braunhaus, her head held high as the

guard with the cigarette brought up the rear. After they were

gone, someone got up and shut the door, and the chill night

wind stopped blowing through.

Aurora had stopped crying, but Lidia continued to sob.

“What will they do to her? What will they do?”

“Shhh…” Aurora said. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Lidia.”

Mischka lay on her back, stunned. She couldn’t stop

shaking. What had Nelka done? How could she have done that?

Certainly by morning Petronela would have convinced the

authorities of her innocence, and the guards would return. She

slid over the side and down the ladder.

Aurora grabbed at her shoulder. “Mischka, where are you

going?”

“I’ll wait somewhere by myself.”

“No.”

“I can’t take any chances. No need for you and Lidia to

suffer for my sins.”

Aurora hissed something, but Mischka couldn’t make out

her words. She disregarded it and shuffled down the aisle,

peering into the semi-darkness, until she found an empty lower

bunk. She curled up on the cold, rough wood, her fists under her

chin. No sleep came for the rest of the night.

THREE DAYS PASSED before Mischka finally believed that

they weren’t coming for her. In some ways that realization was

Snow Moon Rising 231

worse than the terror of waiting to be taken away. Now all she

could think of was Nelka’s proud, scarred face and the way she

had sacrificed herself to spare all of them. On the third night, she

returned to the top bunk with Lidia and Aurora and lay with

them, feeling the heavy weight of guilt choking her.

She hadn’t cried. Lidia had wept enough for both of them.

No matter what Aurora said, the girl was inconsolable, and it

was all they could do to keep her working. Mischka and Aurora

took turns standing next to Lidia, encouraging her to go through

the motions, to bend and sort, to at least appear to be focused on

the never-ending crate deliveries.

On the fourth day, they were sent to the other side of the

loading area and put to work with three women she didn’t know.

Small windows set high in the wall let in a trickling of sun, and

it felt somehow warmer. Mischka lifted her face to the sun and

realized it was now Seed Moon. April. Spring was on the way.

A voice close to her ear whispered in Polish. “We don’t miss

her. You need not feel badly.”

Mischka straightened up and looked into the face of a

middle-aged woman. Her face was deeply wrinkled, and a line of

grime was smudged along her hairline and temples. Huge

haunted eyes dominated her narrow face. “What did you say?”

“It’s not your fault.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Petronela. She was a nasty, mean woman. Spiteful. Cruel.

Much better her than you.”

Mischka felt the blood drain from her face, but before she

could say anything, the woman went on. “Did you ever find a

way out of here?”

“What do you mean?” Mischka hefted a stack of uniforms

and dumped them in the rolling cart.

“You often left in the night. You were looking for a way to

escape, right?”

“I—I never found one.”

“I thought as much.” She picked up the pry bar and went to

work on another crate. “You realize that your friend, the one

they took away, would not have been compromised at all if it

were not for Petronela?” Mischka stood staring at the woman,

not understanding. “Your friend slipped into our bunk, and if

Petronela had kept her rude mouth shut, nothing would have

happened. But no—she had to dump her out. What was her

name?”

“Nelka. Her name is Nelka.”

“Yes, right. Nelka. She would have been safe, except

Petronela thought she was some sort of high-class person who

232 Lori L. Lake

deserved better than the rest of us.” She let out a grunt.

“Betrayer. That’s what she was. I don’t miss her a bit. Neither do

they.” She gave a toss of her head toward their coworkers. “She’s

Magda, and the short one is Jolanta. I’m Klaudia, and you are?”

“Mischka.”

EVEN WITH NEW friends helping Aurora and Mischka keep

Lidia on track, Mischka felt numb, as though she’d frozen to a

block of ice on the night Nelka was taken, and had no capacity to

thaw. Each day she felt more—not less—frozen. The weather

continued to improve as spring came on full force and headed

toward summer, but it made no difference for Mischka.

Over half the women in the barracks had “disappeared”

over the winter. Each morning as Mischka stood in formation

and looked around at their dwindling numbers, she felt less and

less hope. Without Nelka’s prodding and bravado, she hadn’t

left the barracks in the night—except once for the latrine—and it

showed in her energy level and rapid loss of weight.

One evening, about a month after losing Nelka, Mischka

crawled into the bunk with Aurora and Lidia and turned on her

right side to face the wall. As the walls had thawed, mildew

showed up, and she stared at spots of dark green. She was half

asleep, dreaming of floating in a brook, cool water on her naked

skin, when something jerked her awake.

Aurora grasped her shoulder and whispered, “Mischka. Are

you asleep?”

“Not now.”

“Turn over.”

Mischka rolled onto her back and looked up into the outline

of Aurora’s face. Though very little light came in through the far

window, Mischka was able to see her friend’s eyes sparkling in

the low light. “What is it?”

“You can’t leave us.”

“What?”

“Don’t leave us.” Aurora slid her hand down and cupped

Mischka’s face. “You drift farther away each day.”

Mischka’s eyes filled with tears. “I can’t help it.”

When Aurora spoke, it came out choked. “You’re the strong

one, Mischka, not me. I can’t do this without you. Please—please

don’t leave me.”

The bitterness in Mischka’s heart showed in her voice. “I’m

not going anywhere.”

“That’s not what I mean. Don’t die inside. Please, I beg you

to stay with me.” She lowered her head and pressed her lips to

Snow Moon Rising 233

Mischka’s, lightly, then pulled back and peered down into her

eyes.Mischka was filled with longing—for what, she didn’t know.

She lifted her hand and smoothed a lock of hair from Aurora’s

eyes, then pulled her into her arms. Aurora sank against her and

let out a sigh. They adjusted so that they were lying comfortably

with Aurora’s head tucked under Mischka’s chin.

Mischka didn’t know what to say. Even though she’d lain

with these other women all these weeks and months, she hadn’t

ever felt so intimate. Always before, despite their proximity and

the need to huddle for warmth, there was always some small

measure of separation: an averted gaze, a turned head, a hand’s

width of space. She’d been reminded of when she was a child,

lying below the vardo, snuggling with Mimi and Nadja and

hearing Stevo leading late-night songs around the campfire. But

this was different. Now she felt laid wide open, vulnerable. She

closed her eyes and swallowed as a peculiar warmth washed

over her.

Aurora tightened her grip, and Mischka realized that her

friend was crying in silence. “What is it?”

“I don’t know how to go on. I feel like God has forsaken

me.”Mischka wanted to blurt out that yes, of course, Aurora’s

God had deserted her—had deserted all of them. They were all

left to their own wits, unable to escape their captors. What kind

of God would put them in such a situation and expect them to

stay alive and hopeful?

“Why, Mischka? Why? Why would God forsake us?”

“I don’t know. But we have each other, and I will not forsake

you.”Aurora stiffened in her arms. “Do you promise?”

“If you will.”

“Oh, I promise. I feel I already owe you my life.”

“What?”

“Every step of the way, you’ve given me heart, kept me

going. I’d have been dead back on the first day if it weren’t for

you.”That wasn’t how Mischka remembered it. She shook her

head slowly, but didn’t refute Aurora’s comment. Instead she

wondered why they had survived at all. She thought of the work

that their jailers needed done and realized that was why. “I have

to keep telling myself that one day the war will be over, and

Aurora, if there’s a God, the Germans will lose.”

Aurora whispered, “I’ll know there’s a God if my husband

and children are spared. If not—” Her voice broke.

234 Lori L. Lake

Mischka’s heart hurt. She thought of her family, of the

kumpania, making their way over the mountains and into the

safety of the Czech lands or Hungary. “I don’t know if I can even

hope for that for my own family or for yours. But if I knew how

to pray, I’d plead with your God to keep them all safe.”

“Yes,” Aurora choked out.

“All we can do now is help each other and try to outlast

these heartless bastards.”

Aurora stifled a sob. “Heartless bastards—good

description.” She relaxed against Mischka and lay quietly.

After a minute or so, Mischka realized Aurora had fallen

asleep. She closed her eyes, too, but sleep wouldn’t come. Many

faces passed through her mind’s eye: Mimi, Nadja, Pippi,

Valentina, Donka, Simza, Aurora...and then Arben, her blight of

a husband. Any one of her childhood girlfriends meant more to

her than Arben ever could or would. She’d never loved him.

She’d loved Tobar as a brother, and Emil as well. But only once

in her whole life had she ever felt anything approaching the

tenderness and excitement that one simple kiss from Aurora had

elicited, and that was on her wedding day when Pippi kissed her

goodbye.

Mahrime, she thought, but it was a reflex response. Two

women lying together was mahrime—but why was that? Who had

made up that rule? And why wasn’t there a rule providing that a

bigger, stronger male was not allowed to assault anyone smaller,

including women in general and his wife in particular? Had

some things been wrongly labeled mahrime—or had she perhaps

been misled?

As she drifted off to sleep, still holding Aurora in her arms,

Mischka came to a decision. If she made it out alive, she would

find a woman, someone who would honor her and share a love

the way any two married persons should.

Chapter

Twenty-Seven

Southern Poland, October 1943 (Blood Moon)

PIPPI NEVER GOT any time alone. There was nowhere to

go. She missed the solitude of walking by herself through her

hometown, down to the narrow brook, seeing chipmunks

scrambling, listening to the birds chirp, and smelling fresh air.

At home, she and Camille had worked companionably and had

only paying customers to please. Working with these frightened

women, most of whom were inept, was a daily trial. She’d never

realized how much it meant to her to be her own woman, in

charge of her own business. The war had changed everything.

All she held dear had been taken from her. She wasn’t even

mistress of her own destiny anymore. Instead she was an

unwilling cog in a machine she hated. But what was the

alternative?

She knew she was fortunate compared with so many others.

Her situation could be so much worse. She reminded herself of

that every day. This war reduced the usual complexities of life to

stark and simple choices. Imprison others or face imprisonment

yourself. Obey or accept the consequences of disobedience. Bully

or be bullied. For those worse off than she was, there was an

even more basic choice: live, however you could, or die.

Pippi wiped her wrist across the perspiration that dampened

her forehead and tried to be patient as she untangled a giant

knot from a spool of thread. The factory remained hot and airless

even now, in October, with the worst of the summer heat behind

them. The windows were open, but no breeze and very little

fresh air made it into the stinking sweatshop.

She finally grew aggravated, slipped a pair of scissors from

the pocket in her dress, and cut away the knot.

Greta sauntered by and as usual couldn’t resist a comment.

“Tsk, tsk...cutting again.”

Pippi wanted to cut Greta. The woman never lifted a finger

236 Lori L. Lake

to untangle anything or make sure any real work was done. At

least Bernadette and Elke could be counted on to give a hand

occasionally. Greta lived to report Pippi, and she surely would

do it again today. It had become a joke between Pippi and Major

Fischer. Behind closed doors they laughed about Greta’s

eagerness to get Pippi in trouble.

“She’s just jealous,” the major kept telling Pippi, and she

thought he was right.

But Greta was not nearly so troubling as Agnes Braunhaus.

Agnes usually worked the graveyard shift. When Pippi came

downstairs each morning, her roommate often sat in the dining

area, sipping coffee and looking awful. The summer months,

with temperatures often over one hundred degrees, had not been

kind to her. Agnes hated the heat, and obviously had a difficult

time sleeping during the day. She grew short-tempered, so much

so that she looked for any opportunity to needle Pippi. Most of

the early evenings Agnes spent in their shared bedroom, but

some days, from dinnertime until Agnes left for her shift, she

hung around and smoked. Worse, she followed Pippi from the

dining area to the small front room and made snide comments.

At those times, Pippi was most desperate to find a place she

could be alone. Her one solace was that one morning each week

she walked over to Major Fischer’s headquarters. The opulent

home provided an oasis from the filth and stench and

unfriendliness she saw every day. She wished her sleeping

quarters were there.

Bernadette, Greta, and Elke were idle for most of the same

hours Pippi was, and there were numerous other civilian

workers, including Felix Schuster and his assistant, crammed

into the crowded quarters. The camp itself was dry, barren,

dirty. The frightened, beaten-down laborers marched from place

to place during the course of the day, and Pippi was sickened by

their condition. She could think of nothing she could do, so she

preferred to avoid being anywhere near the barracks. Sometimes

she went outside and walked along the fence line next to the

factory, but everywhere she went was hot and stank of sweat and

rot and something else that drifted on the wind—a bitter,

stinging aroma Pippi couldn’t identify. She couldn’t escape that

pervasive stench and sometimes even thought it had made its

way beneath her skin. When she perspired, as she was now, she

could smell it on herself.

Pippi discarded the cut thread, moved to the far end of the

room, and surveyed the backs of the seamstresses. She had

almost two hundred and fifty operational treadle machines, five

of which were extremely temperamental. She put her most

Snow Moon Rising 237

ingenious workers, girls like Mariel, on those units because they

did the best job of nursing them along. They had gotten through

a lot of the uniform repair backlog, but still, they weren’t turning

out any new uniforms yet. Overall, production had stayed steady

for the last couple months, but she hadn’t been able to improve

output by the leaps and bounds it had increased through the

summer. It didn’t help that all the women were dehydrated. And

malnourished. As if to confirm this thought, there was a flutter

of motion ahead on the far left, and Pippi heard the thump of

someone hitting the floor.

Greta was at the skeletal seamstress’s side quickly, her baton

prodding. “Get up. Get back to work, you lazy slut.”

Pippi hated the language Greta used and the way she treated

the prisoners worse than dogs. Hurrying over, she said, “Greta.

Back away. Give her some air.”

Pippi didn’t know the woman’s name. She lay on the floor

on her side, twitching. A wet stain appeared on her skirt, and

Pippi backed away a step, smelling urine.

“Not again,” Greta said, and she and Bernadette looked at

one another in disgust.

Pippi hid her shakiness. In an authoritative voice, she said,

“Greta, go tell Herr Schuster. I’ll see Sergeant Vogel.”

Behind her, one of the guards—she wasn’t sure which—

made a comment under her breath. “Well, that’s unusually cold,

coming from her.”

She left Elke and Bernadette staring at her and headed for

the stairs. Her rapid departure had nothing to do with being

cold-hearted and everything to do with feeling sick. Don’t vomit.

Don’t vomit. She tried to keep breathing. She hurried down to

the fourth floor where the sewing notions were stored. Panting

and forcing down the taste of her breakfast, she burst into the

welcome darkness of the large, musty room. She paced for a

minute or two and willed herself to regain her composure.

Shutters covered the windows, and the place smelled of

cigarette smoke. No one was allowed to smoke in the factory

building. The place was too much of a tinderbox, and they had

all been cautioned against it. She crossed the floor to the nearest

window, wondering if Bernadette or Greta was sneaking down

here—or maybe even Agnes Braunhaus, who broke rules when it

pleased her.

She crossed the floor to the nearest window and pulled open

a shutter. Bright sun blinded her, and she closed it quickly, then

leaned back against the window frame, blinking until her eyes

adjusted to the dim room. Whoever last came down for thread

had left the giant cupboards in disarray. In fact, everything in

238 Lori L. Lake

the room—on the shelves and in crates—was a disorganized

jumble. Greta. She was sure of it. She hated that woman.

Pippi drew a slow breath, still smelling the horrible scent of

the dead woman. Four women had died on the floor in the last

two months. Pippi’s three coworkers took it in stride, but each

death upset Pippi more. She hated feeling so helpless to change

what she witnessed, and the indifference she had to show

shamed her. Often she wanted to protest, particularly at Greta’s

cruelty, and sometimes she had to jab herself with a pin so she

could remain silent. Every time she did so, she felt diminished.

Had she no courage?

She hated feeling so helpless, but she saw no alternatives.

And she couldn’t stand here all day. Someone would come

looking for her, probably Greta, if she were absent too long. Her

nerves had settled enough to get by, and her heart no longer beat

out of her chest, so she left the storage area and continued her

trek down the stairs to find Vogel.

When she reached the door to the loading dock, she

hesitated. Pippi avoided coming down here if she could help it,

instead sending a prisoner when she wanted to get a message to

the odious sergeant. Bracing herself, she opened the door and

waited in the doorway, watching women unpack crates and sort

the contents. They moved as though half-asleep. Not a single

woman had hair any longer than three inches, and many were

emaciated, like the dead girl upstairs. These women were

starving to death.

Tears came to her eyes, and she forced herself not to cry.

She couldn’t afford to show weakness or sympathy. Strange how

no one had actually said as much; they didn’t have to. All she

had to do was watch how the camp functioned and how others

behaved, and she knew the unspoken rules.

Sergeant Vogel was leaning against a muddy gray cargo

truck, with his back to her. She took a few strides into the work

area and avoided a wooden crate with black boots spilling out.

Her foot came down on the top of a ruined leather boot, and her

ankle would have turned except her elbow and shoulder were

suddenly supported. She felt a flash of fear as she caught her

balance, then looked up into the face of her savior.

She took a step back as the other woman did. “Excuse me,”

Pippi said. She blinked. Mischka. The name echoed in her head,

and she recalled the face of her friend—her long, curly hair, dark

brown eyes, the square chin. The woman reminded her of

Mischka—though she was much older, of course.

Pippi nudged the boot aside and walked on more carefully,

all the while aware of being watched. When she glanced back,

Snow Moon Rising 239

she saw the dark-eyed woman staring at her, a pleading look on

her face. There was no way that could be Mischka, but she

looked enough like her to be a sister. Her emaciated older sister.

“Sergeant Vogel?”

The soldier spun around. A wide smile broke across his

clean-shaven face. “Why, it’s Fräulein Stanek.”

“Ah, yes. So sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all. You bring a ray of sunshine.” He tucked his

baton under his bad arm and fished in his breast pocket.

“Perhaps you would like a cigarette?”

“Oh, that’s so kind of you, but no. I don’t smoke.”

He slid a cigarette between his red lips. “You don’t know

what you’re missing. Very calming to have a good smoke.” He

clicked open a silver lighter and lit up. “So you have come for a

visit, to keep me company?”

Pippi didn’t like the man. She didn’t know why and scolded

herself, thinking she should be more magnanimous because of

his physical affliction. But just being a few feet from him made

her want to back up and get away. She forced a smile. “No, I’m

sorry. I’m here to spirit away a worker.”

He made a harrumphing sound and tapped ash off to the

side. His light blue eyes glittered through the haze of cigarette

smoke. “None of them are any good. I hope they bring a new

load of workers in soon. These stink.” Giving a flourish with his

baton, he said, “Take what you need.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Vogel.”

“Franz. Please call me Franz.”

She hoped her expression looked open and genuine as she

backed away. She couldn’t make herself say his first name, much

less tell him her own. She bumped into the corner of the cargo

truck and hastily righted herself. Brushing dirt off the shoulder

of her dress, she gazed around as if considering which prisoner

to take.

The woman who looked like Mischka was bending over a

crate, but Pippi saw she was watching closely. Catching her eye,

she beckoned. “Please?”

The woman was tall and scrawny, but she moved toward

Pippi with grace and stopped five feet away. “Pippi.” Her mouth

formed the name silently.

The word hit Pippi like an electric shock. “Oh, my God.” It

was not a question, and if it hadn’t been her name, Pippi would

have assumed the woman was muttering to herself. She moved a

step closer and said softly, “You can’t be Mischka.”

“I can’t? Why is that?”

Pippi was struck dumb. She stared up at the dark eyes.

240 Lori L. Lake

Despite her natural coloring, Mischka was pale, her skin

stretched taut over high cheekbones. Pippi whispered, “Why are

you here?”

“Why are you here?”

“I was forced.”

“As was I.”

Swallowing with difficulty, Pippi tried to make her sluggish

brain think. Despite the warm autumn breeze, she realized she

was cold with fear and worry. She needed to hasten back inside

the factory, gather her thoughts, figure out what to do. “Come

with me.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean ‘where’? Somewhere safer than here.”

Mischka stood her ground. “I can’t leave my friends

behind.”

Pippi stared at her, then looked over toward Vogel. “You

must come now. Before Vogel notices—”

Vogel cleared his throat and called out. “Is that woman

giving you trouble, Fräulein Stanek?”

“No, Sergeant. Not at all.” Smiling sweetly, she gave him a

little wave before asking Mischka, “How many of you are

there?” She glanced around, worried that Mischka meant all five

dozen women, most of whom were surreptitiously watching

them.“Six of us.”

“Get the others and come with me.” She returned to the door

and waited, grasping the metal doorknob as Mischka assembled

a bedraggled group like little ducks all in a row. Pippi opened

the door and ushered them through. They huddled inside,

illuminated by the low-watt bulb hanging down from the ceiling

A young blonde girl elbowed Mischka, and Pippi heard her

whisper something in Polish, something about being executed.

Mischka shook her head. “No. This is—” Mischka looked at

Pippi. “How do we properly address you?”

“Fräulein Stanek will do.”

Mischka looked at Pippi oddly, then pointed to the women.

“This worried one is Lidia. Here is Magda, Jolanta, and Klaudia.

And Aurora has traveled with me since first we were captured.

We look after one another.”

Pippi bit her lip. What should she do? She needed only one

of these women. She looked at her watch. Three o’clock. “Do any

of you sew?”

Aurora and Klaudia said yes, and Pippi asked if they could

use a treadle machine. Yes, again. “You wouldn’t lie to me now,

would you?” They shook their heads. “You all speak German?”

Snow Moon Rising 241

Mischka said, “These are Poles, but they all speak and

understand sufficient German.”

Pippi had to make a split-second decision. “You, Aurora.

We’ll start with you. Everyone follow me.”

The hallway was so narrow that they followed in single file.

At the fourth floor, Pippi hesitated, but she didn’t dare leave the

group unsupervised. Someone could come along and assume

they were up to no good and injure or kill them all. So she led

them on to the fifth floor. At the top of the stairs, she said, “Wait

here. Aurora, come with me.”

In the sewing room, Elke sat at the desk near the front while

Bernadette and Greta paced in front of the windows, as far from

the site of the woman’s death as possible. The dead woman had

been removed.

Elke looked up. “Took you long enough.”

Pippi ignored her sarcasm. “Elke, here’s a new seamstress.

She has some skills with treadle machines. Can you get her

started?”

Elke rose reluctantly as Pippi backed up toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“The storage room is a mess. There’s thread everywhere. It

needs to be tidied.”

“Send Greta. She’s probably at fault.”

“No, that’s all right. I have to get an inventory for the major

anyway.”

Without waiting for a response, Pippi sped from the room

and led the others down to the untidy cabinets and shelves on

the fourth floor. “Please organize this, and do not rush. Take

your time. You can see some rudimentary order. Please

straighten it all up. And Mischka, come with me.”

At the far end of the room, several crates were stacked

against the wall. Pippi set a couple down on the floor and

gestured for Mischka to sit. “Two letters from my mother have

made their way to me here,” she said, feeling awkward to find

herself facing her old friend under such circumstances. “She

hasn’t heard a word from Emil. Where is he? He’s not here in

this camp, is he?”

“I don’t think so. We were fleeing from the soldiers across

the Tatras Mountains when Tobar and I were captured. The

others got away. At least, that’s what I hope.”

“So Tobar is here?”

Mischka shook her head, but didn’t elaborate. Pippi

scowled. Was she going to have to pull every bit of information

out of her? She longed to reach over and touch her, to quell the

fear in Mischka’s eyes, but she didn’t dare. Anyone could walk

242 Lori L. Lake

in on them at any time.

Instead she asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Since Snow Moon.”

“Remind me which month that is.”

“The one before your Christmas.”

“Oh, my God. Nearly a year?” Pippi broke out in a sweat.

“I’ve been here since March. Why have I never seen you?”

Mischka shrugged.

“You’re terribly thin.” That was an understatement. Mischka

actually looked like a stick figure with extra large eyes.

“We aren’t fed well.”

Pippi gazed across the expanse of the factory floor and

watched the women working at the cabinets. One—the blonde

girl—stood to the side and was re-rolling thread onto a spool.

The others were arranging things on the shelves. Some of the

open cardboard containers on the floor had been emptied, their

contents stacked up on the shelves. Every woman was as thin as

Mischka.

Pippi vacillated, wondering how she was going to shift six

warm bodies onto her labor detail. She heard a noise in the hall,

and Mischka was instantly on her feet.

“Fräulein Stanek.” Felix Schuster came striding into the

room. He glanced suspiciously at Mischka, then back at Pippi.

“Are you all right?”

Pippi rose slowly from the crate and smoothed the front of

her dress. Her heart beat double time. “Yes.” She sighed. “My

head got to me for a moment. It’s so stuffy in here.” She turned

to Mischka and in a haughty voice said, “Your assistance is no

longer required. Get back to work. Now.”

“Vogel said you’ve gutted his work detail,” Schuster said.

Pippi wondered who attempted to iron the wrinkles from his

dark suit each day. He rarely looked well turned out. “Gutted is

somewhat of an exaggeration, isn’t it?”

“You need all these workers to sort and organize these

sewing materials?”

Pippi bit her lip, then made a quick decision. “Actually,

they’re to be used as pattern cutters. However, before they can

start, this room must be tidied, and no one else was free to do

it.” “Patterns?” Schuster looked puzzled.

“I’m sure you’ll agree it’s time we start turning out new

uniforms. I know the major considers this a priority as well.”

Schuster looked around the room. “We still have all these

crates of damaged pieces.”

“True, but so many are beyond repair. As the work on them

Snow Moon Rising 243

winds down, we need to increase work on new garments. Our

men fighting for the glory of the Fatherland deserve the very

finest uniforms, do they not?”

“Does Major Fischer approve?”

“The major has given me free rein, and I report to him

personally each week.” Pippi spoke in a sharp tone, as if she

were insulted by the stupidity of the question.

Like many of the camp personnel, Schuster was aware that

she had regular contact with the major. Pippi had overheard

enough whispered conversations to know some people thought

she had special privileges.

“You should not be alone with these unpredictable scum,”

Schuster said. “At any time one could attack you.”

Pippi’s face flamed with heat. She was suddenly so angry

that she wished to strike the man. Forcing down her emotions,

she said, “Thank you so much for your concern for me, Herr

Schuster. You are kind to fret on my behalf. But don’t worry

about this lot. They’re harmless. I’ll be fine.”

“I should hope so. I’ll be down on the second floor if you

need me.”

She bade him farewell and sank down to the crate, her mind

racing. She hadn’t considered machining new uniforms so soon,

but the idea was a good one. The trick would be figuring out

who from Mischka’s crew could cut, who could sew, and how to

quickly train anyone who could do neither. The other civilians

wouldn’t much care, but Greta would complain about all the

trouble, and Elke would be angry about being left out of the

decision-making. Nothing she could do about that. Everything

had happened willy-nilly, and she had no time to plan. What

could she do? How could she make this work?

She ran a hand through her hair and felt some of it separate

from the loose braid. As she tried to repair it, she became aware

of a strange hush and looked up. Her charges stood near the

storage shelves and watched her covertly as they waited for

more instructions. All of the spools were put away, and the

packages of bias tape, needles, buttons, and other items had been

neatly organized. Pippi rose and met Mischka’s gaze, and a

calmness came over her as she crossed the floor.

“We’re going to go upstairs now,” she said. “Whatever

happens, just stand there, look at the floor, and let me do the

talking.”

And so began the subterfuge.

244 Lori L. Lake

WITH GRETA ALWAYS hovering and Bernadette and Elke

nearby, Pippi had a difficult time communicating with Mischka.

She couldn’t write notes because they were too easy to intercept,

and there was nowhere to meet. Her only option was to lean

down to look at the material Mischka was cutting and say a few

words here and there. Once when they ran out of fabric she was

able to point at Klaudia and Mischka and instruct them to follow

her. Down on the fourth floor, they loaded a crate onto the

dumbwaiter, and Pippi took that opportunity to speak. “You

look terrible, Mischka. You’re much too thin.”

“We all are.”

“I’ve wracked my brain, and I can’t figure out how to hand

over food without being caught.”

“On the road-side of this building there’s an alcove about

ten hands wide. Do you know of it?” Pippi shook her head. “The

alcove is perhaps two strides deep and leads to a door that I

believe goes to the cellar below here. If you get that door open,

you could leave food, perhaps even medicines should we ever

need them.”

“I’m still at a loss. It won’t be easy to smuggle out even

small amounts.”

“You don’t need to bring a lot, and it’s best if it’s not

wrapped. We must eat everything or be able to easily dispose of

it in the latrine. We can’t leave rubbish lying around for others

to question. When it’s cooler and you can wear a coat you’ll have

more places to hide things.”

Mischka touched Pippi’s forearm. “Under no circumstances

should you do anything to risk your safety, Pippi. Promise me

you’ll be careful. They’re not forgiving here.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve never lied so much in my life.”

LATER THAT EVENING, Pippi raided the pantry. She

thought she could feed the entire seamstress detail for weeks on

all the food stuffed in there. She looked around, trying to decide

what was compact but of sufficient richness and finally decided

on crackers, three apples, a small loaf of bread, and a large

chunk of butter.

She reached under her button-up dress and removed a

drawstring bag she’d tucked into her belt. She filled it, slid it

between her knees, and ran the string up under her skirt to her

belt. If no one looked closely, they’d never see the string. She

practiced walking and found it easiest to walk a little bow-

legged with her toes turned out. She thought she could manage.

Bernadette was reading in the parlor, and she looked up.

Snow Moon Rising 245

“Are you off to bed?”

“No, I’d like to read for a while, but I forgot my glasses in

the shop.” She fingered some wire and a screwdriver in her dress

pocket.

“It’s dark out. You’re not going over there now.”

“There’s enough light to see, and no one’s out and about.”

“Pauline, any one of these laborers could accost you. You

could be hurt.”

“Everyone here is always so concerned about the laborers. In

all the time I’ve been here, none of them has posed a single

threat. They won’t even look at us.”

“But it could happen.”

“I don’t think so. Those poor pathetic people are all

exhausted and wasting away. Not to mention thoroughly cowed

by fear.” Bernadette looked doubtful. “Go on. Finish your book.

Don’t worry about me. It’s cool outside now, and I may even

take a walk.”

“Oh, no, you mustn’t.”

“Bernie, dear, you worry too much. I’ll stick to the fence

line, maybe stop and chat with some of the soldiers.”

“Ohh… so that’s it.”

“What?”

“You’ve got your eye on one of the guards.”

Pippi restrained herself from laughing out loud. “And what

if I did?”

Bernadette reopened her book. “Find out if he has a

brother.”

Pippi grinned. “I’ll be back before you know it, Bernie.” She

ducked out into the cool night air.

A guard shouldered his rifle near the factory stairs. “Good

evening,” she said.

“Oh, it’s only you.” He settled the gun butt on the ground.

“I’m heading in to the factory for a bit.”

“All right, then.”

She hurried in. The bare lightbulb illuminated little in the

entryway. She wished she had a flashlight or a candle as she

wandered around the main floor trying to find a stairwell down.

Crates and boxes lined so many of the walls that she wasn’t able

to find the door. She finally decided she’d have to look another

time when there was a lot more light.

What could she do now with the little bag of goodies? She

exited the factory and went down the stairs, then gave a wave to

the guard. She walked along the west side of the factory, waved

to those guards as she went, and skirted the loading entrance on

the south side.

246 Lori L. Lake

“Halt. Who goes there?”

“Just me, soldier, taking a walk. I’m Fräulein Stanek from

the factory.” The advancing guard gave a nod and dropped back.

She turned the corner and walked along the road-side of the big

dirty building. She squinted in the low light, but it was so dark

she couldn’t see the main gate or the soldier who had just hailed

her. She moved on. She nearly passed by the alcove but a low

hiss brought her to a stop and she stepped back.

“Pippi.”

“What in the world are you doing here?” Pippi looked all

around, terrified that they would be noticed. She dropped to one

knee and pretended to tie her shoe.

“I thought you were going to open the door.”

“Couldn’t find a way down in the dark.” She untied the

string at her belt, grabbed the bag, and tossed it into the dark

recesses. When she stood back up, something soft hit her ankle.

“Take the bag. I can’t be seen with it.”

Pippi picked it up and tucked it inside her dress. “I’ll look

again tomorrow for the door to the basement.”

“Thank you.”

She didn’t want to call attention to herself, so she walked

on, feeling faint. Mischka had risked being out of the barracks,

and it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. That frightened Pippi, and

when she had the opportunity, she meant to speak to her about

it. Back at the house, Bernadette looked up as Pippi entered.

“Find them?”

“What?”

“Your glasses.”

With a start, Pippi shook her head. “No. I’m not sure where

they’ve gotten themselves off to. I’ll look in the morning light.

But I did have a very nice walk. I think I’ll do that more often.”

Bernadette wrinkled up her nose. “It’s ugly and threatening

out there. I think you’re crazy.”

“Oh, well. Maybe I like living on the edge. Good night,

Bernadette.”

“Pippi?”

“Yes?” She paused and turned back.

“It’s all right if you call me Bernie, but not in front of the

workers.”

“All right then, Bernie.”

“Sleep well.”

Snow Moon Rising 247

THE NEXT NIGHT, Pippi returned to the factory. After a

quick stop on the third floor to root through clothing and find a

coat, she hurried to the basement door, which she had located

earlier in the day. She pushed the white button on a light switch

that illuminated one bare bulb at the foot of the stairs. She

descended to a dark basement with a low ceiling. Something

light and gauzy tickled her nose and wrapped around her face

and neck. She strangled a squeak and wiped a cobweb off her

cheek.

With an arm up in front of her face, she stepped around

some packing boxes and a crate big enough to hold an elephant.

She came to a rickety-looking, waist-high table, and set all she

carried on its battered surface. To her right stood a huge, unlit

furnace with multiple octopus arms. Through a double-wide

doorway she could just barely make out a dim room which

contained a coal bin twenty feet wide and deeper than she could

see. A line of four shovels leaned against it. Pippi figured the

factory must be due for a coal delivery because there wasn’t

much in the bin. No wonder the building was so cold; nobody

minded the boiler during the night. Perhaps they were

conserving what little coal was left.

To the left she saw an indentation in the wall—the coal

delivery chute. The wooden steps up to it were blackened with

an accumulation of packed-down coal dust. She took off her

gloves, reached into her coat pocket for the piece of wire, and set

to work on the lock. The loose, old tumblers clicked open on her

first try.

Mischka appeared suddenly in the doorway. “Pippi,” she

whispered, managing to sound delighted.

“I feel like such a success for actually getting you in this

door.”

Mischka’s cold hands closed over hers. “You’ve always been

a success at everything you’ve done.”

“You possess a great deal more confidence in me than I do.”

Mischka smiled, and her eyes sparkled, even in the shadows.

The sharp angles of her face softened, and her gray pallor wasn’t

so apparent. If her hair had been more than two inches long, she

would almost look like she had on her wedding day. Pippi

stretched a hand up and touched the short black hair. “Your

curls are gone.”

“Nobody’s hair really grows much here. We need meat. We

haven’t had any since summer.”

Pippi laid a hand against Mischka’s cheek and found it

surprisingly warm. “I don’t have any meat at all for you tonight.

But I’ll get what I can in the coming days. I don’t know how you

248 Lori L. Lake

can stay warm.”

“I’m lucky. I’m used to cold weather and sleeping under the

vardos. Of course, we had bedrolls then, but it’s not so bad for me

in the barracks. If not for Aurora and me, I don’t think Lidia

could stay warm enough.”

“She’s tiny. No fat on her for insulation.”

“Unfortunately no.”

Pippi took Mischka’s hand. “Follow me.” She led her to the

ancient table in the next room. “First, I found this long, lined

coat that will keep you much warmer than that rag you’re

wearing.” Mischka shrugged out of the dirty one. “You’ll

probably want to dirty this up, maybe put a rip or two in it so

nobody pays it any attention.”

“We all need coats like this—and warmer dresses, better

shoes.”

“Best if we replace items gradually. If you and your friends

get up tomorrow morning wearing hardier new outfits, the

others will question why Saint Nicholas has visited you and not

them.”

“Nicholas?”

“You’ve heard of the saint?”

“No.”

“Never mind then. Take this food. I made sure I got you a

coat with deep pockets to hide it. Now here’s my plan. If you

come this way, to the other end, the dumbwaiter is here.” She led

Mischka through the gloom. “I can’t risk coming down here very

often, but I can put food on the dumbwaiter, and you can get it

any time during the night.”

“But—the guards. I can’t enter the building.”

“We’ll leave it unlocked so you can get through the coal

door any time. I’ll leave you what food and clothes I can each

night.”

“Pippi, how will I ever repay you?”

“It’s not—”

They both froze. Footsteps clumped across the floor above

their heads. “Go.”

Mischka grabbed the food bag and evaporated into the dim

recesses of the other room.

From her coat pocket, Pippi pulled matches and half a pack

of Imperials that she’d lifted from Agnes’s bureau drawer.

A soldier clattered down the stairs. “What are you doing

down here?” His eyes swept the area.

She gave him an embarrassed smile. “Didn’t want to smoke

upstairs with all the cloth and flammable materials. Thought it

was safer down here. Care for one?” She held out the orange and

Snow Moon Rising 249

white package.

He accepted it and tamped one out. “Thank you. That’s very

nice. It’s cold out, and a good cigarette warms my lungs. Too bad

we’re forbidden to smoke on the fence.”

She handed him her cigarette, and he lit his from it, all the

while eyeing her. She pegged him at well over sixty, and he

looked tired. Over the banging of her heart, she introduced

herself, and he spent ten minutes chatting about toy trains,

which he told her were his life’s passion.

Pippi finished her smoke and ground it out with her heel on

the cement floor, then followed him upstairs, all the while

musing that she had developed nerves of steel. She thought she

must have been on overload for so long that she was no longer

the slightest bit nervous.

Half an hour later she got the shakes in her room and only

just made it to the bathroom in time to vomit. Twice.

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

“Wow. I’m named for someone who saved your life,

Beebee?”

“Yes, you are,” Mischka said.

“I can’t believe all this happened and no one ever told me.”

Pippi said, “These are not many happy memories, Tobar. It

was a shameful, painful time.”

“But Grandma! Why didn’t you wait until dark and steal

someone’s keys so you could get Beebee Mischka and her friends

and drive out of there in one of those Kübelwagens?”

Pippi laughed. “But where would we go?”

“Somewhere. Anywhere else. Hide in the woods for a while

until you could somehow get to Hungary and find Emil.”

“Hmm. I'm not sure your concept of distance is very good.”

Mischka said, “Have you had much geography in school so far?”

“Some. It’s not very interesting. At my last school, we were

learning about Latin America. I haven’t been at the new school

long enough to know what we’ll be studying.” He brightened.

“But in eighth grade, I had to do a report on the Po Valley in

Italy with maps and charts about the agricultural information. I

still have it.”

He sounded so proud that Mischka said, “I would like to see

it. I never set foot in Italy. I’m not sure Pippi and I are doing a

very good job of explaining how lost we were. Hungary was

worlds away from the labor camp. I didn’t even know the name

for the camp, much less where on earth we were. I was certain

we were in Poland, but that was the extent of my knowledge.”

“And we may not be explaining how completely the

Germans trapped us in the camp,” Pippi said. “We couldn’t find

a way to get past the guards. Perhaps alone I could take a walk

outside the gates, though I never did. The soldiers might have

allowed me that, but they would have kept close watch on me.

Snow Moon Rising 251

There was no possibility of me helping Mischka and her five

friends escape.”

“Oh,” was all Tobar said.

Pippi rose. “I think we could all use a refreshment. I have

chocolate milk. Do you both want it?”

Tobar said, “Yes, I’ll have some, but what I really want to

know is how you found Uncle Emil again.”

“Did we find him?” Mischka gave him a sly look. “I’m not

sure about that.”

“You must have. Emil—Uncle Emil—he’s the one with

Gyorgy and Stevo, right?"“

Pippi said, “I’ll be right back. Mischka, please go on. I’ll

listen from the kitchen.”

Chapter

Twenty-Nine

Southern Poland, Early January 1945 (Wolf Moon)

WALKING FROM THE mess shed with the rest of the

seamstresses, Mischka finished the porridge in her tin cup and

used her thumb to scrape out every last drop. She tucked the tin

cup in her dress pocket. They hadn’t been given any bread for

two days, and the lukewarm porridge hadn’t made a dent in her

hunger.

She shivered and pulled the dirty coat around her, feeling

every bit of the thirty-degree temperature. Lidia stumbled and

nearly spilled her porridge. “Careful,” Mischka said. Don’t

dump that. There’s no more where that came from.”

Dull-eyed and exhausted, Lidia looked up at her. “You take

it.” “You need the nourishment. You finish it up.”

“No. I don’t want it. Take it.”

Aurora echoed Mischka’s comments, but Lidia shook her

head. “If one of you won’t eat it, I’ll toss it.”

Aurora accepted it from Lidia’s shaky hand and asked what

was wrong.

“I don’t know. I just want to go to sleep. For good.”

Mischka shared a glance of unspoken concern with Aurora,

who quickly downed half of the sticky glop and handed the cup

to Mischka as they trudged up the factory stairs. Halfway up,

Mischka took one of Lidia’s elbows and Aurora the other. By the

fourth floor they were nearly carrying her.

Mischka looked out the window into the gray sky as they

entered the sewing room. Just another day, another tiring,

endless day. Yet she sensed something in the air. She had noticed

darting stares from the normally smug guards at the mess shed.

They seemed to be sizing up the prisoners, their eyes

speculative. Mischka wondered if the looks had anything to do

with the change in rations. For the past two days they hadn’t

Snow Moon Rising 253

been given any bread. Maybe everyone was placing bets on how

long the prisoners would last on so little.

The food Pippi smuggled out each night didn’t go very far

when there were six of them to split it, and even the addition of

Lidia’s lukewarm porridge hadn’t come anywhere near to

assuaging her hunger. Still, Mischka thanked her lucky stars that

she was no longer stuck in the cold on the loading dock. The

sewing room was chilly, but nothing like the outdoors. Soon,

body heat would warm the temperature by several more degrees,

and once Mischka began working, she could ignore the cold.

She purposely avoided seeking Pippi’s eyes, but she knew

exactly where Pippi stood, near the dumbwaiter and by the

windows. She noted the position of the other two overseers as

well, careful always to know where every threat was posted.

Quickly, she made her way to the table at the far end of the room

where she had been cutting material for shirts the day before.

The scissors, of course, were under lock and key, so she leaned

against the wall next to another worker and waited to be noticed.

The hum and buzz of the machines gradually increased as the

seamstresses picked up their sewing where they’d left off.

Pippi threaded her way forward with scissors. Mischka

smiled each time she saw the old metal shears. Someone had

snipped off the points of every pair of scissors Mischka had

touched. She thought that was ridiculous. But everything at the

factory was ridiculous. Pippi handed them to her and looked up

with a smirk on her face. She whispered, “Have you heard the

news of the advance of the Russians?”

“No.” Mischka bent and carefully cut along the edge of a

piece of material.

“All along the Vistula River in Poland, the Russians are

breaking through on their way to Warsaw.”

“The Vistula.” Mischka smiled in memory of the river and of

happier days traveling with the kumpania.

“Rumors are that the war is winding down. I hope it’s over

soon.”

“Is it possible?” Mischka restrained herself from reaching

over to touch Pippi, though she very much wanted to.

“I hope so. There surely is a lot of action these last few days.

Kübelwagen come and go, officers in and out. Everyone’s on

edge.”

Mischka watched Pippi’s face go from animated to flat and

impassive, as though she possessed two personalities. A

sidelong glance revealed that the guard named Greta was

watching them.

Mischka bent close to her task and concentrated on cutting

254 Lori L. Lake

out the cuff perfectly. It was too easy to err, and making

mistakes would only result in screaming, or even worse, being

beaten around the head and shoulders with a baton. Mischka

wished to forgo attention of either kind. She forced down a

bubble of laughter though. Aurora had informed her that every

item she worked on lately, she sewed a flaw into. The night

before, she’d made Mischka laugh out loud as they lay atop the

bunk.

“I most enjoy doing what I can to shorten up the material in

the crotch,” Aurora had said. “Not an item leaves my machine

without something included to make that German soldier as

uncomfortable as possible as he tries to hurt innocent people.”

Mischka finished cutting out the shirt at the same time the

other cutter finished hers. Pippi came to them with a thick roll of

trouser material. “Let’s work on slacks for a time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mischka said.

Pippi rolled out the material. In a loud voice, she said, “Oh,

look, we’ll need more twill tape and buttons. You. Come with

me.”Mischka followed Pippi, her head down. As they

approached the desks at the front, Elke said, “I surely hope we

have better output today than the last few days.” Mischka felt

Elke’s eyes on her, but she concentrated on standing still and

appearing stupid.

“Oh, yes,” Pippi said. “We will. Keep an eye on the cutter

back there, will you? I’m going downstairs for supplies. You.

Come along,” she said curtly to Mischka.

Once they reached the fourth floor, they hustled to the

cabinets and shelving and stood close to one another while

sorting through containers of buttons.

“Have you noticed there are fewer guards now than at any

time?” Pippi asked. “They haven’t got anyone at the middle of

the west and east fences at all.” She shoved the can back on a

shelf and looked up into Mischka’s eyes. “We’re not told much,

but I’m frightened for you. They’ve been sending some of the

infirm laborers out of here.”

“To the east?”

“Now there’s a euphemism. ‘To the east.’ To death is more

like it.” She grabbed Mischka’s forearm and turned toward her.

“Listen to me. You’re not safe. Your friends aren’t either. If the

war ends, I’m afraid of what will happen to all you laborers.”

Mischka surveyed her friend’s worried face. “Pippi, I can

never thank you enough for all you’ve done for us. If it weren’t

for you, most of my friends would be dead by now. With food,

with this job, with your caring—you’ve kept me alive longer

Snow Moon Rising 255

than I ever expected.”

Pippi’s face blanched. “You sound like you’re ready to be

laid to rest.”

“No, but I have no control over that. I live from day to day.”

She reached up and straightened the collar on Pippi’s wool

dress. “Seeing you each day keeps me sane. It keeps me going.

You have kept me going. Just having had this time with you has

been enough.”

“No.” Now Pippi’s face went red. “It can’t be this way. I

can’t watch someone I care about be mishandled or—or die.” She

choked the last word out as she tipped her head forward, so

close that her brow came to rest against Mischka’s collarbone.

Mischka’s heart beat fast, but she didn’t move. She gazed toward

the door to the hall and stairs. No one was in sight. She ran her

fingers along the circle of Pippi’s blonde braids. They were soft

against her callused hand.

In a muffled voice, Pippi said, “This place is a hellhole, and

it’s only going to get worse.”

“You don’t know that for sure, but if you’re right, I’ll hold

my head high like Tobar did.”

“You’ve never told me what happened to Tobar.”

“They shot him. For no reason.”

“Oh, my God.” Pippi’s mouth dropped open, and she stared

into Mischka’s eyes. “See. We’ve got to get you out of here.

Soon.”

“To where? The country's occupied. There’s nowhere to

run.”“There has to be somewhere.” She bit her lip. “Oh, Mischka.

We have to figure out something.”

“Even if we did manage to escape, we have no papers, no

money, no traveling clothes.”

“I can get you those things.”

“You can?”

“I’ll try.” She stood up straight and glanced at her

wristwatch. “We’ve been gone too long. Grab what we need, and

let’s hurry upstairs. But we still need to talk more, to plan.”

And in the coming days, each chance she got, Pippi spoke to

Mischka about escaping, but always they came to the conclusion

that the danger of leaving outweighed the risks of staying. Still,

the topic never strayed far from Mischka’s mind.

PIPPI HAD NO trouble passing through the guard gate

between the men’s and women’s sides of the camp. Even though

it was well after dark, the sole guard recognized her and merely

256 Lori L. Lake

touched his helmet in greeting. She strolled through, her heart

beating fast, and made her way to the major’s house. As she

mounted the stairs, a breeze chilled her. She pulled her coat

tighter and looked up at the moon.

Moving to the front door, she tried to listen. She didn’t want

to enter and startle anyone who might flinch and use her for

target practice. Her hand shook as she reached for the knob. It

turned soundlessly, but as she pushed at the heavy wooden

door, the hinges let out a loud shriek. She stopped, shock

coursing through her veins.

When no one sounded an alarm, she opened the squeaking

door another four inches, which allowed her to slip in, wincing

at all the noise. She stood in the darkened entryway and waited,

thinking that not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. The

old house settled and creaked, sounding alive, like a hundred

small mice scratching. After a moment, she realized that a tree

branch was scraping against a window in the parlor to the right.

Get on with it, she thought. She must go forth and take her

chances. She swallowed her fear, crept across the entryway, and

tiptoed down the hallway to Fischer’s office. She stepped in and

went immediately through the doorway to the left.

Eight file cabinets loomed in the shadows. She hoped none

of the records she sought were in the top drawers because they

were too high for her to look into. She wished she could

somehow illuminate the room, but the moonlight shining in a

window to the right would have to do. She didn’t dare turn on a

light and attract any attention.

Pippi fumbled with her hair, letting it down in order to pull

out two hairpins. She took a deep breath and went to the first

cabinet. Dear Papa and François, if you’re angels or have any

influence with the Lord at all, please help me. The hairpins went into

the lock smoothly, and with only minor manipulation, she was

able to unlock the second drawer from the top. Ha! So much for

German ingenuity. Who had made these locks? A thief?

She flipped through file after file, all filled with sheets of

paper she didn’t take time to look at. Same with the next drawer

down, and the two at the bottom. She pulled the top drawer open

and angled around to the side on tiptoes. No luck. Shutting the

drawer, she fumbled for her hairpins to re-lock it, then decided

to lock them all one after another when she was done.

A cold bead of sweat rolled down her back, and she

shivered, but she squared her shoulders and unlocked the next

file cabinet. The middle drawer was crammed so full, it opened

with difficulty. Voilá! This is what she needed. She picked up a

stack of folded papers and a handful of little booklets. The first

Snow Moon Rising 257

booklet had ÚTLEVÉL embossed on the front, and the second,

PASZPORT. She opened another drawer, and it too was stuffed

full of passports. Hundreds and hundreds of thick papers and

little booklets.

She was now faced with a new problem and shook her head

in frustration. None of the drawers were organized in ways that

made sense to her. How was she to find the proper papers for

Mischka and her friends? Further, if she were to make it out of

the major’s house safely and past the guard’s post, she couldn’t

very well carry a handful of passports in plain sight. She wished

she had brought the string bag. Think. What could she do? She

realized that the women were all Polish, except Mischka. But

Mischka could pass for Polish. Or Hungarian. She certainly

spoke both languages well enough.

Pippi heard noises that sounded like footsteps overhead.

Time was running out. She bit her lip and tried to still her

shaking hands, then picked up a handful of the smallest books

labeled PASZPORT and put them into her left coat pocket. She

still had an empty right pocket, so she stuffed more in there,

then crammed in two more embossed with ÚTLEVÉL until there

was no more room.

It took her longer to lock the drawer than she hoped, and

before she could go back to the previous ones, she heard the

shriek of the front door. Oh, no. Oh, no! She stuck the hairpins in with the passports and moved toward the casement window

through which moonlight was pouring. Tugging on it didn't

work. Some lazy worker had painted it shut.

A distant male voice rumbled in the entryway and was

answered by another’s deep tones. Pippi slipped out of her coat

and strode into the office. The plush carpet muffled her steps.

She laid her coat over one of the velvet chairs near the open door

and sank down upon the divan.

What little dinner she had eaten was doing backflips in her

stomach. She had to force down the bile threatening to erupt. She

took great big gulps of air and tried to still her heart. Please,

God, let them all go upstairs to their quarters so she could sneak

out. Please...

But she heard heavy boots coming her way. The footsteps

stopped, but that was because they’d hit the carpet and were

now nearly silent on the way into the office. Up and to her right

she saw Fischer's outline as he stepped in and headed toward his

desk.“Friedrich.”

Her voice was soft, but he pivoted on his heel, one hand on

the pistol at his hip. “Who goes there?”

258 Lori L. Lake

“It’s me, Friedrich. Pauline.”

He leaned toward his desk and flicked on the desk lamp.

“Pauline.” His voice was gruff. “You startled me.” He sagged

back against the edge of the desk, and she realized he had been

frightened a great deal more than he was letting on. “What are

you doing here?”

She ran her hands through her long, loose hair and

swallowed. “I heard there’s been bad news. I—I thought you

might—might need me.” She couldn’t see his face in the

shadows, but he moved his hand from the gun and laced his

fingers together in front of his belt buckle.

“How long have you been here?”

She decided to be truthful. “Not long, perhaps fifteen

minutes. I didn’t see Klaus anywhere, and no one answered my

knock, so I let myself in.”

“I see.” He was quiet for a few moments. She watched his

chest rise and fall. “So you heard that Budapest fell to the

Russians?”

She produced a small, horrified gasp. “I heard they’d

pushed back our troops. I didn’t know they’d come that far.”

“Yes, they have. Now they’re marching on Berlin. So none

of tonight’s news is good. The commander came personally to

speak to us. We’ve been instructed to clear out the camp and—

and we are to—to dispose of any threats. This is why Klaus is no

longer here.” He put a hand to his forehead, then let it slide

down to cover his mouth. “It’s a terrible business.”

Even though her stomach roiled at the thought of poor old

Klaus being “disposed” of, Pippi rose and moved through the

thick carpet until she stood in front of Fischer. She forced herself

to reach out and pat his forearm. “I’m so sorry, Friedrich.”

He looked away. Whether it was the chill in the room or her

distaste for him, she trembled. He immediately stood upright

and took hold of her wrist. “You’re freezing cold.” She didn’t

answer, nor did she resist as he pulled her to him. “I shall warm

you, little Pauline.”

His breath was hot on her neck. She shut her eyes tight and

placed her hands on his ribs, gently embracing him in return.

He groaned. “You have been the only bright note in this

horrible assignment. The only good and true thing.” His voice

broke as though he fought down a sob, but before she could

consider that further, his lips found hers.

She thought of François, of his warmth and gentleness. Tears

sprang to her eyes, and she was glad Fischer couldn’t see that in

the low light. She pressed François into the back of her mind, not

wanting to think of him or his death. In his place, she pictured

Snow Moon Rising 259

Mischka’s dark eyes and how her mouth looked when she

laughed. Mischka. This was for Mischka. Whatever happened,

she would keep that in mind. Fischer lifted Pippi and carried her

to the divan. She squeezed her eyes shut and remembered a

summer night in a tent under a full moon. That night she was

half-drunk with some sort of homemade apple wine, and she

slept cradled in Mischka’s arms. She hadn’t thought of that in

many years. She remembered the smell of leather, the feel of a

scratchy wool blanket against her cheek, the creaking of the tent

in the breeze. She wished she knew the songs she’d heard that

night. So much laughter and dancing and happiness then...

Fischer’s attentions were blessedly short-lived. When he

cried out and slumped upon her, she opened her eyes and

allowed herself to return to the present. She stroked his back and

made soothing sounds.

After a few moments, he lifted his head. “I’m sorry. So

sorry.”

“Shhh, it’s all right.”

He slipped off her, on his knees next to the couch, which

gave her the opportunity to straighten her clothes and sit up. She

didn’t watch as he fumbled with his trousers. He moved to settle

next to her on the divan, and Pippi shifted, her hands in her lap.

She focused past him at her coat. Something white stuck out of

one pocket, and her heart went into her throat.

“I am truly sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—” He shook

his head.

Struggling to think of something, she said the first lie that

came to mind. “I wasn’t unwilling.”

He enfolded her hand in his warm palms. “I'm the one who

should have been unwilling. This is another of the many, many

things that my wife must never know about.”

“I’ll never tell.”

“Sometimes I think it would have been better to stay at the

front, to have died in battle.”

“Oh, no.” If that had happened who knew what sort of awful

bureaucrat would have been here in his place. She pressed her

lips together tightly.

“When I was wounded—” He paused. “I don’t like to speak

of it, but I was wounded in May of ’42. I was in hospital for

months in the Ukrainian city of Kharkov. I hate the Russians. I

hate them. And they’re after me yet again. If it weren’t for the

Russians—and those cursed Americans— Der Führer would be the

supreme leader of Europe, perhaps of the world.”

“Are you saying this is the end?”

“I don’t know. But the Russians will be at our backs, and

260 Lori L. Lake

much as I hate to do it, we must retreat. Pauline, when the time

comes, I can’t take you with me.”

“I understand. Your wife wouldn’t accept that at all.” She

squeezed his hand.

“No, that’s not what I mean. We are to leave all civilians

behind.”

“Oh.”

“I argued against it. Please believe me.”

“Are we to be disposed of?”

He inhaled a gasp of air. “Of course not.”

“That’s good news then. How long do we have before they

come?”

“A few weeks. We have much work to do to clean up records

and pack the military goods and cargo.”

She rose. “I should go then. You’ll need your rest.”

He scrambled up off the divan. “Pauline, please. Mention

nothing of my indiscretion to the others at your quarters.”

“Don’t worry, Friedrich. I never speak of you or the details

of our meetings. You can rest assured that I’ll keep this to

myself.”

“Thank you.” He engulfed her in a bear hug, then leaned

back and bent his head to place a kiss on her cheek. “You are a

good woman, Pauline Stanek. I wish for you all manner of fine

things.”

“And I wish for you the same.” She stepped away and

picked up her coat. She turned the side with the white cover

sticking out, hid it against her dress, and nudged the passport

completely into the pocket. “I shall see you Thursday,

Friedrich.” She pretended not to notice his attempt to help her,

and she donned the coat.

“Until then.” He walked with her to the front door and

opened it. “Shall I send an escort with you?”

“No, I’ll be fine. And the walk will clear my head. Good

night.”

His smile was wide, and his teeth sparkled in the moonlight,

like the teeth of a wolf on the hunt. “Pauline, Pauline, you must

try to understand. I never knew it would be this way.”

The anguish in his voice sounded real, but how could she

tell? Pippi plastered a pleasant look on her face, but she couldn’t

prevent her distaste for Fischer from intensifying. She felt

unclean, and she’d been on edge for so long that the thought of

standing with him for one moment longer made her feel

physically ill.

“Yes, who could imagine these terrible things could

happen,” she said ambiguously.

Snow Moon Rising 261

With earnest concern, he responded, “If you are ever asked

about your work here, remember—you were just following

orders.”

“I will remember.” Pippi turned to walk away. “Just

following orders.”

Chapter

Thirty

Southern Poland, February 1945 (Storm Moon)

THE CROUPY COUGH that Lidia developed overnight had

both Aurora and Mischka worried. More than half the women in

the sewing detail were ill, and so many from the loading dock

had died that only eighty laborers answered the roll call. In the

early morning light, Mischka saw that Lidia was pale, and her

eyes were rimmed with red. They had tried to keep her warm

between them throughout the night, but when they rose just

before dawn, Lidia couldn’t stop shaking. It didn’t help that they

stood in three inches of snow. Lidia refused to go get her

porridge or drink any water.

Mischka pulled her aside and leaned down to try to meet her

eyes. She didn’t seem to be focusing. “Lidia. Lid, you need to eat.”

“I don’t want any.” Lidia bent double, coughed, and spat

out phlegm. “I just want them to take me away to be with

Nelka.”

Aurora put an arm around her. “Oh, no, sweetheart. That’s

not wise. They probably wouldn’t send you anywhere near

Nelka.”

“But they might. I want Nelka.” Lidia’s pout would have

been comical if she wasn’t so feverish and the topic hadn’t been

about life and death.

Mischka patted her on the back. “You’re ill, and you need

sustenance. You can’t get stronger if you don’t eat.”

“No.”

Suddenly Braunhaus stood at Mischka’s side. “What’s going

on here?”

Mischka straightened up. Aurora hastened to explain.

“Nothing, ma’am. She had a small piece of food caught in her

throat. She’s fine now.”

“See to it. We don’t have time to coddle the lazy or the

shiftless.”

Snow Moon Rising 263

Mischka eased Lidia back and away. “Yes, ma’am.”

Braunhaus, dressed warmly in a long coat and a furry hat,

stomped off.

Under her breath, Aurora said, “Nobody’s as lazy or

shiftless as that hag.”

Mischka fought back a grin. “Why, Aurora. You’re always so

kind, never a bad word. And now you call our fine overseer a

hag.”“She most certainly is a hag. She’s a disgrace to humanity, a

boil on the underside of a pig.”

Mischka laughed. “I have to admit that your German

certainly has improved by leaps and bounds. If we ever get out

of here, you can refer to our time spent in this place as language

school.”

“Aren’t you the funny one today.” Aurora took the tin cup

from Lidia's hand and held it out. “Go get the porridge. If she

won’t eat it, then we can’t let it go to waste.”

No matter how hard they tried to convince Lidia, she

refused to eat, so Mischka split the lukewarm porridge with

Aurora. This was happening too often.

Moments later, Mischka heard the whistle to get to work.

Aurora put an arm around Lidia and guided her forward.

Mischka tucked the tin into Lidia’s pocket and waved at Jolanta

who fell in step with her. Jolanta shivered and let out a squeak.

“I’ll be glad to get into the warmth of the factory. My feet feel

like bricks of ice.”

“Mine, too.”

But it wasn’t much warmer in the building. Mischka had no

way of knowing the temperature outside, but it was unusually

cold, and whatever warmth they generated on the fifth floor was

sucked right outside, replaced by numbingly frigid air. The

windows were rimed with frost. In some places, the ice was a

half-inch thick.

She could barely make her fingers guide the fabric into the

sewing machine. Next to her, Lidia stared off in the distance for

so long that the youngest supervisor, Greta, came down the row

and whacked her on the back with her baton. “Get to work.”

Lidia bent her head and pushed the material under the foot

of the sewing machine, but it jammed immediately.

“You stupid sow. Look what you’ve done.” Lidia pulled at

the material, managing only to tangle it further. Greta struck her

again. This time Lidia didn’t even flinch.

Mischka wondered where Pippi was. But she couldn’t rely

on Pippi for everything. “Ma’am, might I help?”

Greta turned to her in a fury. “Mind your own business.”

264 Lori L. Lake

Mischka winced, her panic rising. But there was nothing to

be done. If she interrupted again, it would only result in a

beating. She cocked her head and glanced back at Aurora who

sat three machines over and one row behind. Aurora shook her

head fiercely. Ah, Aurora knew her too well. But what did she

have to lose? She'd been beaten before.

She pushed down on the sewing machine and stood. Her

stiff legs were sluggish to respond, but she stepped over next to

Greta. “I’ll fix this for you, ma’am.”

The short supervisor didn’t have much room to draw back,

so her first blow was feeble and glanced off Mischka’s left

shoulder. The second time, the seamstress in the next machine

ducked out of the way, so Greta’s recoil was stronger, more

powerful. The blow struck Mischka on the collarbone. A line of

heat, like a bolt of lightning, ran down to her hand. Then her arm

went numb. She cried out in pain, bit her tongue, and tensed.

The next blow drove her back. She tripped over the metal leg of

one of the machines and went down on her backside. She heard

Elke call out Greta’s name.

As the baton cut through the air, Mischka caught sight of

Lidia. Her mouth was open, her eyes wide and shocked. The thin

club made a whistling sound just before it struck Mischka above

the left ear. She let the momentum carry her sideways and to the

floor where she lay stunned. The pain ricocheted in her head,

and keeping still seemed a good idea. A vision of Arben’s dark

hair and sparkling cruel face flashed in her mind’s eye before

merciful darkness blotted it out.

PIPPI HAD OVERSLEPT. She awakened feeling sore and

fatigued. Emotionally, however, she felt a lightness and sense of

hope she hadn’t felt for months. She thought of the cache of

passports hidden in a slice of the mattress at the head of her bed.

Now if only she could figure out a way to get Mischka and her

friends away from the camp to someplace safe, they could sit out

the rest of the war with papers that could pass the scrutiny of

any official they ran into who was still trying to behave as if

everything were normal. She’d dreamed of escapes and journeys

all night long.

She dressed, plaited her hair into a French-style braid, and

tucked it under, then meandered down the stairs, greeting

Thomas, the cook, who was cutting potatoes for the noon meal.

She picked up a muffin to eat on the way across to the factory,

put on her coat, grabbed her muffler, and let herself out.

Swirls of snow blew off the roof and sifted inside her collar

Snow Moon Rising 265

before she got the muffler adjusted. The change in temperature

outside from the warmth of the quarters came as quite a shock,

and she hustled across the open space, finishing the last bit of

the muffin. Inside the factory, it didn’t feel much warmer, but at

least there was no breeze and no snow fell on her head. By the

time she’d mounted the ten flights of stairs to the fifth floor, her

legs were definitely warm. As she approached the doorway to

the workroom, the hum of the machines died off, and she heard a

thump, then a grunt and a loud crack.

Puzzled, Pippi was unbuttoning her coat as she stepped

through the doorway and passed in front of the desks. Few of the

seamstresses were facing front. Nearly all were looking toward

the back corner of the room where Elke and Greta stood.

“What’s going on?” Pippi called out as she loosened her

muffler.

Greta spun around. The expression on her face gave Pippi a

start. Greta rarely looked guilty. Pippi strode to the windows

and turned to walk up that aisle. Oh, my God. Mischka. “What

happened?”

Greta’s eyes narrowed. “She attacked me.”

Pippi sucked in a breath and exclaimed, “She’s bleeding!”

She fell to her knees next to the limp figure. “Oh, hell and

damnation.” The skin over Mischka’s ear was so thin it had split,

and a gush of blood had run down her neck and dripped onto the

floor. Pippi pressed her fingertips against the grayish skin at

Mischka’s neck. The pulse beat regularly.

Heart in her throat, Pippi looked up at the two Germans.

“What really happened?” She asked the question softly, her

mind in a whirl.

Elke pressed her lips together and looked away. Greta

glared. “She came at me. I have the right to defend myself.” She

tipped her chin up. “I shall call the soldiers. They can take her to

the infirmary.”

Pippi had heard the expression “seeing red,” but she’d never

personally experienced it until now. Suddenly everything turned

blood red except a small circle that held Greta’s haughty face.

Pippi clambered to her feet and sprang toward her. “You cruel

shrew. You’ve been nothing but vicious since the first day I

arrived.”

Greta backed up and bumped into a sewing machine.

“You’re a sap. A weak and pathetic—”

Pippi grabbed the front of Greta’s wool coat. “And you’re a

brute. Heartless. Barbaric. Give me that!” She wrested the baton

from Greta’s hand. “You are instructed never to use a weapon

upon these people again.”

266 Lori L. Lake

“They’re not people,” Greta said with a snarl. “They’re one

step up from animals, and I have the right to protect myself from

them.” She spat on the hardwood floor. “I never wanted this job.

I hate working with these stinking vermin.”

Panting with fury, Pippi shoved her.

“Stop it. I’ll put you on report.”

“I don’t care.” Pippi grasped the lapels of Greta’s coat so

tightly that her hands hurt. “Get out. And don’t come back. I

don’t care if they assign you to latrine duty. You’re not working

in here ever again.”

When Pippi released her hold of the coat, Greta smirked. “I

could tell she was your little pet.” When Pippi surged forward,

Elke grabbed her arm and stepped in front of her. Greta

sauntered to the coat hook and took down her hat and scarf. “I

will report you, and I’m also sending up the soldiers to take your

little pet away.”

Pippi’s mouth went dry, and she couldn’t make herself say

what she wanted—which would have consigned her to the

confessional for damning the other woman.

She turned back to Mischka and was surprised to see that

her eyes were open. With the barest hint of a smile, she pushed

herself up on one elbow. “Will I be punished for sleeping on the

job?”It took every bit of willpower to keep from throwing herself

upon Mischka. “You’ve bled quite a bit. Don’t touch your neck

or head. I’ll get a bandage.”

“Luckily, Arben thoroughly conditioned my head. It may

bleed, but it doesn’t easily break.”

Pippi whispered, “This really isn’t funny.” In a normal

voice, she said, “Can you get up?”

In broken German, one of the French workers said, “I could

help her, Fräulein.” She didn’t move until Pippi told her it was

all right, then the girl assisted Mischka to her feet. Mischka

staggered to the chair at her sewing machine.

Every worker gawked at Pippi. “Don’t just sit there,” she

said. “Get back to your sewing. We have a lot of work to do.”

In seconds, the humming and buzzing from the machines

started once more.

Elke backed toward the windows. “I had nothing to do with

this.”Pippi summoned her to the outside hall, out of earshot of the

seamstresses. When they got there, she asked what had

happened.

“I—I don’t know. She just went crazy.”

“But why? These women aren't violent. Greta was lying

Snow Moon Rising 267

about being attacked, wasn't she?”

Elke shifted her shoulders. “You have to understand,

Pauline. Her fiancé has been missing in action for six weeks.”

“My husband died in battle. Does that give me license to kill

a woman?”

Elke’s eyes widened, and she gulped. “No, no, of course not.

I had no idea that you lost your—”

Pippi raised the hand holding the baton. “Enough. I

shouldn’t have mentioned it. We’ve all lost something or

someone.” She suddenly felt like sitting down.

“In her defense, Pauline, Greta is under a great deal of

pressure.”

“Pressure? These women are the ones under pressure.” As if

on cue, someone let loose with deep racking coughs. “They’re

sick, they’re malnourished, and they’re freezing. There’s simply

no excuse for beating any of them.”

“I know, I know.”

Pippi thought Elke looked properly penitent. “Where is

Bernadette?”

“She was ill this morning. I don’t know if she’ll make it over

here. She has the cough and sneezing like the workers do.”

“I wish she’d been here.”

“Yes, she tends to have a calming effect on Greta. I'm truly

sorry that I, on the other hand, did not. It all happened so fast.”

Pippi patted Elke's upper arm. “I understand.” She turned at

the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs. Oh no. Did Greta do

what she threatened?

Two soldiers—not guards—rounded the newel post. Both of

them held pistols, pointed at the floor, in their right hands and

their rifles in their left. The one in the lead said, “Good morning

to you both. I understand you have had a minor insurrection.”

Elke stepped to the side to let Pippi handle the matter. Pippi

smiled sweetly at the soldier and rolled her eyes. “I suppose that

young woman exaggerated the story a bit. We haven’t got any

problem. Everything is under tight control.” She smacked the

baton against her palm for emphasis.

“Just for the record, we would like to inspect the work area

for ourselves.”

She leaned toward him to look at the insignia on his coat.

“Why certainly, Corporal. Be my guest.” With a flourish, she

stepped back next to Elke. The soldiers passed them, their boots

dripping with melting snow. She didn’t go to the doorway, but

sagged against the wall and said a prayer consisting of only two

words, “Please God, please God,” repeated over and over.

A full minute passed before the two men returned. “I don’t

268 Lori L. Lake

see anything out of order, but if you have any trouble at all,

please send for us.”

“Oh, yes, we will.” He stood a moment longer studying her

face. “Something else, Corporal?”

He glanced at his companion, then cleared his throat. “I was

wondering. These trousers—they don’t fit properly, and I, well—”

“Oh, goodness,” Pippi said. “That won’t do. Can you send

them over to me at your earliest convenience? I would be

honored to alter them. What’s wrong with the fit?”

Blood rushed to his face. “To be honest, they’re too tight in

the, you know—” he dropped his voice “—the crotch.”

PIPPI HUDDLED IN the concave section of her bed,

shivering in the blankets. She couldn’t seem to get warm. Every

time she thought of the events of the day, she felt like throwing

up. She lay with her face to the wall and shook with silent sobs.

She thought of Mischka, who right now must also be trembling

on her cold pallet in the barracks. Would she be all right? Would

she recover from the beating? Pippi felt she should have done

something to protect her, to protect all of them.

She felt such shame—shame that she lay in a dry, clean bed

with a belly full of food. If she were hungry, she could raid the

pantry with impunity. If she were uncomfortable, she could get

another pillow. If bored, there were books to read on the shelves

in the living room. While she lived in comfort, outside her

quarters hundreds of men and women lay starving and miserable

in the cold. The enormity of that was difficult to grasp.

Despite the trouble she could have gotten into, Pippi had

taken Mischka down to the fourth floor, sat her on a crate, and

cleaned and sterilized the slice above her ear. The inch-long gash

wouldn’t close properly, so she’d sewn it together with the finest

thread she could find.

Pippi shuddered. Stitching up the wound had been awful.

Mischka sat motionless with a grimace on her face. She never

made a sound, never flinched. Pippi had to stop repeatedly to

close her eyes and breathe. She’d asked Mischka how she could

stand the pain without any sort of numbing or sedative and

received back only a shrug.

So much pain. So much horror. Pippi wondered how the

laborers survived as long as they did. She didn’t think she could

endure—surely not for as long as Mischka had. She thought of

Greta, of her cruelty and callousness. What was wrong with

everyone? How had this terrible war corrupted people so

grievously? The sick feeling in her stomach abated some as her

Snow Moon Rising 269

anger rose. She was getting a glimmer of how an otherwise

normal person could kill another human being. Rage was a

potent motivator. If she’d had a weapon more powerful than a

baton, she feared she might have used it on Greta. Bad enough

that she so despised what Greta had done, but she also abhorred

the emotions Greta’s actions aroused in her. That she wanted to

physically harm the other woman meant she was no better than

Greta, and that was sobering.

Many years earlier, when she had talked to Emil about his

experiences with the Roma and in the Great War, she had

wondered how her gentle, kind brother had managed to shoot

anyone. Over time, he’d made her understand the idea of

protecting oneself. Self-defense is, after all, one of the few

acceptable reasons for taking a life. The fact that several hundred

men and women in the camp didn't rise up and kill their captors

amazed Pippi. Every one of them could claim self-defense.

Instead, they were treated with indignity and cruelty, and one by

one, they sickened and died, never putting up a fight. How soon

before Mischka joined the dead?

A shaft of light cut into the room, and Pippi hastily wiped

her face. Agnes Braunhaus stood in the doorway, a cigarette in

her hand. “You awake?”

“Yes.”

“I heard about what happened today.” Pippi didn’t respond.

“You’re going to get yourself into serious trouble, Pauline.”

Pippi heard her suck in a lungful of smoke. “What do you have

to say for yourself?”

Pippi didn’t think there was anything she could say to

explain her actions or her feelings. She wasn’t a silly teenager. In

fact, she thought she was probably as old as—or older—than

Agnes. Agnes. How did a woman become like Agnes? She was

heartless, so there was no use trying to appeal to the woman’s

compassion. Pippi said, “I’ll be glad when the war is over.”

Agnes let out a snort. “You’re too weak, too helpless and

faint-hearted. Pauline, you must keep the end in sight. The

means may be painful, but they justify the end, and that will be a

place of honor for Der Führer and for all those who respect his

policies and follow the rules.”

“That’s how you see it?”

“Most assuredly.”

“Under the circumstances, what would your advice be?”

Agnes let out a sigh, and the bitter smell of the cigarette

smoke caused Pippi’s stomach to roil. “You owe Greta an

apology. She was doing what is her right and responsibility—to

discipline the lazy and shiftless with whom you have the

270 Lori L. Lake

misfortune of working.”

“I see.”

“So you’ll apologize?”

“I’ll carefully consider your advice.”

“Good. Very good. Well, I’ll let you sleep. I go on duty in

less than an hour.”

“Stay warm, Agnes.”

“I’ll try. It certainly is quite cold out. Good night, Pauline.”

She pulled the door shut leaving Pippi in the pitch-black

darkness. Agnes could go to hell—and take Greta with her. Pippi

would lie naked in the snow before she ever apologized for being

compassionate to another human being.

Chapter

Thirty-One

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

PIPPI FELL SILENT, looking first at Mischka, then at her

grandson.

Tobar said, “Did she die?”

“Of course not. She’s sitting right here, still with a scar over

her ear, but her hair covers it.”

“No. Not Beebee Mischka.” His face was pale, and his voice

shook with concern. “The girl Lidia, who would not eat her

porridge. Did she die?”

Mischka nodded. “Yes, she did. She gave up one day and

couldn't go on. Without hope, no one could face that place.”

Tobar frowned in anguish. “But that’s unfair. Totally

unfair.”

Pippi agreed with him. She was—even now, forty-four years

later—still amazed at what had transpired all those years ago

and that she had lived to tell the tale. For a moment, she

considered they might have gotten in too deep, that they

shouldn’t be telling him all of this. He was so young. But he took

it in with grace—and with ardent interest. Perhaps they could

continue.

“What about Emil?” he asked. “You haven’t told me zip

about him for the longest time. What happened to him?”

Mischka asked, “Do you recall anything at all that the family

has said regarding your Uncle Emil?”

“I remember him a little, from when I was a boy. He was

very old, and I don’t remember anything special anyone has

said.” His face became alarmed. “What happened to him?

Something bad?”

“All in good time, Tobar. All in good time.”

“Grandma!”

He looked back and forth between them, and Pippi had to

suppress a smile. “Don’t you want to know how we got out of

272 Lori L. Lake

the labor camp?”

“Well, yes, but I want to know what happened to everyone

else, too. Especially Emil and Mikhail and all their kids.”

Mischka patted his pajama-clad knee. “As your wicked

grandmother said, all in good time.”

Chapter

Thirty-Two

Southwestern Poland, End of March 1945 (Chaste Moon)

PIPPI STOOD SHIVERING in the back of the factory room,

her arms crossed over her wool coat. They were down to fifty-

eight seamstresses, and Vogel would no longer let her recruit

workers from the loading area. An aura of desperation shrouded

the camp and its leaders. Major Fischer hadn't met with her for

the last two weeks, and Pippi didn’t have any problem with that.

The last time she had seen him, he’d been nervous and wild-

eyed, preoccupied with the war. He’d spoken kindly, but sent

her away after she’d made a brief report. He seemed completely

disinterested in whether or not the quotas were filled.

Ten days had passed since the last delivery of staples and

supplies. Though occasional cargo trucks still arrived carrying

clothing, boots, and shoes, there had been no shipments of fresh

food. At breakfast this morning, the cook had been out of milk

and had announced that he was short of cheese and yeast and

would be conserving foodstuffs until future goods were

delivered.

Pippi's heart fell. That would make it more difficult to sneak

food for Mischka. She could only hope that a transport truck got

through soon. They hadn’t received the post for weeks either.

She shivered again and tucked her gloved hands under her

armpits. One of the seamstresses in front of her let out a whimper,

then looked up, fear etched into her features due to her outburst.

Pippi sighed. Schuster wouldn't burn any of the coal, and

everyone up here was freezing to death. How ridiculous.

“That’s it,” she said. “Mariel.” The young woman froze.

“Mischka. Aurora, everyone.” Every woman stopped what she

was doing. At the desk behind Pippi, Bernadette asked what was

going on. Pippi waved a hand toward the women. “We’re all far

too cold. I couldn’t run a sewing machine in these temperatures

if my life depended upon it. I don’t know how these workers are

274 Lori L. Lake

doing it. I’m going to disburse additional clothing.” Bernadette

frowned but didn’t respond, so Pippi gave a toss of her head.

“Come on, you three. Let’s make this easier on all of you.”

The women followed Pippi down to the third floor. Scores of

crates were stacked haphazardly. Pippi went to an open one and

pulled out a wad of used clothing. “Take stockings, shoes,

gloves, boots, whatever you need to stay as warm as possible.

You may use any of these items for lap blankets as well.”

“I'm well provided for,” Mischka said. “Perhaps the

others—”

“There’s no shortage. For once, you’re all going to take

whatever you need.”

Mariel whispered, “But what if we're caught?”

“You will not be caught—and even if someone does make a

comment, you are to refer them to me.” She turned aside and

clapped her hands together to get the blood circulating. “I

should have thought of this two months ago. Once you’re

outfitted, please go upstairs and send down three more.”

Mischka said, “There are some who will have difficulty.”

“That’s true. You three have my permission to determine

what those women need. Take it up to them and try to get them

fitted. Send down the next three, and let’s see if we can’t warm

everyone enough to keep from freezing solid to their machines.”

Two hours later, Pippi turned out the light on the second

floor. They had made a dent in only a few crates, and there were

still scores of wood containers left untouched. She should have

thought of this much sooner. What an idiot she thought she was.

TIME PASSED IN a kaleidoscope of cold and fear and

heightened tension. The winter winds lessened, and the

temperature rose, but the cold and damp still made everyone’s

bones ache. Mischka slept much warmer, as did her companions,

and as each day passed, she looked forward to spring.

Lidia wasted away until she resembled a small child with

giant blue eyes. She no longer coughed, but moved as though in

a trance. Aurora could get her to drink, but she refused food.

Walking back to the barracks after dark one day in late

April, Mischka took Aurora’s arm. “It won’t be long now,

Aurora. If Lidia doesn’t get medical care and nourishment, she’s

going to die.” They strode behind Magda and Jolanta, who held

Lidia up between them.

“I know. I pray for her each night.”

“Why does your God not—what is the word?”

“Intercede?”

Snow Moon Rising 275

“Step in. Save her. Save us. Free us from this frozen hell.”

“I don’t know.”

“Does this mean there is no God?”

“I'm not sure, my friend. God is merely giving us strength, I

think. I feel something—something that powers me, and it must

be God. I have hope within me, and I believe it’s from God. Some

of the theologians speak of free will, and if we have free will,

then I think that God does not entirely control our destinies. But

He gives me hope.”

They reached the barracks and trudged in. The autumn

before, all of the women had agreed to move to the center of the

barracks and to do all they could to conserve heat. No one slept

alone. Three or four women squeezed together on every pallet,

and the chilly bottom and middle racks were unused. Mischka

huddled with Lidia and Aurora and another girl, Layla, whose

friends had died the previous month. Mischka waited for things

to calm down, then did her evening reconnaissance for food.

After sharing the meager rations Pippi had filched, she fell to

sleep quickly.

In the deepest part of the night, Mischka awakened, her neck

prickling. On edge, she waited for the sound of the guard, but all

was quiet in the barracks. She sat up and looked around. Muted

light slanted in through a window near the south door. That

door hadn't opened since they had all lain down to sleep.

Mischka never failed to awaken at two-hour intervals, and

unless she had lost all sense of time, no one had come for the ten

o’clock, midnight, and now the two o’clock march through the

barracks. That had never happened before.

She clambered from the pallet and looked out the window.

She couldn’t spot the soldier usually posted near the gate. The

gate was shut, but the light usually burning in the guard booth

was out. What was going on?

Heart beating fast, she opened the door and slipped out. She

headed toward the latrine, but kept an eye on everything. As she

reached for the wood door handle, she saw a tiny orange flare

from a cigarette twenty yards away.

A deep voice said, “Halt. Who goes there?”

She heard the rustle of movement as two men materialized

from out of the shadows. Mischka pulled open the door. “May I

use the latrine?”

“Oh. Go ahead.”

The two guards walked past, one saying to the other, “They

have surrounded Berlin. What hope have we now?”

“We can’t have lost the war,” the other man said. “It’s not

possible.”

276 Lori L. Lake

“This is my thought as well, but...”

The voices drifted in the wind. Mischka stood inside the

stinking wood structure, and glorious hope expanded in her

chest. She hustled back to the barracks and climbed up into bed.

“Aurora. Lidia.” Aurora opened her eyes and groaned. “I’ve just

heard good news. Berlin may soon fall.”

Aurora rolled on her side. “And where did you get this

marvelous news?”

“Two guards talking.”

“I hope it’s true.”

Mischka froze, smelling a familiar odor, but since she wasn’t

in the latrine, she shouldn’t be smelling it now. “Lidia,” she

whispered. “Lidia.” She touched the young woman’s neck and

found it cool, with no blood pumping. “Oh, no,” she moaned.

“No.”

“What is it?”

“Lidia. She’s gone. She can’t die now. We’re on the brink of

rescue.”

Aurora reached across the girl to squeeze Mischka’s arm. “I

was afraid this would happen.”

Mischka crawled halfway down the ladder. With Aurora

guiding, she lifted Lidia’s body and carried it to the lowest bunk.

They set her there face up, straightened her clothing, and stood

hand in hand staring down at her.

Aurora let out a choking sound, and Mischka put her arms

around her friend and held her close. “She was so young,

Mischka. Too young. Far too young. My children are her age.

What about my children? Has someone cared for them?” Her

sobs awakened a woman in the next bunk.

“Shhh,” Mischka said to her. “It’s nothing. Go back to

sleep.” She tightened her grip on Aurora and ran a hand over the

wool cap Aurora wore. “We must be strong. Call on that God

you say is giving you hope and strength.”

“But it’s not fair that she should die—especially if the war is

nearly over.”

“No, it’s not fair.” Because their pallet was soiled, they

climbed into an empty bunk. Mischka lay shivering in the dark

and thought of all Lidia had been through. A cold rage built until

she couldn’t help thinking that if she had a machine gun, she

would go out right now and use it on every German in sight.

Braunhaus. Vogel. Mow them down. Kill them all. She’d like to

see each soldier and guard die slow, painful, bloody deaths. And

then she thought of Pippi. She, too, was German. Even Bernadette

wasn’t so bad. The cook in the mess shed was a tired old man who

was never cruel, so he wasn’t deserving of death either.

Snow Moon Rising 277

They were all stuck here, at the whim of a madman, and

there was nothing they could do but wait. And, oh, how hard it

was to wait.

STUNNING NEWS CAME on the first of May. Adolf Hitler

had committed suicide the day before.

Pippi sat at the breakfast table with Bernadette, Agnes, and

Felix Schuster. She listened to the talk around her and thought

that Hitler’s death hadn't happened soon enough.

Thomas, the cook, came to the table and slapped down a pot

of thin oatmeal and some stale rolls. He slid into the chair at the

head of the table, wiped his perspiring forehead with the corner

of his apron, and said, “Those damn Allied bastards.”

Felix Schuster seemed to be in a state of shock. “Germany

cannot—must not—lose this war.”

“I don’t think we have any say in it,” Bernadette said dryly.

Schuster’s eyes narrowed, and he looked at her with hatred

distorting his face. “And what do you know? Women have no

idea what war is like.”

“Der Führer cannot be dead.” Agnes burst into tears. “He is

my guiding light, my heart, my soul.” Pippi looked at her in

amazement, but the anguish in her voice was real. “How could

he leave us—leave me?”

“Looking out for his own hide,” one of the guards said. “I

expect those bastard Allies would have been merciless.”

Pippi rose. She hadn’t been able to eat a bite, and she didn’t

want to stay in the company of a group that was mourning

someone she despised.

“You’re not going over to the factory now, are you?”

Bernadette asked. “You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

Agnes wailed and shook a fist. “How could anyone eat at a

time like this? Our country’s greatest leader is dead.”

Pippi rushed to the closet, threw on her coat, and hurried

out the door. Thirty minutes later, when the whistle blew and

the first of the laborers shuffled in, she watched for Mischka,

caught her eye, and smiled. From the look on Mischka's face, she

knew that somehow the news must have trickled down. Pippi

felt rather than saw a sense of excitement in the room, an energy

that she had never sensed before. It was hope.

She stood at the window and watched the sun move higher

in the sky. The sewing machines hummed behind her, providing

a sense of normalcy, but the workers weren’t sewing uniforms.

Pippi had invited them to select materials from the storage floor

278 Lori L. Lake

to adapt whatever they needed for traveling clothes. Some of

them now wore good leather boots and layers of shabby dresses

and sweaters. Mischka was clad in wool trousers and a white

shirt, with blue suspenders under her coat. No one had chosen

the grays and greens and browns of the German military.

Pippi heard the grinding of gears and peered down. A

Kübelwagen suddenly appeared to her right and raced along the

dirt road between the factory and the barracks. Another

followed moments later.

Bernadette came to stand by Pippi’s side. “What do you

think is going on?”

Pippi shrugged. A soldier and two guards came from the

south and ran along the track below them. Pippi could see that

the south gate was closed, but no one guarded it now.

From the north came the unmistakable sound of a gun being

fired. Every sewing machine on the floor stopped, and Pippi

found herself suddenly surrounded by women. She reached for

the bottom of the window, and other hands helped press it

upwards. In seconds, they opened all the windows, and five

dozen heads craned to look out.

Pippi wished she could see more. The women’s and men’s

barracks were visible, but the factory wall blocked the buildings

on the northwest end of the camp.

“Look!” someone called out. Four Kübelwagens, two smaller

autos, and three cargo trucks headed in a line toward the north

gate. Five people raced after the vehicles, frantically waving. The

rear cargo truck came to a halt. A soldier jumped out of the back

and threatened them with his gun. The five men behind made

wild gestures.

“They’re the civilian workers,” Bernadette said in wonder.

“Isn’t that Herr Schuster in the gray suit?”

Pippi squinted, but the figures were too far away to be sure.

“If I don’t miss my guess, Bernie, I think our brave military is in

rapid retreat.”

“And we’re being left behind?”

“My God,” a voice murmured. Pippi glanced to her right,

then followed the direction a woman was pointing.

To the north, past the broad apron that surrounded the gate,

far out on the flat lands stippled with new grass, clouds of dust

coated the horizon.

Elke ran into the room, wringing her hands. “The Allies are

coming! We’re being abandoned.”

Greta followed on Elke’s heels, stopping behind the crush of

women at the window. “What do we do? They’ve left us behind.

What shall we do?”

Snow Moon Rising 279

Pippi looked out again. Six lumps on the horizon grew

larger. Tanks. Other vehicles followed. And then she saw troops.

Hundreds of men on foot, in formation.

“We’re saved!” a woman screamed.

“We’ll finally be freed,” someone else said in Polish.

“Free!”

“Libre!”

“Frei!”

Pippi leaned out the window. The German entourage was

slowing. The last cargo truck jerked to a halt and backed up in a

hurry. The other trucks followed, then the cars and Kübelwagens.

The seven vehicles passed under the windows, their engines

grinding and whirring. They went to the south gate, and two

soldiers jumped out of the truck and opened it. Pippi looked up

the long, steep hill beyond the convoy. She wondered if the

vehicles could make it through the rain-sodden earth in time to

get away, but before she could consider that further, a shout

went up. Tanks hit the north gate and knocked the high fence

flat. Men marching double time spilled into the camp.

The first German cargo truck cleared the south gate and

attempted to climb the hill. Great clods of dirt shot out from the

back tires, but it mired in the mud, as did the next two trucks.

Gray-clad bodies peeled out of the stuck vehicles and dove for

cover.

And then the Allied soldiers were upon them.

“Surrender!” The word was shouted in German over and

over, but the Germans didn’t heed it. Surrender, Pippi thought.

Give it up. Just stop and surrender, you fools.

One of the Kübelwagens passed through the gate. Instead of

going uphill, the driver wheeled to the left and headed for the

trees. Smoke shot from the muzzle of a launcher held by a

kneeling soldier. The shell blasted through the wire fence and

struck the rear of the Kübelwagen. The explosion was deafening.

The vehicle sat there, smoking, and no one got out.

The sound of machine gun fire filled the air.

“Get down,” Bernadette said. “We could be hit by a stray

bullet.”

None of the seamstresses moved, and neither did Pippi.

The Germans didn’t fight much longer. Their men fell,

shouting and screaming, and the advancing troops renewed their

calls for surrender. The remaining German soldiers, at least the

ones Pippi could see, dropped their weapons.

Someone put a warm hand on her shoulder, and Pippi

looked back, expecting Elke. Instead Mischka said, “We haven’t

much time now. We must cut your hair.”

280 Lori L. Lake

“What?”

“Someone get the scissors.” She guided Pippi to the nearest

chair and shoved her into it.

“But—but—”

Mischka squatted in front of her. “There is no other way.

Your hair will grow back. But not if you’re not alive.” Aurora

shoved the scissors into Mischka’s hands.

“I don’t understand,” Pippi said.

“Those are Russian soldiers.” Mischka opened the jaws of

the scissors. “You must become one of us. Otherwise, you’ll be

taken captive as their prisoner of war and a collaborator with the

Nazi machine.”

Pippi blanched. She hadn’t thought about what would

happen between liberation of the labor camp and her arrival

back home. The other civilian workers had been in such a state of

disbelief and denial that the subject hadn't come up. Now she

needed to think fast. What would happen to all of them? The

Russians would provide food and arrange for some sort of

transport—but only for those they viewed as on their side. Who

knew what fate their enemies would face. “Cut it.”

Both Mischka and Aurora began hacking at her hair. Mariel

caught the pieces and jammed them into a little cloth sack. Tears

came to Pippi’s eyes—not because of the loss of her hair, but

because she didn’t feel she deserved to be taken in by these

women who had suffered so much for so long. “I should have

done more for you,” she whispered.

Mischka paused from her chopping. “What?”

“I should have done more.”

“Quiet now. We must hurry.”

Her head felt light and cool when they were done. She

blushed, thinking she must look ridiculous. Someone appeared

at her side with shabby but sturdy clothes and outerwear.

“Quickly,” Mischka said. “You have to look like the rest of

us.” Half of the women still watched what was happening

outside, but the other half looked at her with solemn eyes. Pippi

glanced around and found Bernadette. “Bernie, you’re next.”

Bernadette gulped and her eyes widened, but she dropped into a

seat for her haircut.

Mischka handed the scissors to someone else and called out,

“You two.” She pointed at Elke and Greta. “Find more scissors,

and we'll take care of you.”

Greta's face tightened into a grimace. “I’ll just bet you’ll

take care of us. None of you will touch a hair on my head.”

“You’re even stupider than I had thought,” Mischka said.

Snow Moon Rising 281

Greta pushed past two of the women, nearly knocking one

off her feet. “Who are you to talk to me that way? You’re nothing

but scum. You’re all filthy vermin, and the only thing I regret is

that you didn’t die when I was forced to discipline you.

Degenerate scum. That’s what you are.”

Mischka tipped her head up and stood tall. “This is exactly

what the Russians will think when they catch sight of you. I shall

look forward to the show.”

Hands balled into fists, Greta backed up. Her face tightened

into a mask of fury. “We’ll just see about that.” She turned on

her heel and stomped out of the room.

“You?” Mischka said, with a nod to Elke. “Are you as big a

fool as that one?”

“No.” Elke trembled as she sat in a rickety chair. She was so

pale that Pippi thought she was going to faint. “I would be

honored if any one of you would give me the same treatment as

Pauline.”

THE NEXT FEW hours passed in a whirlwind as Mischka

and the seamstresses stood silently observing from the fifth floor

window. The Russian soldiers rounded up the Germans,

searched them all, and made them sit on the ground against the

south fence. The Nazis who had been injured weren't given first

aid. Mischka heard several shots over a fifteen-minute period.

Bodies were dragged away from the stalled cargo trucks and

placed in a row along the fence. The vehicles were driven back

inside the gates.

The Russian soldiers scrambled through the camp like a

pack of wild dogs on a hunt, calling out to one another as they

found each barracks empty. When they turned to the factories

and other buildings, Mischka moved away from the window. She

heard the sound of footsteps and foreign words shouted far

below. “I think we had better sit down and be as calm as

possible.”

Wordlessly, the seamstresses and their shorn supervisors sat

at the treadle machines. Most of them laced their hands together

on top of the machines.

Aurora burst into tears. Mischka whispered, “What is it?

What’s wrong?”

“I think we’re about to be saved, but I’m scared to death.”

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I can’t help it. What if they hurt us?”

“They won’t.” Mariel spoke up, her Polish deeply accented

by her French tongue. “They now get big eyeful of skinny, ugly

282 Lori L. Lake

women and a noseful of our stink. I think they will run from us.”

A ripple of laughter swept the room, and then all were quiet.

Mischka looked around and counted. Fifty-two, not counting

Pippi and the two others. Only fifty-two had survived out of

hundreds, perhaps thousands. A deep sense of sadness passed

over her, sadness for Nelka, and a deep grief for Lidia, who

didn't live to see this day.

She could hear them coming, systematically searching the

building from the bottom up. Voices called out, but she heard no

gunshots. Heavy footfalls clomped up the stairs...and when the

first soldier peeked into the room, rifle at the ready, the room

was so silent that Mischka could hear her heart beat. She glanced

to the side at Pippi who faced forward with a frightened look on

her face.

More footsteps, and then four soldiers entered the room.

They were young, and each sported a couple days’ growth of

beard. The man in the lead asked something, but he spoke a

language Mischka didn’t know. The soldiers uttered a torrent of

words, arguing, talking over one another. The one in the lead

said, “Sprechen Sie Deutsche?”

No one answered.

He looked around the room, grinned, then spoke in halting

Polish. “No German here, I see. Anybody speaking Polish?”

“Ja!” cried out many voices. The silent room was

transformed—electrified—by the soldier’s inquiry. Women

called out questions. Someone said, “Thank you, thank you,”

over and over. Many began to cry.

“Wait. Stop,” the soldier said. He leaned his rifle barrel into

the crook of his arm and waved with the other hand. “Quiet,

quiet.” They calmed down. “Stay at peace a moment. We return

with food and better translator.”

“Oh, my God,” Aurora sobbed. “My husband, my sons, I

hope they're alive.”

Mischka reached over and gripped her friend’s arm. “They

will be. They must be.”

BY SUNDOWN, EVERY woman laborer throughout the

camp—some two hundred ragged survivors—had been brought

to the factory. They were allowed to find suitable clothes and

shoes, but they weren't fed again until after dark. The soldiers

led them out of the factory to the mess shed, apologizing that the

food was simple. After having had runny soups, tasteless

porridge, and no meat for so long, Mischka could find no fault

with the meal. A soldier outside the shed handed out small

Snow Moon Rising 283

loaves of bread from what looked to be a gunnysack. For a

moment she was taken aback. She had this entire loaf for herself?

He gestured for her to move toward the shack, so she took a

bite as she stepped along. The crust was dry and tough, but the

bread inside was soft and fragrant of yeast and oats and wheat.

The two men ladling the soup called it schi. Made with

sauerkraut, chunks of carrot, and pieces of beef brisket in a thick

sauce, it was delicious—almost as good as the puyo Mischka's

mother had made. The only thing missing was the garlic.

She cradled her bowl in one hand and the bread in the other,

as she hastened to squat next to a barracks wall beside Pippi and

Aurora. All around them, women talked with hope-filled voices.

Aurora elbowed her. “I asked when we’ll be allowed to see

our men.”

“And?”

“We’re going over to a hall in a short while to be reunited.

I’m praying.”

Mischka looked up at the moon rising in the sky. Soon

another month would pass, and it would be Seed Moon, time to

plant seeds of desire. She desired nothing more than to find her

family and all be together again. She envied Aurora. Tonight she

would know if her husband and sons were still alive, but it could

be months before Mischka found out about her own family and

kumpania.

She finished the broth in her bowl and rose. “I'm going to

ask for more. Anyone else?”

Pippi handed over her metal bowl. “If they’ll allow it, I’d

like some. And when you come back, we need to figure out how

to get hold of the passports.”

“Where are they?”

“In my quarters.”

Mischka shook her head. “I don’t think you’re going to be

able to get in there.”

“I have to try.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe we have to let them go.”

“But we need them for—for travel.” Her voice sounded

terrified.

Mischka squatted down and put a hand on Pippi’s knee.

“We’re all refugees now. You can be anybody you want to be.”

Chapter

Thirty-Three

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

“WHAT HAPPENED THEN?” Tobar asked. “What about

Aurora’s family? Were any of them alive?”

Mischka smiled at him and briefly stroked his hair from his

eyes. “All of them were safe. The younger son was sick with that

coughing fever, but once he was given food and adequate clean

water, he improved quickly. The husband could hardly believe

his wife was alive. He kept remarking how thin she was, and she

kept saying, ‘My boys are men now,’ with amazement in her

voice. What a wonderful reunion. I remember it with such joy.”

“But there was no one there for you, Beebee.”

“No, there wasn’t. But I had Pippi and Aurora and so many

of the other girls to rejoice with.”

“Did Aurora come to America?”

“No. She and Janek went back and reclaimed their land.”

“So you never saw her again.”

“Not after the fall of 1945,” Mischka said, “but she wrote to

me several times a year right up until her death in 1985. She was

a fine friend to the end. I kept every one of her letters. After she

died, her granddaughter sent me everything I had written to her.

If you ever decide to be the family historian, you may have them

for your collection.”

“I may take you up on that,” he said. “I’m still waiting to

hear about Emil. And what happened to the mean ones, that

horrible Vogel and Greta and all the rest?”

Pippi rose and settled next to Mischka on the couch and

leaned into her. “This next part is not so easy, liebling.”

Mischka gazed at her first, then at Tobar’s worried face. She

could read his curiosity and worry—and impatience.

He clenched his hands in fists, and his face took on a fierce

look. “Oh, no. You’re not quitting now. Tell me why it’s not

easy?”

Snow Moon Rising 285

“It just isn’t,” Pippi said with a sigh. “First, the Russians

lined up all the soldiers—the Germans, I mean—and shot them.

Yes, I know it sounds shocking. I was shocked at the time. You

see, that means your grandfather was executed.”

“What?”

Mischka thought the blank look on Tobar’s face would have

been comical if she hadn’t known how serious the topic was.

Pippi reached across Mischka and patted Tobar’s ankle.

“Your blood grandfather was a soldier, Tobar. Wounded

honorably in battle. He was Major Friedrich Fischer of the

German army.”

“No way.”

Pippi laughed. “Yes, it was the way.”

“But what about Grandfather François?”

“He died a long time before your father was born. He wasn't

your blood grandfather, Tobar. We still honor his memory,

though. He fought bravely in the war. Have your parents talked

with you about any of this?”

Tobar hesitated. “Dad says he didn’t have a father. He had

Beebee, instead. They've told me a little about the war, but

nothing like what you two have.”

“I know you’re not yet a grown-up,” Mischka said, “but this

is your family history. It’s important for you to know and

understand where you came from. Why your name is something

to be proud of. And also why teaching language and history is so

important to your parents. And travel! Your parents have the

wanderlust, you know. When your father married the daughter

of my nephew Mario, they vowed to see the world.”

“I know that. I don’t always like it.”

“Some of our family have the wanderlust more than others,”

Mischka said. “When I was younger, I missed it, but now, not so

much.”

“And I never had it.” Pippi shuddered. “I did more traveling

than I ever wanted to do because of that damn war.”

“Yes, it was a difficult, terrible time. You couldn’t pay me to

go back.”

Pippi said, “We were caught in the midst of madness. We

never spoke of it directly, but your grandfather, Friedrich, didn't

enjoy overseeing the camp. He was a man with at least some

principles. It must have been dreadful, his being expected to

work for the Nazi regime when I'm not sure he entirely believed

in it. I choose to remember Friedrich’s uncertainty, not the

actions that so many men like him took. What are your thoughts

about it?”

“I—I don’t know.”

286 Lori L. Lake

Tobar was obviously confused, but Mischka knew what was

coming next. She took hold of Pippi’s hand and gave it a squeeze

of encouragement.

After a short pause, Pippi said, “Tobar, I walked out of the

labor camp with more than my horrific experiences. When I

finally arrived at the Delebecque home in Reims, France, I

discovered I was pregnant with your father. Thank God for

Grandpa François’s mother. Belle-mere. That’s French for mother-

in-law—literally it means beautiful mother. Mother Richelle took

care of me through the birthing of your father and long after.”

“But—but—what about Beebee Mischka? Why couldn’t she

take care of you?”

“She was in Poland. And when we parted, I didn’t even

know I was with child.”

Tobar’s eyes were puzzled. “I thought Poland was far from

France.”

“It is,” Mischka said. “We were separated—countries apart.”

Pippi said, “Europe is big, and I don’t know how many

thousands of people—”

“Millions of people, I think,” Mischka said.

“Yes, millions of people were on the move, trying to get

back home.”

“But, Grandma, how did you find each other again? How

did you get here?”

Pippi patted his knee. “All in good time, Tobar. There I was

among the millions who were displaced. What a mess. The

Russians kept us at the factory labor camp for a week, but then

we got word that Germany was truly defeated, and we could

make our way home. At that point, the Russians readied us for

departure, asking for addresses and family information. I

couldn't say I was a German national. I told them my name was

Pauline Delebecque. Which it was. And is. I gave them the

address of your great-grandmother in Reims, France.”

Mischka said, “And I told them I was Hungarian but that I

had been married to Aurora’s dead brother. I used Aurora’s

family address in Poland.”

“Big mistake,” Pippi said.

Tobar looked from one to another. “Why?”

“They transported us by train,” Mischka said, “and we

walked a good bit, too. But when we arrived at the refugee camp,

your grandmother and I were separated, and there wasn’t

anything we could do. We vowed to find one another, but we

had little time to make arrangements.”

Pippi said, “I told her to write to Reims as soon as she got

word about the kumpania.”

Snow Moon Rising 287

“And so I went with Aurora’s family. It took two weeks just

to journey from one camp to another and then make our way to

their farm. By then it was mid-June, Dyad Moon, and we had

scant time to plant. We worked from before first light until

sundown to get crops planted in the field. Even so, we worried

that the harvest would be too meager. I helped in the autumn,

and once the crops were in, it was time to go find my family.”

“Did you write to Grandma?”

“Yes, I did, but she never got the letters.”

“Why?”

Pippi said, “Forty years ago, the postal service wasn’t very

efficient, Tobar, especially after a war.”

“It was autumn then,” Mischka said. “So I bid farewell to

Aurora and Janek, and I made my way across Poland, heading

for the Tatras mountains where last I’d seen my family.”

Chapter

Thirty–Four

Southeastern Poland, November 1945 (Snow Moon)

WHAT IF SHE was the last Roma left?

Mischka hadn’t seen a single kumpania in all the miles she

had traveled. Where were the Roma? Where were her people?

She needed to know the answer, but she was frightened of the

truth.

Two days earlier, she’d managed to capture a horse that was

roaming loose, reins dragging and the aged saddle twisted to the

horse’s side. She didn’t know who the animal belonged to, but

she wasn’t one to ask questions. Though the mare appeared to be

old, she was sturdy and looked as though she’d been well-

tended. Better cared for than the women were in the camp. If

only she had been fed half as well as this horse, she wouldn’t be

in so much pain. After two days of riding, Mischka’s legs and

backside were sorer than she could ever remember them being.

But she was alive and eagerly thanked the gods, the moon, the

sun, and any other deity deserving of gratitude.

The countryside was awash in gold and tan and orange.

Most of the leaves had fallen, and what little foliage was left

fluttered regularly off near-naked limbs. Some of the towns she

passed were alive with commerce and activity. Others had

burned-out storefronts and boarded-up houses.

She stopped at a sleepy backwater crossroads and entered a

store that sold groceries, meat, some hardware, and fishing

supplies. The proprietor stood behind the counter speaking

about the war with three men covered in road dust. “Thank God

the war's over,” one man said. Someone grunted assent.

“The damn Germans gutted the country,” a traveler said.

“It’ll be years before industry returns to a reasonable state.”

The shopkeeper shook his head. “I have to admit, though,

that we can thank the Germans for one thing. At least they took

care of the Gypsy problem once and for all.”

Snow Moon Rising 289

The glass jar of preserves Mischka held slipped from her

fingers and crashed to the floor. She looked down at the mess

and stepped back, then stomped out, fighting tears.

“Wait a minute,” the shopkeeper called out. “Wait…”

Mischka mounted the horse and urged it out of town, her

mind a whirling maelstrom of rage and worry. Where were her

people?

She managed to get only a few hours of troubled sleep and

rose at dawn to continue her journey. She reached an

encampment near the Vistula River, and her mouth watered

when she smelled the aromas from cooking fires around the area,

but the people weren’t Roma. The fish-smoking shacks were

already busy with huge catches, and she bought two packages of

smoked salmon wrapped in newspaper, enough for several

meals.

She counted the money Aurora and Janek had insisted she

take for helping with the harvest. With the high cost of food, she

had enough zloty to last a few more days, and then she would

have to scavenge or steal. Apples were plentiful. She picked

them as she traveled and kept a gunnysack full of them strapped

to the horse’s saddle. Twice she’d come across edible pears and

added them as well. But she had little time to tarry. Soon

enough, winter would arrive. She needed to get over the Tatras

Mountains and find the kumpania.

Many hours later, she came upon an area that had been

burned. Fresh grasses and seedlings had sprouted, so the burn

had occurred previous to this past spring. Across the scorched

fields she saw a cluster of houses and nudged the horse toward

them. A half-dozen little cottages stood in a row. The four to the

west were collapsed and crumbling, but the other two were

merely blackened and stood stolid, like two giant lumps of

stone.

As she drew near, a drape lifted from a window, and she

glimpsed a face before the curtain dropped. She rode toward that

cottage, feeling the early evening air brisk against her face. Soon

dusk would fall, and she entertained hope that perhaps tonight

she might sleep out of the elements.

The front door of the cottage yawned open, and Mischka

slowed the horse to a walk, but when she heard a click-click

noise, she dug her heels in. With a startled whinny, the mare

sprang forward. Someone shouted. She heard a gunshot and

folded low against the horse’s neck. She didn’t look back until

they’d covered several hundred yards. Far behind, a tiny figure

shook a rifle in the air, but she couldn’t hear anything more than

the distant whining of his voice. Not much hospitality there.

290 Lori L. Lake

After spending the night sleeping under a tree, she

approached the foothills of the Tatras. All day long they rose

before her, growing larger in her vision with every passing mile.

Near evening, she came to a familiar place on the dirt road and

realized she was close to the area where they’d ditched the

vardos. It took a while, but after following the river and doubling

back twice, she discovered the thicket. The vardos were sunk

down in the dirt with hornbeam and gorse and other prickly

brush surrounding them. Someone had found and scavenged

from them. Much of the wood had been pulled away from the

sides of the wagons, perhaps used for firewood, leaving the

metal pieces looking like the ribs of enormous dead animals.

Mischka reined in and dismounted. The brambles were

thick, but she pushed through until she was under the crooked

branches of a hornbeam tree. The weathered vardo she came

upon first had been picked over so thoroughly that she had no

way of recognizing who had once owned it. Along with pine

cones, twigs, and a lot of loose dirt, she saw the pieces of a

broken mirror, the handle of a horse brush, and a sodden pile of

washed out cloth. The wood frame that would have been nailed

to the wall and floor to support a thin mattress had been ripped

out and was nowhere to be seen. All that remained were a few

nails crumbling into a rusty dust.

Mischka found all of the wagons in the same state. The carts

they’d stowed were completely gone. Someone had probably

used them to tote away the kumpania’s worldly possessions.

Mischka hoped that it was her family and friends who had

collected the goods, but she had a feeling it was not so. She

didn’t sense any malevolent spirits, but she felt a wash of

sadness as she stood surrounded by the overgrown hedges and

rotting vardos.

She stepped over the tongue of a wagon and caught sight of

the boxy chicken house. Khania. The word came to mind

unbidden along with whole strings of Romany. She'd been

speaking Polish and German for too long. Shouldering past

prickly branches, she reached for the door. Whap! Something

burst out of the top of the wooden house. Mischka would have

fallen backwards except she was close to one of the vardos and

managed to catch herself against it. A white bird speckled with

pale gray flapped upward and away, and she followed its line of

flight to the trees near the river.

The chicken house was just as empty as the ruined vardos. A

sob rose in her throat and tears filled her eyes. She stumbled

through the copse, not caring that pointy branches scratched at

her face, arms, and shoulders. She could hardly see to make her

Snow Moon Rising 291

way to the mare, but when she reached her, she threw her arm

over warm withers and pressed her face into the soft tan neck,

spilling hot tears into the dusty hide.

After a few moments, she wiped her eyes with the sleeve of

her shirt. “I’m sorry, horse. I’ve got tears all over you.”

The mare turned her head and let out a quiet whinny. So

much intelligence existed in her dark brown eyes that Mischka

almost wondered if she’d understood. “I suppose I ought to give

you a name. Horse doesn’t seem adequate. I’ll have to think of

something.” She ran her hand along the strong neck, then took

the reins and led her around the thicket, through leaves and low

brush, and down to the river. “It’s getting dark. I think we

should camp here tonight and make for the mountains

tomorrow.”

Mischka pulled an apple from the fruit bag and held it out

on her palm. “Here you go. Apple. That’s a good name.” She

settled against the broad base of a tree and opened her satchel. A

bird cawed. The river bubbled by. The dried salmon tasted good.

Her heart hurt.

MISCHKA AWOKE THE next morning, stiff from lying on

the hard ground under the tree. She sat and stretched her neck as

the remnants of a dream came to her. She had been running,

searching in farmhouses and shops, calling for Pippi.

Everywhere she went, the people looked upon her with such

pity. “Stop staring,” she’d called out. “Where is Pippi? What

have you done with her?” Faces of people she didn’t know went

on and on, compassion etched into their expressions. No one

would answer as she ran from place to place, desperate and out

of breath.

The dream stayed with her all through breakfast and for the

first miles of her journey. She didn’t want to believe that Pippi

could be dead, but was it possible? Could something have

happened to her? No, she would feel it in her heart. It wasn't

possible. Was it? All day she wondered.

She tried to put the nightmare out of her mind, to focus on

the terrain, for she had reached the foothills and Apple was

working harder. Mischka rode for an hour or so, then walked

with the horse for a mile. She thought that would keep her legs

stretched, and it allowed Apple some measure of rest as they

approached one of the lower passes of the Carpathian Range.

The saddle between peaks had been so apparent a few days

earlier; now when she looked up, all she saw was the immensity

of the mountain.

292 Lori L. Lake

She couldn’t help but remember the frantic race three years

earlier and how panicked her kumpania had been. What a terrible

journey. Three years. It was Snow Moon then, too. So it was

three years to the month since she last passed this way. She’d

never been over the Tatras mountains, had never visited the

Slovak lands or Hungary. Her father had come across the

mountains before he’d attained manhood, and she’d heard so

many tales of his youth. She looked up at the winding path

ahead and felt respect that a fourteen-year-old boy had walked

over the mountain pass with only a wineskin of water and three

days’ food.

She wondered where her people had gone. They might have

stopped anywhere to hide out; or they could have gone on to the

woods north of Miskolc, the place her father had occasionally

spoken of. She hoped there was still a shop in the foothills on the

other side. She recalled that she and Tobar were to check there

for messages.

Mischka and Apple reached the pass near suppertime. She

paused long enough to eat flatbread and jerky and drink a lot of

cold water. The breeze was chilly, and she smelled snow in the

air when she tugged on Apple’s reins and began her descent to

the foothills of the Tatras. Her chances of finding the Roma—

much less her own people—seemed slim, yet still she held on to

hope.

EMIL FELT AS though he were suspended in time, waiting

for the right moment to arrive. The last weeks, as the war ground

to a halt, he’d been filled with restlessness. The war really was

finished...and now what? He wasn’t sure. Was it safe to go out

and about? Most of the partisans in the forest camp had packed

up and left, a steady trickle of men and women finally able to go

home now that the soldiers were gone. Soon he and Mikhail,

Gyorgy, and Stevo needed to make some decisions.

And their small group was only ten. Only ten? He had to

laugh at that qualification. He hadn’t thought in terms of “only

ten” when they’d been scrambling for food through the last

winter. Ten had seemed an enormous number to feed properly.

All of them had lost weight. He thought he looked like a gaunt

ragamuffin.

Around him people began to awaken and rise. Someone

stoked the fire. Emil smelled the sweet smoke of a clove

cigarette. Across the clearing, Mikhail’s wife Lumi coughed and

wheezed. She had been ill through most of the autumn—

something with her lungs. All of them had been lung sick,

Snow Moon Rising 293

coughing up phlegm and beset by headaches, but Lumi hadn't

yet recovered. She probably needed medicine that only a doctor

would have.

“I believe it’s time to pack up and move out,” Mikhail said.

Emil nodded. “My sentiments, too.”

Mikhail had aged well, Emil thought. His hair was thin and

graying, but his body was still wiry and strong, his eyes clear,

and his thought processes sound. Yet change was underway. He

used to seem taller than Emil, and now he wasn't. In his old age,

he’d been shrinking.

Emil watched Elena working at the fire. She was a fine

young woman and needed a husband. Palko would soon be

marrying age, too. They all needed security, regular meals, and a

warm place for the winter. “Will your cousins need any labor in

the spring?”

“Hard to say. Their sympathy has been well-meant, but they

haven’t had much to share. I think they’ll let us winter with

them, and then we ought to return to Poland.”

A far-off bird-whistle sounded in the forest, and Emil

scanned the trees until he heard another whistle, this time closer.

Someone was coming, but the sentries were signaling that it

wasn't a threat. “Elena?” he called. “Do you have coffee ready?”

“Of course.” Her voice was musical, and her snapping eyes

reminded him so much of Mischka that for a moment he felt a

pang in his chest. Mischka would have been proud of her little

sister. She was a fine young woman.

Emil heard an odd choking sound and turned as Mikhail

stood up.

“It cannot be.” A faint puff of mist emerged from Mikhail’s

mouth each time he released a breath. “Am I dying?”

Emil rushed to his side. “What do you mean? You’re fine.

Look at me.”

“I must be crossing over to the other side.” Mikhail raised

an arm and pointed.

Emil was startled to see a tall man leading a brown horse

through the trees toward them. Emil saw leaves falling. A breath

of wind blew some of them against the man’s coat. Frowning, he

watched the figure stride forward. He was wearing a wool coat

and gray pants tucked into calf-high boots. Emil had a thought

too preposterous to entertain. That wasn't a man. That was...that

was...Mischka?

The visitor raised a hand. “Droboy tume Romale.”

The camp went silent as though everyone had stopped

breathing.

Emil recognized that voice. He’d heard it call out good

294 Lori L. Lake

morning more times than he could ever count.

Someone else said, “Sastimos?” but the voice was so

tentative that the visitor broke into a smile.

“Is that all the greeting I get after braving the German

brutes and traveling great distances across rivers, over the

Tatras, and through a dozen makeshift Hungarian camps in

order to find you?”

“Mischka?” The word came out of Mikhail’s mouth in a

whisper.

Emil saw a flare of black skirt and red shawl as a scrawny

form hurtled out of the tent across the clearing, and Lumi

covered a dozen yards to pitch herself into the arms of her

daughter. Coughing and wheezing, she began to wail.

“Mama.” Mischka soothed her. “You’re not well?”

“I will be. I will be now.”

Tears blurred Emil’s vision, and he wiped them away with

the flat of his hand. Though it had been heartbreaking to accept,

he had made himself believe that Mischka was killed. After all

this time, he’d been so sure of it that he’d carried the guilt and

pain like a bullet wedged near his heart.

Now it was as though she’d risen from the dead. That

brought thoughts of Drina and little Xavi and how they would

never be welcomed home. They were truly dead. He turned away

so that no one would see his tears. Composing himself, he wiped

his face on his shirtsleeve and took a deep breath.

“Emil,” Mischka’s voice called out. “Don’t be such a rascal. I

have news of your sister.”

THE OTHER WOMEN had retired to the tents, and Mischka

sat speaking with Mikhail.

“All of them? All?” Mischka didn’t want to believe what she

was hearing. “I can’t believe they’re dead. All?”

“We think so. And now Tobar.”

“Drina. Xavi. Tauna.” She repeated the names reverently.

“What about Liza?”

Mikhail grimaced. “We have no way of knowing what

happened with her husband’s kumpania. I don’t even know

where to begin searching. The old way of sending messages is

lost. There’s no one left to carry them.”

The look in her father’s eyes hurt Mischka to the core. She

saw his shame and despair as clearly as lightning at night. As

though it were his fault. She thought of how narrowly these few

of her people had escaped the slaughter of the rest of the

kumpania, and an anger, burning and barely contained, rose up in

Snow Moon Rising 295

her. She fought it down and got shakily to her feet. “I’m going to

check on the women.”

Inside her mother’s tent, it was dark and close and smelled

of sweat. Stevo’s wife, Chavi, sat next to Lumi, humming quietly.

Mischka didn’t like what she saw. Lumi’s face was flushed, and

without even touching her, Mischka knew she burned with a

fever. Each breath she drew went in with a hiss and came out

with a painful rasp.

Mischka dropped to her knees next to the thick bedroll.

“How is she?”

Chavi shook her head slowly.

“Perhaps we should warm her, bring her near the fire.”

“It won’t help. She’s near the end.”

The end? Mischka sat back on her heels, feeling like the

wind had been knocked out of her. The end? She willed herself

not to cry and was grateful for her restraint when her mother

opened her eyes and whispered Mischka’s name.

“Yes, Mama. It’s me.”

Lumi let out a contented sigh. “Glad. My heart…is glad.”

Mischka leaned closer, and Chavi moved out of the way. The

tent flap opened, letting in a slice of light, then dimness closed

around them again, and she was alone with her mother. She sat

on the ground next to her. Lumi shifted and brought her hand

out of the bedroll, and Mischka gripped it.

Her mother whispered, “Take care…of your sister.”

“I will.”

“Leave here.”

Mischka sucked in a breath. She didn’t want to leave, didn’t

want to step outside the tent, for surely if she did, her mother

would be gone. “I can’t.”

“Yes.” She coughed weakly and closed her eyes.

“Leave…this…place. Find a new land…where we aren’t hated.

Find hope.”

“Fight this, Mama. Come with us to a new place.”

The smile she received nearly broke Mischka’s heart. “My

travels…are over. Go on…in my place. We are Roma. We seek.

We find. Go on and…find hope, my daughter. Find hope.”

She closed her eyes, but still she breathed. Mischka watched

her chest rise and fall, listened to the painful inhalations. She

held her mother’s dry hand and waited with her.

And then they were nine plus Mischka.

Chapter

Thirty-Five

Hungary, First Day of December 1945 (Oak Moon)

EMIL HADN’T BEEN sad to see the four outsiders leave

when Lumi died. They could make their way back to the farming

communities outside Miskolc and find work. The little ragtag

band of Roma were a different matter. They would still be

persecuted, and the Gallo cousins weren't so eager for another

winter of dependence by Mikhail’s group, no matter how few in

number they were. Three days after they buried Lumi, they sat

around a fire, holding mugs of coffee and discussing travel back

to Poland.

Mischka had been the most outspoken. “Mama decreed that

we should leave,” Mischka said. “Her last words to me were to

find a new place, somewhere where there’s hope.”

Gyorgy’s voice was bitter. “There is no such place for us,

little sister. No one anywhere will want us.”

Mischka didn’t answer for a while. She picked up a thin

stick and poked it in the fire. “In my travels I had occasion to

speak to many soldiers and doctors and missionaries. After the

war ended, I talked each night to a woman at a Red Cross station

in the displaced person’s camp. She spoke Polish, but she helped

me with my English. For many hours she told me of her home in

a place called Terre Haute, Indiana, where they have farms and

mills and raise pigs and chickens for selling. She said they seek

workers.”

“Where is this place?” Gyorgy asked.

“America.” Mischka said the word, and a silence fell over

the group at the campfire.

After a moment, Gyorgy rose and hovered over them, his

face dappled in golden light. “America is an entirely different

continent.”

“I know that,” Mischka said.

“Sorry to sound mocking, but in case you didn’t know, you

Snow Moon Rising 297

can reach it only by a very long voyage over the sea.”

“I’m not afraid to take the journey.”

“Do you think I’m afraid?” Gyorgy shouted. He shoved his

hands into his coat pockets and turned away to pace.

Emil studied the three Gallo men. Mikhail had sunken down

into himself. Swathed in blankets, he sat staring into the fire. His

two sons were clearly upset. Stevo kept rubbing at the scar on

his head, and Gyorgy looked like a firecracker ready to go off.

Until the last few days, Mikhail had been the elder to whom

everyone listened and who made final decisions. With Lumi’s

death and Mikhail’s grief, the balance was shifting. Neither

Chavi nor Elena had said a word, but they watched Mischka with

an intensity Emil found fascinating. This was no longer a

kumpania—at least not like any kumpania he had ever known.

The fire crackled, and Emil was warm next to it, but when he

rose and stepped back just a couple feet, he felt the chill at his

back. It wouldn’t be long before the snow would fly. They

needed to make a decision about their plans.

As he came to that conclusion, Mischka raised her voice.

“Listen, big brother. If we’re to leave this place, we must get

over the mountain before the weather drives us back. If we

decide not to journey on, then we need to make arrangements to

winter here.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Gyorgy’s words came out in

gusts of smoke and indignation.

Chavi, who had never in her life spoken up at the campfire,

picked up the coffeepot. As she poured herself a cup, she said,

“Stevo? I am prepared to walk. Tem is ready as well.”

Stevo didn’t say a word. Chavi went around the campfire

and refilled mugs. When she came to Emil, he shook his head. He

didn’t want to be juggling a hot beverage when he said his piece.

Before he could speak up, Mikhail cleared his throat. His voice

was soft, barely loud enough to hear over the crackle of the fire.

“We are all that’s left. Our wise and wonderful people have

been hunted down like wild dogs and killed. For all we know,

we may be the last few of our race.” With that, his voice broke

and he leaned his forehead into the palm of his hand so that his

next words were muffled. “Maybe we will find other Roma like

ourselves—people who hid and can come out now. But it can

never be the same. Never the same.”

Gyorgy stopped pacing and placed his beefy hands on

Mikhail’s shoulders. “Papa, you have us. We’re still your family.

We can start a new kumpania with others who hid as we did.”

“Remnants. All remnants. Scattered to the wind like old

rags.” With that, Mikhail put his head down against his knees.

298 Lori L. Lake

“Hungary is not my home. Poland is not my home. Nowhere is

my home. Nowhere.”

Emil watched through the flames of the fire as the Gallo men

did something Roma women almost never saw. They embraced

one another and cried. Elena, Chavi, and Mischka made no move

to leave. Even the boys, Palko, Mario, and Tem watched quietly,

their young faces solemn, but none of them stepped away either.

After a few minutes, Mikhail regained his composure.

Careful not to meet anyone’s eye, he wiped his nose, and Emil

watched in amazement as the old man seemed to expand, to

grow wider and broader-shouldered.

Mikhail looked up to the heavens and said, “As this Oak

Moon is my witness, I no longer wish to roam these lands where

we’re unwanted, even though they are the lands of my

forefathers. I accord honor and respect to Mikhail, the father of

my birth, and to Palko, the father of my rebirth. Long may their

spirits rest. But the old way is broken, and I will no longer heed

the mission of long-dead travelers. Instead, we shall for once

listen to a woman. My Luminitsa decreed that we seek hope, and

that’s what we shall do. If hope lies in America, that’s where we

shall go. If any man,” he said and looked around the campfire,

“or woman, or even any child should object, you will let me

know now.”

No one spoke. A log in the fire shifted, and sparks flew

upward. Mikhail’s gaze roved around the circle. “If we leave at

first light, we can cover a great distance, especially with the

horse. Mischka has brought money, and we’ve got meat and

enough dried fruit to get into Poland. Then we travel to

America.”

Emil remembered what Drina had said to him in the woods,

her last words before she died, and he wondered if women

crossing over had access to knowledge that the men did not.

“First I want to get my sister and mother, but I’m with you,

Mikhail. Your travels are my travels.”

Mischka lifted her coffee mug into the air. “Latcho drom. To

new journeys.”

Emil raised his cup, and so did everyone else. “New

journeys!”

Chapter

Thirty-Six

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

THE FIRST RAYS of sun were coming up over the horizon,

and Tobar was yawning.

Pippi said, “You ought to get some sleep, young man. The

whole household will be up before long. We have a busy day

ahead of us.”

“Hey, can’t a guy yawn and stretch every once in a while?”

Mischka patted his arm. “But you must be exhausted.”

“No. Mom says I’m a night owl, and I am. Besides, nobody’s

ever told me all this before.”

Mischka shrugged. “People don’t usually tell children

horror stories. Terrible, terrible things happened during the

war.”“I thought history was boring stuff that happened to other

people.”

Mischka couldn’t help but smile. “We lived it, just as you

will live yours.”

“You've sure made me kind of curious about the past.”

Tobar yawned again. “How did you get here—to the United

States?”

Pippi said, “It would take us another entire day to tell that

tale. My part is easy. I waited in Reims with François’s mother

until Emil sent word that they were all safe. By then your father

was almost two years old, Tobar, but your great-grandmother

was ill so I couldn’t leave. I stayed two more years caring for

her, living in a comfortable house with all the luxuries one could

want. I had an easy time compared to the rest.”

Mischka chuckled. “Yes, that may be so. But you had to

wait, always afraid that something bad would happen. Waiting

would have killed me.”

Tobar laughed. “That’s how I feel. I can’t wait to grow up.

I’m ready to be a man now.”

300 Lori L. Lake

Mischka smiled, thinking Pippi’s grandson was well named.

“I’ll tell you what we did. First, we went back over the mountain

before the snows came and found the old wagons. From the

remains, we managed to patch together a vardo. Apple pulled it

to a farm town, and we lived out of it while we labored to earn

money to live. Eventually we saved enough to buy another horse

and cart, and we traveled to Swinoujscie on the Baltic Sea. We

worked there for nearly two years, saving money, then we found

a ship bound for the United States and we got jobs on board. My

father and I worked the galley. My brothers and Emil were

topside.”

“Emil slipped into East Germany and got our mama,” Pippi

said. “That was when Germany was divided into East Germany

and West Germany, but there was no wall up yet. From France, I

could travel across the German border on the west with ease, but

I couldn’t get into East Germany to join Emil. Do you know

about the Iron Curtain?”

Tobar shrugged. “Not that much.”

“After the war, two different governments were created. The

Soviet Union was in charge of the east, and it was nearly

impossible to leave or to enter from the west without great risk. I

don’t know how Emil managed to sneak our mother out into

Poland, but he did.”

Mischka said, “So there we were in Swinoujscie, the men

and I and young Mario with jobs on the ship. Chavi, Elena, and

Camille—your great-grandmother—were booked for passage.

Tem and Palko,” she said, and grinned, “well, Tem and Palko

were stowaways. By the time the sailors realized we’d hidden

them aboard, we were five days at sea.”

Tobar frowned. “You left Grandma Pippi behind?”

“We had no choice,” Mischka said. “We planned to send for

her later.”

“So I could be growing up in Poland now if you hadn’t

somehow gotten here, Grandma.”

Pippi smiled. “Actually, you would have grown up in

France. You’d be a Frenchman today, young man. But instead,

Richelle died in 1950. Heart trouble. Richelle was the mother of

my husband, François.”

“I remember, Grandma.”

“She left me quite a bit of money. I used it to book passage

on a ship for a ‘visit’ to America. I arrived here in the summer,

and I never left.”

“We learned about illegal aliens in social studies. You’re not

illegal, are you? They could send you away.”

Pippi laughed. “Don’t be silly. Back then, it was much easier

Snow Moon Rising 301

to settle here. I got a job at a milliner’s shop making dresses and

designing patterns, and after a few years, I applied for

citizenship and was grandfathered in.”

“Grandfathered?”

“Yes. That’s when something has been going on for so long

without ill effects that the government decides to make it

officially permanent. I became officially permanent in 1956.”

Mischka reached out and squeezed Tobar’s arm. “And I

became officially permanent—and Greek—in 1952.”

“What?”

“I’m a woman of many disguises, but I didn’t think I’d have

a chance of getting citizenship papers. I didn’t read English at

the time, and I didn’t have money like Pippi did. I was one of the

thousands of poor, money-grubbing immigrants who sneaked

into the country when no one was looking. I spoke Romany,

which Americans didn’t know from a hole in the ground. I also

spoke Hungarian, Polish, German, and some French, Italian, and

Czech dialects. If they’d deported me, I’d have been sent back to

the mess in Europe, and I didn’t want to go.”

“I'll bet,” Tobar said. “You would have been alone and

without Grandma.”

“Yes. Perhaps there was a one in a million chance that

somewhere in Poland my sister, Liza, still lived, but even today,

I don’t think so. It hurts my heart to remember her, but how

would I have found her? And I certainly would have made no

effort to find Arben or his clan. No, I needed to stay in New

York, so when Mr. Giannakos offered me Greek papers, I took

them. Remember Mr. G, Pippi?”

“How could I forget? Remember how when he met a person,

he used to shout out his name, followed by his hometown?”

Mischka laughed and mimicked his words. “In a big

booming voice, he’d say, ‘Nestor Giannakos, from the city of

Halkiades, in Artis, in the region of Epirus, in Greece, long may

she live!’ He was a big, burly Greek man with an astoundingly

loud laugh, Tobar. His produce market was a good place to labor

for those early years until I began working in your

grandmother’s sewing shop. Giannakos was a good man, a

generous man. He lost his first wife in the Old Country, but he’d

kept her papers. Those he gave to me. So you may continue to

call me Beebee Mischka, but my legal name—or illegal name, if

you please—is Sophia Giannakos.”

“You’ve had a lot of names, Beebee.”

“The name may change, but the insides are still the same. So

that’s the end of the story. Our journey was successful, and here

we are.”

302 Lori L. Lake

“Wait a minute,” Tobar said. “What happened after

Grandma got here? You left out thirty-nine years.”

“Ah, yes. I forgot you do math at school. Now that I think of

it, there are a few other details that you might find

interesting…”

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

New York City, July 1950 (Mead Moon)

MISCHKA STOOD SWEATING in the late-morning heat of

the produce market. The noontime rush had not yet started. She

hoped to have the fruit sections arranged perfectly before hordes

of customers descended. The vegetables were all set out,

glistening under the shop lights. Deep red tomatoes. Eggplant so

purple they looked neon. Shiny cucumbers. Heads of lettuce and

cabbage as big as bowling balls. She loved working with

produce, often marveling at all the lovely edibles spread out

through the store. After so much deprivation during the war, it

was a comfort to be surrounded by food.

Jace and Nicolas Giannakos, the teenage grandsons of the

owner, were busy unpacking box after box of fruit that Mischka

expertly set out for display, weeding out the occasional damaged

fruit as she worked. Her hands were quick—lightning fast, in

fact. Even Mr. Giannakos commented on how speedily she could

set up a display or take it down, all without ever dropping so

much as an apple.

In Greek she said, “The bananas look especially good this

time.”

Jace let out a sigh. “English, Mischka. We’re Americans

here.”

“I like to practice my Greek.”

“My grandfather is happy to do so, but Nico and I prefer

English.”

“Yah, yah.” She waved them aside and took hold of a tray of

peaches as Jace swiped a boxcutter along the side of a box. With

a laugh, she said, “Careful there, Mister English. The peaches are

fragile. You do understand the meaning of fragile, right?”

Jace looked up toward the heavens as through praying for

patience. “Of course.” He bent to snatch up three heavy

cardboard boxes and dragged them off toward the back room.

304 Lori L. Lake

Jace and his brother were handsome young men, both doing

well in school. They worked hard, and she liked them. On her

citizenship papers, she carried their deceased grandmother’s

name, but they didn’t seem to mind. They got along with

Mischka well enough, though they weren’t so kind to their four

pesky younger sisters.

Mischka continued to work at a breakneck pace. She liked

the feeling of speed and efficiency. There’d be plenty enough

time before too long to step back and relax. She was nearly done

with the last of a box of pears when she heard a jaunty whistling

coming closer. Mr. Giannakos rounded the corner from the

backroom, his face red and beads of sweat on his forehead. His

shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbow, and his slacks were

creased. He’d been out back supervising the unloading of

produce for the next day. He spent as much time unloading as

even the lowliest laborer. He liked physical labor, and he

respected others who did as well.

In Greek he called out, “Mischka! The stand looks

marvelous.”

She thanked him, feeling glad at heart. The noon whistle

from a nearby factory went off as she bent to pick up the last

box. “It’ll be busy now.”

He wiped his forehead on his shoulder and spoke in English.

“Let us work then. Make big money for the day.”

The next hour flew by as Mischka weighed produce,

scrawled the poundage on squares of brown paper, and sent the

customers to pay at the front. Some of the afternoon buyers from

hotels also made their way in with orders, and she funneled their

papers to the Giannakos boys.

Suddenly there was a shout, and Mr. Giannakos rushed to

the front of the store, where the cashier had hold of someone.

Mischka thought it strange that the person was dressed in a

heavy coat when it was over eighty degrees, but she turned her

attention to a customer. She was still helping the woman choose

eggplant when she heard a torrent of Polish.

“Let me go, you rude and nasty dogs. Take your hands off

me.” The voice was high and light.

“Mischka, can you translate?” Mr. Giannakos called, and

Mischka asked her customer to excuse her.

Jace was holding the woman when she reached them, and in

Polish Mischka asked, “What’s going on here?”

The woman in the dark coat twisted toward her, and

Mischka was struck with a sense of déjà vu. The slim woman's

blonde hair was matted and greasy, and the tan coat she wore,

though once obviously finely made, was a men’s double-

Snow Moon Rising 305

breasted tweed with wide lapels that was far too big. But it was

the face that stopped Mischka in her tracks. The blue eyes

glittered, met Mischka’s, and narrowed.

Mischka stared at a pale purplish scar from cheekbone to

chin. “Nelka?”

“Let me go, you oafs!” She twisted and pulled to no avail.

Jace wasn’t letting go. Two apples and a small bag of

tangerines lay on the floor. “She was stealing,” he said.

Hardly able to breathe, Mischka choked out, “Nelka? Is that

you?”

The woman made a growling sound. “How do you know my

name?” Panting, she kicked back. “Let me go!”

“Nelka, it’s me. Mischka. From the camp in Poland.”

Nelka stopped struggling and stood ramrod stiff. For several

heartbeats, Mischka stared into eyes that had gone wide with

disbelief, then they shifted to the side. Still breathing hard, she

muttered, “Where is she? Where?”

“I’m right here. Can’t you see me?”

She looked back in a fury. “Of course I can! Where is she?

My sister! Where?”

Mischka felt like she’d been sucker punched. The room

lights actually seemed to flicker. She couldn’t get a breath in.

Her throat burned and she gasped.

Mr. Giannakos took hold of Mischka’s forearm and leaned in

to look her in the eye. “Mischka? Are you all right?”

She couldn’t speak. She managed to get in a deep breath, but

all she could see in her mind’s eye was little Lidia’s pale white

face the last morning, right before she died.

“Take her to the back office,” Mr. Giannakos said to Jace. He

pulled on Mischka’s arm. “You need to come with me.”

The office was a cubbyhole no more than eight-by-eight

where the accounting work was done. Furnished with two

hardback chairs and a tiny desk, it smelled faintly of ink. The

hand-operated press upon which they printed flyers took up the

left side of the desk. Jace delivered Nelka to one of the chairs, and

Mischka settled in the other. Mr. Giannakos sat behind his desk.

“Young woman, I could have you arrested for theft. Do you

wish to pay for the fruit?”

Mischka translated, but Nelka didn’t answer the shop-

owner’s question. “I wish to know where my sister is.” She

looked at Mischka with insolence. “I left her in your care.”

Tears sprang to Mischka’s eyes. “I’m sorry, Nelka. She died

before we could be liberated.”

With a shriek, Nelka launched herself from the chair at

Mischka.

306 Lori L. Lake

“No!” Mischka called out as she tried to fend off the blows.

Jace had to pull the screaming woman off her. Mischka

understood her shouted accusations too well. She felt light-

headed and had to back up and lean against the plaster wall

behind her.

Nelka flailed her arms. “You killed her. I saved you, and you

killed my sister.” She let out a cry so loud it made Mischka’s ears

ring, then sank to her knees, sobbing. Jace released her.

Mischka squatted nearby, her shoulder still smarting from

Nelka’s bony fist. “Nelka, don’t. Please.”

Nelka slumped onto her side in a fetal position, facing away

from Mischka. She was sweating and wheezing and still

wrapped in the heavy coat, but she shook as though she were

freezing.

“Nelka.” No response. “Nelka!” Mischka returned to her

seat in the wood chair and waited. She took a deep breath, and

now, in addition to the ink, she smelled pungent body odor.

After a few moments, Jace and Mr. Giannakos left the room,

and Nelka stopped sniffling and moaning. She sat up. Her face

was ruddy, and the scar on her cheek looked like a fresh gash.

Mischka had to look close to be sure that this was not so.

“What happened to Lidia? Did they kill her?”

“No. She fell ill with the croup. It was winter. She—she

couldn’t bear the loss of you. She wouldn’t fight.”

More tears bubbled up and poured down Nelka’s face. “I

didn’t think any of you would make it out of there. I always

thought she was probably dead. I couldn’t feel her in my heart

anymore. Vogel didn’t—he didn’t abuse her further, did he?”

“No. You’ll be happy to hear that at the end, the Russians

liberated the camp and he was shot by a firing squad. So was

Braunhaus.”

Nelka’s eyes lit up with vicious glee, and for the first time,

Mischka thought she glimpsed real madness. Then her scarred

face went slack.

Sensing that Nelka was finished with her outburst, Mischka

held out her hand. “Come. Let’s get you something to eat, and

then we’ll take a walk. I have a great deal to tell you.”

They went to a café and sat at a table for two by the front

window where sunshine streamed in and the sidewalk traffic

outside was a constant reminder of how busy everyone was.

Mischka had a cup of coffee, and Nelka downed a plate of eggs,

four pieces of buttered toast, and a piece of apple pie. She ate

like she hadn’t had food for days, and Mischka suspected that

was the case.

When Nelka was done, she pushed her plate away and sat

Snow Moon Rising 307

back in her chair, her eyes blank. Mischka wondered what had

gone wrong with her, for surely there was something very much

out of order. She recalled Nelka’s daring, her defiance, her

unwillingness to let the Nazi guards get the best of her. This was

not the Nelka she had known, the woman with whom she had

spent all those months sharing a pallet.

“Nelka, how did you escape?”

“Have you got a cigarette?”

“No, sorry.”

Nelka steepled her fingers, and the tips, under dirty half-

moon fingernails, went white from the pressure. Her voice was

flat, as though she were relating a story that had happened to

someone else. “They took me away to days of travel and

beatings. I can’t remember how everything fits together, but in

the end I was in Auschwitz, which has left its permanent mark

on me.”

She rolled up the sleeve of her coat, and Mischka caught a

glimpse of blue numbers tattooed into the pale white skin. The

figures hardly registered before Nelka rolled the sleeve back

down.

“Yes, they branded us like cattle, and we waited to die in

their slaughterhouse.”

“But you didn’t die.”

“Yes, I did. I didn’t know it until I saw you, but now I know

it’s true.” The voice was so cold, so distant, that it gave Mischka

the shivers.

She didn’t know what to say. She swallowed down caustic

bile, and pushed the coffee cup away. “What happened?”

“I became a…plaything. For a German guard. A woman.”

“I don’t understand.”

“She called me her valet. She fattened me up, only to use me

for a punching bag. She was fascinated by the scar on my face.

She put matching ones on my chest, my stomach, my back and

buttocks. Shall I show you now?” Nelka looked around the

restaurant with a sly expression.

Mischka swallowed hard. “I believe you. I’m no stranger to

the beatings of one who enjoys administering them.”

“You’ll be happy to know that the disgusting, horrible

shrew, Petronela, met a brutal end.”

Mischka couldn’t help but wince.

“Yes, right up to the last moment of her life she was

complaining. And then a Nazi pig put a bayonet right through

her heart. That was before the Allies came to liberate the camp.

Too late for priggish Petronela, but not soon enough for me,

either. My keeper—the German madwoman—possessed forged

308 Lori L. Lake

papers proving her to be an Englishwoman, though anyone who

heard her speak had to know she was no such thing. She used

passports and other documents lifted from her victims to flee

Germany and go to London, and she took me with her. She had a

great deal of money as well.”

“She brought you here?”

A smile played on Nelka’s face. “You could say that. She

very kindly provided her papers so I could book passage to this

godforsaken place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You wouldn’t. No one does.”

“What happened to her?”

“I killed her.”

This was so unexpected that Mischka felt her jaw drop.

Nelka smiled a terrible, wicked grin, and it seemed the scar on

her cheek gleamed blood-red in the sunlight that poured through

the café window.

“She beat me one time too many. I stabbed her with a

kitchen paring knife. I stabbed and stabbed until the blood

stopped running. Desecrating her body gave me more pleasure

than anything I’ve ever done.”

Mischka took some coins from her pocket and set them on

the table. She rose. “Come.” She hastily exited the café, her

breath coming in short gasps. She had to move, had to get fresh

air or else vomit. She’d traveled two city blocks before she

looked behind her, almost hoping that Nelka had failed to

follow, but there she was, dogging Mischka’s footsteps.

Nelka caught up with her. “You’re shocked? How can you be

shocked? Didn’t we dream many a night of ways to murder

Vogel?”

“That was—different. I know what happened to you was

terrible, but I don’t understand how you could enjoy murdering

her.”“I needed her papers, and I took them, just as she took what

she needed from me. I owed her nothing. She deserved worse

than death.”

“What did you do with her body?”

“Hid it in the root cellar of an abandoned cottage. I took her

clothes, I took her money, I took her papers, and I escaped

Europe.” Her voice assumed that deadness again as she said,

“I’m never going back, now that I know Lidia is dead.”

Mischka stepped around a street vendor selling apples, and

her mind whirled. What had Nelka turned into? A monster? How

could she speak of murder with such glee? Back at Giannakos’s

Produce, Mischka had initially thought that she could help

Snow Moon Rising 309

Nelka—assist her in getting a job, perhaps even take her into her

home. Now she felt repulsed and sickened.

She evaded the flow of foot traffic on all sides of her and

backed up against the side of a building. In a calm voice, she

said, “What are your plans, Nelka?”

“Plans? I have no plans. Surviving day to day is all I can

manage.”

“Where do you live?”

“Live?” Her smile was mocking.

“Do you want a job?”

“Work for these greedy sons of swine? I’d sooner steal.”

Mischka sought her eyes and leaned closer. “Nelka, I could

find you living quarters and help you get a job—something with

a proper and upstanding storeowner.”

“I don’t need your help. I don’t need you, you murdering

bitch.” Nelka’s eyes shone with madness once more. She was so

close that Mischka could see beads of perspiration along her

greasy hairline and smell the reek of her unwashed body. Nelka

shook a finger in Mischka’s face. “You’re responsible for the

death of all I loved. You. One day you shall pay.”

Her face went slack, and she turned and pushed through the

stream of pedestrians. More than one person called out a startled

“Hey!”

Mischka was glad for the building behind her. She held her

palms flat against the smooth, cool surface, grounding herself,

trying to catch her breath, as she watched Nelka reach the curb

and hesitate.

“Oh, no. Nelka, no!” For just the briefest moment, she

glimpsed the purple facial scar. Then Nelka launched herself

into the path of a black coal delivery truck. The shiny metal

grille in front struck her dead-center and flung her onto the

street. The driver swerved and tried to stop, but Nelka’s small

form disappeared under a wheel.

Mischka heard a great inhalation all around. Other vehicles

skidded to a halt, and car horns sounded. A woman screamed.

The sidewalk emptied around Mischka as people swarmed

toward the one-way street.

“Get a doctor!” someone yelled

Mischka took a deep breath. She must go help her. Help

Nelka. But her feet wouldn’t move.

“It’s no use,” a man called out. “She’s dead.”

Still bracing herself against the wall, Mischka took a step

aside. Away from the carnage, away from the crowd, away.

Anywhere but here. She reached the corner and had to

relinquish contact with the building. She was shaky, but she

310 Lori L. Lake

pushed on, crossed the street, and kept walking quickly. Away,

away.

TWO DAYS LATER, Mischka lay in bed and thought about

her walk with Nelka. Until then, she’d believed she’d put the

terrors of the camps out of her mind, but speaking to Nelka had

brought everything back in a fresh rush, like an explosion of

dangerous fireworks in her mind. She could hardly sleep now

with all the bad dreams assailing her. Muzzle flashes of gunfire.

Dead faces of girls she hardly knew. The ugly, twisted Vogel

beating a tiny girl to a bloody pulp. A baton whisking through

the air, over and over, slashing at her own bare skin.

The horror of Tobar’s death came back to her as well. She

dreamed repeatedly of his smiling brown eyes, which suddenly

went vacant as the German bullet ripped through his body. She

thought of hundreds of moments of brutality and malice. It

seemed that everywhere she went, she was reminded of

depravity. An old gentleman, shuffling along in a blue serge

suit, brought her the memory of the white-haired man shot and

killed as the soldiers had driven them toward the labor camp.

She wondered how she had gotten such a clear picture of the

man’s face. She saw it now in her dreams.

Though she hadn’t actually seen Nelka’s body, she imagined

its destruction in her mind’s eye, and it horrified her. She saw

blood and knives in her dreams and awakened shaking with fear.

Even worse, she felt newly homesick for the vardos and the

kumpania, for the laughter of the children, the high fires and

singing, the spiced coffee, bogacha, and puyo. She missed the

traveling, missed always looking forward to a new and different

place which could be full of surprises. For a moment, she even

missed the diklo headgear she’d worn for those years married to

Arben.

She gave herself a mental shake, and tried to talk herself out

of the memories.

True, the days on the road had been wearisome. She had

bathed often from streams as cold as ice. Strangers sometimes

threw rocks or chased them out of town. And always

overshadowing her kumpania life, her opinion—her wisdom—

had not been valued by the men.

Still, she missed a time when the world had seemed magical.

Magique. She saw herself as a young girl, feeling the magic,

running through enchanted forests or riding astride talking

horses, feeling whole and in tune with nature. Unaware that she

stood on the brink of a world intent upon exterminating her.

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Mágikus. Magický. Zauberisch. Magie. Magiczny.. . Magia. She knew many words for magic in nearly a dozen languages, and now she

knew there was no such thing.

Magic didn’t exist. The world was an ugly place.

Chapter

Thirty-Eight

New York City, August 1950 (Wort Moon)

LITTLE FRANÇOIS STOOD on the ship's promenade deck

and peeped through a slat in the metal fence to look out upon the

gray, dark sea. Pippi stood directly behind him, feeling slightly

light-headed. She’d been seasick the first few days of the voyage,

but after a time, she finally stopped vomiting and gradually

became accustomed to the movement of the sea. She had been

told that the Queen Mary was such a large ship that she would

hardly feel a thing. What lies. The ship was, indeed, over 80,000

tons and a thousand feet long, but it still vibrated and shuddered

in the water, particularly during the fierce storm on the second

night. Despite what she’d been told, Pippi was more than aware

that she was at sea.

Over the sound of the wind whistling and blowing against

the flags nearby, she heard the low hum of people talking.

Dozens of passengers braved the wind. Standing at the rail that

ran atop the fence, they looked out across the leaden sea, each

eager to be the first to sight land.

François reached one pale hand up to grab the rail. Dressed

like a miniature man, he wore tan twill slacks, leather oxfords, a

light blue pullover sweater, and a suit jacket that was much too

big for him. Pippi hoped he was warm enough. Even though she

didn’t think there was any possible way for him to fall from the

deck into the sea, she had a tight grip on his coat collar. She

constantly watched him like a hawk. Four-year-old boys were

unpredictable, and more than once she’d seen her little monkey

son climb surfaces that it would never occur to her could be

scaled.

She was cold in the chilly breeze and growing more so every

minute, despite wearing her heaviest Chesterfield coat and thick

leotards under her skirt. Who would believe it was summer? Her

bouffant petticoat, all the rage in Europe, merely made it easier

Snow Moon Rising 313

for the brisk wind to blow against her legs and up her skirt. Her

flat-heeled leather shoes had a full, rounded toe, so her feet

weren’t yet chilled, but she anticipated being cold through and

through before too long.

“François, let’s go inside.”

“No, please, Mama. I want to see land.” He looked up at her,

his blue eyes so very like Emil’s that she found herself thinking

of her brother multiple times each day. His hair was tinged with

brown. At his birth, it had been white-blond, but as each month

went by, it seemed to darken a bit more. She was amazed to

watch him grow, to see his limbs so straight and strong. He was

well-coordinated and already nimble-footed, a natural athlete.

He was also adept with both French and German. She wondered

how quickly he would learn English. She had tried to teach him a

few words and phrases, but her knowledge was rudimentary.

She worried that she wouldn’t be able to learn the language

quickly enough, and if she didn’t, how could she get a job?

“Hello, Mrs. Delebecque.” A man in a fedora and topcoat

paused beside her and tipped his hat.

“Mr. Faunce. How are you this morning?” She pasted on a

smile.

“I'm pleased to be close to our destination. I see you have

your sea-legs now.”

“Yes, I do, and I’m grateful for that.”

He’d been seated at her dining table the third night, and she

remembered with embarrassment how sick she’d felt. She had

excused herself to run to the ladies room, lost the soup course

she’d just eaten, and then stood looking in the mirror, amazed

that she could quite literally sport such a tinge of gray-green on

her face. When she returned to the table, he’d been solicitous, his

soft hands patting her, and his gray eyes constantly appraising.

His dark blond hair had a touch of silver, and she guessed he

was fifteen years her senior.

Ever since that night, he’d inquired about her health and

constantly tried to strike up conversations with her, but

something about him left her cold. His German was clear and

crisp, and considering the jeweled rings, collar pin, tie clips, and

cufflinks he wore, she thought he must be a man with money.

But she didn’t like him. His teeth were yellow and his eyeteeth

oddly long and feral-looking. He reminded her of a jackal. Ever

since he’d learned that she was a widow, he’d been dogging her,

and it was all she could do to avoid him.

“What is the first thing you will do upon arrival, Mrs.

Delebecque?”

“I hope to locate my family, and then I’ll rest and recover

314 Lori L. Lake

from this voyage.”

“Ahh, I shall assist you in any way you like. I have

connections to help you search.”

“That’s very kind, but won’t be necessary, Mr. Faunce. They

expect us and will find me upon arrival.” She shivered.

“Oh, goodness. Are you cold?”

He made a move as if to shelter her under his arm, but she

grimaced and leaned down to her son. “Let’s go inside,

François.”

Her uncooperative son shook his head. “I want to see us get

there.”

“It could be hours before we get to New York. Come away

from the rail, and let’s go inside and warm up.”

“But—”

“Please do not argue with me. I’m chilled.”

“You go inside then. I’ll watch.”

“I will not leave you here by yourself. Come.” With a

dismissive nod toward Mr. Faunce, she peeled François’s hand

away from the rail. His fingers were cold and damp. His hands

never seemed to warm up completely. “Look how chilled you

are. Let’s go.”

He grumbled, and she was sure he’d called her marâtre

under his breath. Yes, she was a cruel mother if that meant

keeping her son safe. Tugging at his arm, she turned and stepped

away from the rail just as a loud cheer went up.

François let out a squeal and jerked his hand from hers. She

let him race over and peer through the metal fence. He was so

excited that he quivered and danced. He turned and called out to

her. “It’s land! We’re nearly there, Mama.”

Pippi could make out a faint strip on the horizon. She didn’t

have the heart to tell her son that it might be many hours before

they covered the distance and were able to dock. She rested her

hands on François's shoulders and gazed out across the ocean. If

nothing disastrous had happened, her family would be there

waiting. Mama, Emil, Mischka. All of them had been on her mind

for so long. Since her mother-in-law had died, she’d felt so alone.

Something tightened behind her breastbone. How hard it was to

believe so much time had passed. And now here she was, coming

to a new country, leaving familiar surroundings behind. Once

she got on dry land, she hoped she’d feel less apprehensive.

THE QUEEN MARY sailed into the harbor at Chelsea Piers

in the late afternoon on a sun-drenched, sticky day, and Emil

stood waiting, hands in pockets. The ship’s horn emitted a deep,

Snow Moon Rising 315

ear-splitting blast that reverberated through the air and shook

the ground. Everyone jumped and covered their ears before the

next blast rent the sky.

Everyone but Mikhail had come with Emil in the early

morning, but as the day went on, Mischka’s brothers had had to

report to work, and Palko and Tem grew hungry and impatient,

so Chavi took them home. Mischka and Elena still waited. Mario,

a young man who now sported a handsome goatee on his chin

and a wedding band on his left hand, stood next to Emil’s

mother, Camille. Emil knew that lightning could strike the

waiting area, and Mama wouldn’t leave.

Meeting ocean-liner passengers was not for the faint of

heart. Even after the ship had been docked for many hours, the

travelers had to stay on board while Customs officers searched

baggage and approved each entry to the city. Such was the case

today as well. Before the first group emerged from Customs,

afternoon had arrived, and still Emil and the other family

members waited.

It seemed to take forever for the ship to dock, and then

porters carted all the luggage down the gangplank first before

any passengers were allowed to depart. Hundreds of bags were

arrayed on the dock by the time the first passengers descended

the gangplank, holding tight to its canvas sides. Emil wished he

had field glasses. More than once he saw an adult figure with a

child-sized companion, but he was too far away to tell whether

they were Pippi and François.

“I cannot wait seeing special friend of mine,” Elena said in

English. Her language skills were improving, but a lot of the

time she and the rest of the Gallos slipped into Romany.

Besides Mischka, who picked up languages with untold

speed, Mario was quickest at learning the language. He said, “I

wish they’d hurry.”

Emil’s mother laughed and shivered with ill-concealed

delight. Her English was abysmal, so she spoke in German most

of the time. “If I had known I’d be separated from my daughter

for so long, I would never have left Germany.”

“But, Mama,” Emil said, “you’d still be stuck in the village

near Eisenhüttenstadt, and we never would have gotten you

out.”“I know. It’s just that I’ve missed her so much that my heart

is pained.”

Emil understood. The ache in his own heart for Drina and

for his little son, Xavi, would never leave him. He still dreamed

of them, longed for them. He was grateful that his mother’s wish

to see her only daughter could be fulfilled, but he couldn’t help

316 Lori L. Lake

feeling a great sadness. He would never have the chance to wait

for his beloved to return to him from across the sea. He could

never visit her grave, never see his little son with the laughing

eyes.They rarely spoke of their lost families. Emil imagined that

all of them still felt their absence deeply, but it was easier not to

discuss. No amount of talk could bring back any of the kumpania

or family members taken from them during the terrible years of

the war.

He thought of his friends. Mikhail had been the luckiest.

Both of his sons, Gyorgy and Stevo, had survived as had Mischka

and Elena. Mikhail had lost Lumi and Liza, but four of his five

children were still with him. Stevo’s wife Chavi was healthy and

pregnant again, and little Tem had made it safely across the sea.

Perhaps they would never know what happened to Stevo’s other

four children.

Gyorgy was the unluckiest of all. Of his four sons, he had

only Mario. His wife Tauna's brutal death had to weigh upon

him, just as Drina’s weighed on Emil. Sometimes Emil felt like

their group consisted of leftovers—mismatched remainders.

Almost everyone else was dead.

With the exception of Elena, who lived with a family for

whom she provided domestic help, the clan lived in three flats,

all on the same street. They cleaved to one another, met often for

meals, and lent money and clothing as needed. None spoke of

their fears, but Emil felt a fierce protectiveness for each and

every one of them. Quite simply, he would die to keep any one of

them safe.

Each waited with great expectation for the arrival of Pippi

and her son, for they represented hope. If Pippi and François

could arrive unscathed from the Old Country, perhaps later on

down the road they might be surprised by the arrival of some

other unexpected family member, or someone from the kumpania.

They had a list of ninety-seven Roma, most of whom Emil

believed were dead, but Mischka had spent time haunting

Immigration offices to try to locate any who might have made it

to America. She hadn’t had any luck yet, but she kept going

back.Watching Mischka pace along the fence, he wondered why

she had been so distant lately. Instead of showing delight over

the imminent arrivals, she remained off to the side, glum and

silent. She hadn’t been herself for weeks, ever since the day she

came home and told him she’d run into someone from the labor

camp, and then the woman had been hit by a truck and killed

before her eyes. Emil tried to get more information from her, but

Snow Moon Rising 317

she’d turned inward.

What had happened to the easygoing woman who had

worked so hard to help earn their passage from Swinoujscie? He

had relied on her steadiness, her energy. But something had

indeed happened. He hadn’t seen Mischka like this since she’d

returned all those years ago from the marriage to Arben.

And then on the last day of July, she’d come home to the

three-bedroom flat she shared with Emil, Palko, and Camille and

announced that she’d secured lodging at a boarding house six

blocks away. Emil had been stunned. She packed her clothes and

few belongings in a gunnysack, and the next morning she was

gone. Emil felt her absence acutely. If he had his way, he would

own a house with a rabbit warren of bedrooms, and all of them

would live together—Mikhail’s entire clan, the Staneks, and

anyone else they picked up along the way. Emil worked swing

shift at the docks with Gyorgy and Stevo, and so far, that didn’t

provide any of them enough income to afford a house. But in

September, Emil would be enrolling in college to train for better

work, and someday he expected to buy a home.

He heard his mother gasp and was aware of the people

around him rushing forward. Suddenly, his sister was wrapped

in their mother’s arms, and both of them were crying. He saw

tears on Mischka’s face, which she swiftly brushed away.

Two porters delivered some heavy bags, and the men

wrestled these out of the way, then settled to wait for mother

and daughter to stop crying and exclaiming.

Emil noticed the little boy tugging on Pippi's skirts. He had

a look of uncertainty on his face. The pale blue of his pullover

sweater matched his eyes. Emil gestured him over.

“You are François.” The boy nodded. “I’m your Uncle Emil.

Did you enjoy the boat ride?”

“It’s not a boat. The Queen Mary is the biggest ship on the

ocean.”

“Ah, I see. Were you seasick?”

“No. Of course not. Mama was. But not me. I’m going to

grow up and be a sailor so I can travel everywhere.”

“Emil,” Camille called out. “Your sister is here, finally

here.”

Emil had to laugh at the absurdity of her statement—as if

they hadn’t been waiting for this event for hours. But he hurried

over and gave Pippi a hug.

“I’m so glad you’re here safe.” He looked around, suddenly

aware of a blond man who held a leather suitcase and hovered to

one side. “And who have we here?”

The man extended his hand. “Gerhard Faunce, just arriving

318 Lori L. Lake

here from the Fatherland.” His German was crisp and precise.

Emil glanced at Pippi, saw the stiff look on her face, and

said without warmth, “Welcome to America, Herr Faunce.”

“Yes, thank you very much. I was most concerned to see that

Mrs. Delebecque and her son arrived safely. Perhaps you will

allow me to call?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir. That would not do,” Emil said. “My

sister is about to become betrothed. But thank you for your

assistance and for watching out for her.”

With a nod and an angry look in his eyes, the man sidled

past. When he was out of earshot, Emil met Pippi’s eyes. “I hope

I read that situation correctly.”

“Oh, yes, big brother. You certainly did. Thank you."

Mischka clasped Pippi's hands and said in English,

“Welcome to America.” She repeated the words in German, then

stepped away as Pippi’s mother took her arm.

Camille said, “Let’s get out of this heat. Let’s go home.”

Emil glanced over his shoulder and saw Mischka right

behind him. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Mischka said.

But the next time he looked for her, Mischka was gone. They

had passed the cross street that led to her boardinghouse, and he

realized that she must have left them at that point. He felt a pang

of regret, but that was quickly overwhelmed by the relief of

reaching their flat. He and Mario hauled the bags up two flights

of stairs to their rooms, and the party began.

MISCHKA WALKED ALONG a quiet avenue and looked at

the trees overhead so full of bright leaves. Birds twittered and

hopped from branch to branch. She had been roaming aimlessly

for an hour. Lately she’d been taking long walks through the

city, acquainting herself with the area for miles around her

boardinghouse but avoiding the rougher parts of town. Today

she loped along, her legs overly warm in the lightweight tan

slacks she wore.

She felt a curious lightness—and a thankfulness—that Pippi

and François had arrived safely. But at the same time, their

arrival evoked a combination of emotions she couldn’t quite

fathom. How could happiness be tinged with such sadness and

worry? She didn’t even know what she was worried about.

One thing was clear. Nobody had told her that Pippi’s hand

in marriage had been promised to someone. When had that

occurred? How preposterous that Pippi Stanek should travel all

the way to America only to be handed off to some stranger. Was

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it about money? Why couldn’t they all band together and share

their income? Mischka had been gradually salting away her own

earnings, a dollar here, two dollars there. She hadn’t counted

lately, but she had more than two hundred dollars hidden in her

room. Surely that nest egg could help Pippi get settled. Why did

she have to be married off to someone?

She picked up her pace, swinging her arms vigorously. She

turned the corner on Fourth Street and nearly collided with an

old man shambling along.

“Chap nit, ” he called out in Yiddish. Dark, flinty eyes stared

out at her from under a flat-topped black hat. His full gray beard

was bushy and might have been comical had he not raised his

cane. “Take it easy, you,” he said in English. “Not so fast.”

She looked down at the sidewalk. “My apologies, sir.”

He touched nicotine-stained fingers to his hat and limped

past her with a dignity that left a lump in her throat. Up the

street, she saw an old woman in a flowered dress and white

gloves walking with a teenage girl. Nearby, a man in an apron

swept in front of a bookstore. A newsboy on a bicycle wheeled

past calling out, “Newspaper…get your news…read all about

it.” All around her, the city crawled with people busy at work,

busy with their loved ones, and here she was, miles from home,

longing for something she couldn’t explain. She turned and

walked back toward Mrs. Levinstein’s boardinghouse. She’d

missed the party at the Stanek’s, but that suited her fine. She

wasn’t in any mood for celebration.

SIX DAYS A week, Mischka rose before the sun came up,

arrived at Giannakos’s Produce by five in the morning, and was

finished in the late afternoon. The two year anniversary of

coming to America came and went, and all she could think of

was the Old Country.

At night she dreamed of walking on dusty roads on open

land, wind in her hair and springtime plants, grasses, and trees

all around. She awakened one night to the creaking of the house,

and it reminded her so much of the sound of a harness on a team

leading a vardo that she started to cry. Little things such as the

sound of Polish or German speech or the smoky smell of meat

cooking over a fire could unexpectedly bring on tears.

She didn’t understand what was happening to her. She

thought to seek her father’s advice, but on a windy October

Sunday, a visit to the flat where he lived with Gyorgy’s family

held no opportunity to speak to Mikhail in private. Everyone

320 Lori L. Lake

was celebrating the announcement that Mario’s wife Sylva was

with child, and Mischka could hardly let her glumness and

depression put a damper on the good news.

She had hoped to see Pippi—perhaps share the quandary

with her—but she hadn’t arrived after an hour. So Mischka

finished her cheese, wine, fruit, and bogacha bread, hugged Sylva

and shook Mario’s hand, and slipped out.

A mile had passed before Mischka looked about, aware that

for no reason, she’d headed north. Usually she went to the river

and walked there, but this time she decided to try something

new. Cabs passed, their drivers honking and gesturing. Street

vendors hawked barbecued meats, fruit, pocket sandwiches, and

more. She strode up the avenue watching and listening to the

people: Italians, Greeks, Jews, Poles, Negroes, an Asian woman

pushing a dilapidated wooden cart, and the cacophony of

constant talk, truly a babble of voices.

She stopped and looked up and down Fifth Avenue.

Everything felt foreign. Unreal. Resuming her walk, she

wondered what she should do. Lately there had been times when

she’d felt panicky, as if she couldn’t draw in quite enough

breath, and sometimes she could hardly bear her surroundings.

Huge buildings, cement sidewalks, no horizon. Busy streets,

honking cars, noise, noise, noise. Even at midnight, people were

out and about, haunting jazz clubs, returning from the cinema,

coming and going from bars and restaurants.

She longed for the Old Country, especially when unbidden

thoughts came to mind. She didn’t want to remember Nelka or

think of her crumpled body lying so still on the avenue, but she

did. Why was she alive, when so many had died? Some of them

were bright and beautiful—why them, and not her? What was

the meaning of it all?

The hard pavement under her feet and the brisk wind in her

face kept her grounded, even when tears ran down her face. She

just kept moving. She didn’t know how much time passed, but

she was lost in an area she’d never been to before. Mischka

wasn’t worried though. She knew all the streets ran east-west

and the avenues north-south. She could easily find her way back

home.

She was ready to turn back when she smelled an unusual

odor, like damp peat. It drew her forward another block. Then

another.

At the end of the second block she saw a fountain, which

surprised her so completely that she stopped abruptly. A

shabbily dressed young man in an old-fashioned derby hat

Snow Moon Rising 321

bumped into her. He excused himself and slipped past as she

moved slowly forward.

The fountain was quite grand. It consisted of six basins, each

smaller than the one below as they rose from one level to the

next. On its top was a ball on which stood a bronze sculpture of a

nude woman. A cloth lay over her left leg, and she held against it

a basket of what Mischka thought was fruit. Her hips were broad

and solid, her breasts small, her arms and legs lean and muscled.

Mischka stood and stared. If bronze could be made flesh, the

woman might be any number of Roma women she had known in

her life, transported from the Vistula River in Poland.

Water tumbled over the edges of the basins, gray-green

against the granite of the display. Minutes passed, and still

Mischka stared, incredulous. She leaned forward and touched

the granite of the lowest basin. It was cold and smooth against

her fingers.

She heard someone stop to her right, slightly behind her,

and still she gawked.

“Beautiful work, is it not,” said a feminine voice accented

with the sounds of Britain.

“Yes. What is this place?”

“This place? Or this fountain?”

“Either. Both.” She turned and met the blue eyes of a plump

woman in a pale blue skirt and blouse. She wore a jaunty

Kingston-style straw hat with a bright blue hatband, and her

white-gloved fingers encircled the handle of a boxy, woven,

white purse.

“This is the Grand Army Plaza, and that's Pulitzer

Fountain.”

“Who is she?” Mischka pointed toward the bronze statue.

“I can’t recall her name—but she’s a goddess of plenty. The

sculptor Karl Bitter created her around 1915 and modeled the

fountain after one in Paris. Oddly enough, the day he finished

the original model, he was run over and killed by a car here in

the city.”

Mischka shivered. “That’s terrible. But why is it here?”

The woman smiled, showing slightly uneven teeth. “Because

it’s beautiful. Some things exist merely to enchant the eye, to

make the heart sing, or to inspire awe. I can tell from the look on

your face that you know the awe of which I speak.”

Mischka nodded slowly. “Thank you. I’ll have to come here

often.”

“You have, of course, explored the whole park?”

Mischka cocked her head to the side. “Park?”

“Yes, this is Central Park, but only the tiniest smidgen of it.

322 Lori L. Lake

There are over eight hundred acres.” She pointed north. “Head

that way, and you’ll see what I mean. Good day, now, my dear.”

The woman moved off toward Fifty-Ninth Street, and Mischka

watched her until she was lost in the flow of pedestrians.

She looked about the plaza on which people strolled in the

autumn sun. The branches of bare trees, angling upward, caught

her eye, and for a moment, she foolishly thought they might be

fruit trees. With each step she took toward them, she was more

certain that she was, indeed, seeing pear trees. When she stood

touching the rough trunk of one of them, a lump grew in her

throat.

As if in a trance, she started along a path and again noticed

that damp mossy smell. She came to a pond and was so surprised

that she stepped off the path and squatted, her elbows on her

knees. If not for the sound of traffic and voices, she might be

able to convince herself that she was out in the country.

She walked and walked for what seemed to be miles,

passing gardens and hedges, rock formations, and a memorial

for World War I. She came upon passageways, benches, stone

arches, and a strange granite statue of a woman and a cat flying

on the back of a goose with the woman’s cape rustling out as if in

the wind. She wondered if she had died and gone to a strange

new land, but when she took a path off to the side, she ended up

on Fifth Avenue near Sixty-Ninth where the cars and buses and

taxis were plentiful and pedestrians meandered about in their

Sunday best.

The sun was low on the horizon when she realized she was

miles from home. She didn’t want to be out after dark in a part of

the city she didn’t know well, so she started down Fifth Avenue.

She knew she could take a subway and speedily cover the miles,

but in all the time she’d lived in New York, she had only once

ducked down into the subway station to escape pelting hail. It

had given her such a feeling of claustrophobia that she fled.

She covered four miles steadily, and her feet were hurting

by the time she arrived at Mrs. Levinstein’s. She ran a hot bath

and undressed, then sank, fatigued, into the porcelain tub to

soak. For the first time in weeks, she felt at peace.

Chapter

Thirty-Nine

New York City, October 1950 (Blood Moon)

MISCHKA CRAWLED UNDER the slanted produce bin and

retrieved three yellow onions and an apple. She wasn’t sure how

the apple had made its way to this side of the store, but it had

been dented, punctured, and seriously scuffed. She put it with

the damaged fruit and replaced the onions in their bin.

At a lull in customers, she crossed the store, removed a

broom from the rack, and started sweeping at the rear corner. So

intent was she that she didn’t hear anyone come up behind her.

When someone touched her shoulder, she jumped.

“Oh, Pippi, it’s you.” Ever since Pippi had gotten a job at a

garment shop three blocks away, she had been making a point to

stop in at Giannakos’s often. Mischka liked to see her happy

face, but she was usually at a loss as to what to say to her.

“How are you, Mischka?”

“Quite fine, as you can see.”

“I never see you.”

Mischka laughed. “Of course you do. You’re in here every

other day.”

“I mean outside the shop. Come to the apartment for dinner

tonight. Sylva is making souvlaki. The whole house smells

wonderful from the melange of spices.”

“I can’t. I’m making roasted lamb strips for Mrs.

Levinstein.”

“Bring her with you, then.”

“Mrs. Levinstein is Jewish.”

Pippi’s face flushed bright red. “You’re saying Mrs.

Levinstein wouldn’t like to be in the company of Germans?”

Mischka blinked, and opened her mouth to speak, but Pippi

spoke first. “I thought all people were supposed to get a new

chance here in America—even Germans.” She turned and

flounced out of the shop.

324 Lori L. Lake

Mischka wanted to call out after her, but Pippi moved so

fast that she didn’t have a chance. How ridiculous. Mrs.

Levinstein was one of the least judgmental people Mischka had

ever met. But she doubted whether her Jewish landlady would

look kindly upon eating souvlaki, which was made with pork.

After work, Mischka considered hiking north to the park,

but she didn’t have the energy. She went home, greeted her

landlady, and went up to her room for a nap before supper.

She was awakened from the depths of a dream where she

was running and not quite able to breathe. Her body felt heavy,

and she was on the edge of tears.

She looked around her half-lit room. The bureau cast an

ominous shadow across the floor, and suddenly she felt closed

in. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the sheers, and

looked out. Lowering herself into a straight-backed chair that sat

next to the windowsill, she gazed down into the neighborhood.

As usual, people hastened along, calling out to one another,

ducking into brownstones, hopping in and out of cars. No matter

what, the world kept spinning, people kept moving, and nothing

much changed.

A rap sounded at the door. She crossed the half-darkened

room to find Mrs. Levinstein in the hall twisting a handkerchief

in both hands.

“A working man is here to speak to you,” she said. “I didn’t

ask his name, but he’s from your family. I told him to wait in the

parlor.”

Mischka’s heart leapt into her throat. “Thank you. I’ll be

right there.”

She slipped on her shoes and caught up with Mrs. Levinstein

on the first landing and had to slow down to allow for her

landlady’s more stately pace.

Mischka crossed the foyer and swept into the parlor, which

was used only as a sitting room to greet guests. Emil stood at the

side window, his back to her and hat in one hand.

“What is it, Emil? What’s wrong?”

“No one is dead,” he was quick to assure her in accented

English. “Everyone's accounted for.”

“What’s wrong then?”

“I need to speak to you about Pippi.”

“Oh?”

She gestured toward one of the chairs, but he shook his

head. “My work clothes might soil the furniture. Perhaps we

might talk outside? Would that be all right?”

She got her coat and joined him on the front stairs. He stood

on the top step, one hand on the metal banister. The wind was

Snow Moon Rising 325

brisk and blew his graying blond hair to one side. His tanned

skin had lightened considerably since the days when they’d

wandered the Polish countryside. His natural appearance was

much more evident, and he no longer looked much like a Roma.

His blue eyes met hers, and he looked at her thoughtfully.

Switching to German, he said, “Shall we walk?”

They set off down the street and had gone a full block before

Emil told her what was on his mind. “You haven't been yourself

since summer, and please don’t pretend you don’t know what

I’m talking about. You’re distracted and distant and very clearly

unhappy. Something has happened to you. Pippi is at wit’s end,

and we’re all worried about you.”

She didn’t answer. They walked slowly, carefully crossing

streets and threading their way through all the foot traffic. What

could she tell him? She hardly understood her feelings herself.

She felt like a gray blanket had dropped over the top of her head,

letting in little light, and muffling her responses to the world

around her. Half the time she wanted to cry, and the other half

she wanted to lie down to sleep and not wake up.

“Mischka, do you have a problem with Pippi or with what

happened in the camp?”

Startled, she said, “No, of course not. She saved my life. She

protected my friends. Why would you think there's a problem?”

“Something that happened today—something that you said

upset her.”

“Oh. She took that wrong. She asked me to supper, and

when I said I was already planning a meal at the boarding house,

she suggested I bring Mrs. Levinstein along. Your household is

having souvlaki, though, and Mrs. Levinstein is Jewish. She

doesn’t eat pork.”

“Ah, I see.” He brought up his fedora and jammed it on his

head. She wished she had a hat. The wind was cold. “Pippi

thinks you’re angry with her.”

“Emil, I’m not angry at anyone.”

“You’ve hardly been to see Pippi, and when you’ve been in a

gathering, you keep to yourself. Pippi misses you. I miss the old

Mischka.”

“Pippi will be busy with her nuptials soon. She doesn’t need

me complicating her life.”

“Nuptials?” Emil stared. “What nuptials?”

“Her wedding.”

“Pippi isn’t getting married.”

“What? Of course she is. You said so when we met the

ship—you told that man who wanted to call on her that she’s

betrothed.”

326 Lori L. Lake

Emil let out a laugh that was so forceful, it sounded like a

bark. “I said those things to rid her of that barnacle who had

tried to attach himself to her. I could tell she wanted nothing to

do with him. So you’ve been out of sorts because of this?”

Mischka’s face was hot, and she’d broken out in a sweat.

How embarrassing that she hadn’t picked up the nuances that

day. How could she have misunderstood so completely? Now

that she thought about it, she realized there had been no

announcement, none of the usual gossip and excitement an

impending wedding would bring.

“Is that all it is?” Emil asked. “Or is there something more?

Something deeper seems to be troubling you.”

“I’m—I don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Mischka, you’ve been a force to reckon with all your life.

You kept us going when we weren’t sure if we’d ever get on a

ship out of Swinoujscie, and without your language skills, we

might not have cleared Customs. You were the first to find work

here in the city. You’ve been steady and helpful and inspiring,

and I can never thank you enough. I don’t know what I would

have done without your efforts. And now, I sense that you could

use my help, but I don’t know what it is you need.”

She hunched her shoulders in her coat, turned to face the

wind, and trudged forward. He fell in step beside her. How

could she explain what was happening to her when she hardly

understood it herself? But she had to try. She owed him that

much. “Do you ever have bad dreams, Emil?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever think of bad things from the wars?”

“I try not to.”

“Remember the woman from the labor camp who came into

the store recently? Her name was Nelka. I didn’t tell you all the

details. She jumped out in front of a coal truck that day she died.

On purpose. It wasn’t an accident. I can’t quite help but believe

that it was my fault.”

“Why? You didn’t make that choice for her.”

“But her sister died while in my care.”

“Care? You were in a labor camp. How could you be

responsible for her?”

“Nelka saved me from a terrible fate, and all she expected

was that I look out for her sister Lidia. But she died. When I told

Nelka what happened, she gave up all hope.”

“And you think you're responsible for Nelka, too?”

“Yes. No. Well, I don’t know.”

Emil gripped her arm and pulled her to stop next to a

closed-up newspaper shed. “Remember when you were little,

Snow Moon Rising 327

and we were set upon by those Polish soldiers?”

“You shot them.”

“Yes, I did. It was either them or Stevo and Tobar and

Gyorgy—perhaps all of us. Killing those soldiers tortured me for

more time than I care to admit. Eventually, I realized that I was

forced to make a choice in only a split second, and I had to

forgive myself for what I did. From what you’ve told me, you

had no choices with these two girls. You were swept up in events

you couldn’t change or control. The German war machine is to

blame. Not you. You and Pippi had no choice but to submit, to

try to survive, and Nelka was wrong to blame you. She should

have been angry at someone much bigger than you.” He let out a

sigh and released her arm. “Perhaps God, in fact.”

Tears sprang into Mischka’s eyes, and she turned her face

away. “But she’s dead now, Emil. Dead. And it’s not fair. It’s not

right.”

He rested the palm of his hand against a lamppost. “Little

that happened in regard to the war was fair or right. I’ve lived

through two world wars, and I feel qualified to relate this

indisputable fact, Mischka. War is ugly, and the best thing you

can do is say to yourself, ‘It happened, but it’s over, and I must

go on living.’ If you think anything else, you let them win—all

the despots and killers and those who snuffed out the lives of so

many of us. That would be the worst thing. You can’t let them

win, so you can’t blame yourself anymore. That way lies

madness. Do you understand? You cannot let them win.”

Mischka bit her lip to fight back tears. The wind fought to

get inside her coat, and she crossed her arms tight against her

chest as if to shield herself. Her head felt heavy and full, as if

overloaded with the facts swirling around inside.

Emil touched her shoulder. “The world is a better place with

you in it, Mischka. If it weren’t for you, I don’t think I’d be alive

today to say this to you.”

“What?”

He grinned. “You were such a little scamp. Nine years old,

and you had much to teach a shellshocked soldier of nineteen.

I’ll never forget that, Mischka. Never. Your family and Gunari,

my adopted father, saved me from God only knows what. Your

mother and Patia were always kind to me. I miss Bersh so much

some days that it hurts my heart. And I can hardly bear to speak

of Drina and Xavi.”

Now her tears came, and she turned away, unable to speak.

He tugged at her sleeve. “Come, let’s walk. It’ll clear your

head.” They strode silently for two blocks before he said, “We

need to honor their memories, Mischka. Perhaps we need to

328 Lori L. Lake

speak more often of those whom we have lost. I know I don’t—

speak of them, I mean. I can hardly find the words, but I have

come to believe that we must. Why should we bear this sorrow

alone? We never got to say goodbye to any but Lumi, and

perhaps that’s what you’re missing. Let us come together in a

family council and talk about this. All right?”

“But not tonight.”

“No. We both need time to think, and I should like to

discuss the matter with Mikhail.”

She slowed to a stop. “My father would not want to discuss

it, I’m sure. You know the rules. I should not speak of any of it

with him.”

“But I can. And you may be surprised about Mikhail. He’s

changed. We have all changed since coming to America.”

Mischka wasn’t sure how much of that was true, but she

would think about it. “Emil, I must return to Mrs. Levinstein’s to

prepare the evening meal.”

“I know.” He reached out both hands and enfolded her cold

fingers in his. “You’re not alone, liebling.”

She squeezed his hands, unable to speak, then said goodbye

and headed back toward the boardinghouse. The breeze was cold

against her damp face, and she was chilled, but her heart seemed

to have expanded in a comforting way. For the first time in many

days, she felt hope.

Chapter

Forty

New York City November 1950 (Snow Moon)

PIPPI RETURNED HOME from a long day of cutting out

patterns and sewing sample dresses. She was still trying to get

the A-line right for a new dress style and was irritated not to

have succeeded. She climbed six flights of stairs to her third

floor apartment, wishing for a moment that her flat was as

accessible as the one that Mikhail, Gyorgy, Mario, and Sylva

shared on the first floor of the brownstone next door. But

perhaps as reward for the long climb, the rooms Pippi and her

son shared with Emil, Palko, and Camille were more spacious.

Still, she thought, as she unlocked the door, their living quarters

were far too cramped. She was seriously thinking of renting the

flat across the hall when the current tenants moved out at the

end of the year. In fact, the brownstone was for sale. She thought

she might be able to put a down payment on it with the money

Mother Richelle had left. She resolved to look into that.

“Hello, dear,” Camille called out from the table in the nook

area that bridged the front room and the kitchen. “We have

company.”

Pippi felt a small shock of pleasure when she saw Mischka

sitting at the table. Her face showed some color today, and her

dark eyes didn’t look anywhere near as haunted as they had the

last time they spoke. “How are you?” Pippi asked.

“I’m fine. I hope I’m not intruding.”

Before Pippi could reply, Camille said, “No, of course not.

You’re always welcome.”

François tugged at the pocket of Mischka’s slacks, and she

said, “Would you like me to take this little monkey for a run?”

Pippi said, “Hmm, that might not be a bad idea. I’ll come

with you. François, get your coat.”

“I don’t know where it is.”

“How many places are there to hide it here? Hunt around

330 Lori L. Lake

and find it, or Mischka and I will take a walk without you.”

Pippi beamed up at Mischka, then watched as François raced

around the flat, finally locating his coat in the room Pippi shared

with him. “Mama, we’ll be back once François’s energy has

dissipated.”

They trooped down the stairs into cool but humid fresh air.

Pippi said, “François, you know the rules. Stay out of people’s

way. You can run to that lamppost, then come back.”

“All right, Mama.” He took off, his little legs and arms

pumping and his blond hair standing on end like corn silk in a

breeze.

Pippi observed Mischka out of the corner of her eye. Her

friend had a relaxed smile on her face and appeared a great deal

less tense than she had lately. Pippi stepped closer and hooked

her left arm through Mischka’s right. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Mischka blushed, but she didn’t pull her arm away. “I’m sorry I

jumped to the wrong conclusions the other day.”

“It’s all right. I understand. You were gone so quickly I

wasn’t able to explain.”

“That was my fault. I’ll be more patient next time.”

François arrived at the lamppost and turned to run back. He

dashed around a thick-ankled woman, who dragged a metal

grocery cart overflowing with parcels, and launched himself

toward Pippi’s legs.

Pippi let go of Mischka and braced herself. “Now what did I

tell you about being careful, François!”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why don’t you skip down to the corner and back—but not

too close to the street, all right?” He made a goofy face and took

off. She shook her head. “He’s such a handful.”

“No more so than any child. He’s a delight—so full of life, so

curious. He reminds me of me.”

“I wondered—I mean, well, I didn’t know how you’d feel

about this child.” The look Mischka gave her was puzzled. “You

know, his being out of wedlock.”

“I would never judge you, of all people, Pippi. He’s your

child, from your flesh. I hardly know him yet, but why wouldn’t

I love him?”

“I don’t know. I was just worried.”

“That’s my fault. Ever since Nelka’s death—”

Pippi interrupted. “Now that was a strange meeting. Ever

since Emil told me about it, I’ve been having nightmares. And

daymares, too, if there is such a thing.”

Mischka stared at her, wide-eyed. “You, too?”

“Oh, yes. Sometimes I’m at a sewing machine working away

Snow Moon Rising 331

peacefully, and suddenly I feel transported to the sewing room

at the camp.”

“Is there ever going to be peace about all that? It’s the past.

Why won’t it stay the past?”

Pippi shrugged. “I truly can’t say.” François arrived back in

front of them, out of breath and laughing. “Keep on running,

boy.” He turned around and took off again as they continued

down the street.

Mischka said, “François is one subject I must admit

wondering about.”

“What?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t immediately realize I was

pregnant.” She took a moment to describe what happened on the

night Major Fischer nearly caught her.

Mischka stopped. All the blood drained from her face as she

said, “You never told me any of this. They would have executed

you if you’d been caught.”

“I wasn’t caught.”

“The major caught you.”

“But I got away.”

“Only because he forced himself upon you.”

“The price I had to pay. Do you blame me?”

“No, of course not. I’m glad I didn’t know at the time. I

might have done something foolish.”

Pippi laughed and took Mischka’s arm again. “I don’t think

so. You were never foolish.”

Huffing and puffing, François arrived in front of them

again.

Mischka said, “François, I’ve found a place called Central

Park that I want to take you to—a huge area where you can run

at will. No cars to worry about.”

Excited, he said, “Can we go now?”

“No, not today. It’s too long a journey. We should go on a

weekend and take a picnic lunch with us.”

Pippi saw how intent François was. “Maybe we could go this

Sunday.”

“Yes, yes, yes.” François danced up and down with each

word, then dodged away at a more sedate pace.

“He’s getting tired now,” Pippi said. “It’s strange how much

he reminds me of my husband—and he doesn’t share a drop of

Delebecque blood. But he’s fascinated to disassemble every clock

and mechanism in the house. He’s already taken off doorknobs

and unscrewed all the moving parts in Mama's music box. It took

me hours to put it back together. I have to watch his every move.

332 Lori L. Lake

I don’t know where he got this.”

“He has a mother who was rather clever with lockpicks and

sewing machine repair.”

“True, but I learned that from my husband.”

“The point is that you learned. You have an aptitude for it,

otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to learn it.”

Pippi considered that, then said, “For his next birthday, I’m

thinking of giving him his own set of miniature household

tools.”

“That’s a wonderful idea, but let me do it.”

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary.”

“Pippi, you should get him mother-like items: clothing,

shoes, necessary things like that. His extended family should be

allowed to bring him gifts that can be played with.”

“I think it would be quite expensive.”

Mischka smiled and managed to look rather proud of

herself. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll haggle a good deal with old

Stanislovski at the hardware store across from Giannakos.

Practically every day I have to run over and translate for him.

This will be his chance to reward me for my help.” She winked

and grinned. “Leave it to me, Pippi.”

“You’re very sweet.” Pippi leaned into her friend, and they

went on.

MISCHKA SAT ON the steps in front of Mrs. Levinstein’s

boardinghouse. Even after being in New York over two years,

Mischka was still not accustomed to having Sunday off work.

Her entire life, she had worked at something every day of the

week, and to have free time on her hands felt strange. Mischka

was sorry that Mr. Giannakos’s grocery was closed on Sundays.

She liked being busy, and to sit, even in the midafternoon

warmth of the autumn sun was nerve-wracking. Perhaps she

should take up reading. She wasn’t very good at reading

English, though.

Mr. Giannakos kept encouraging Mischka to practice more.

“It’s easy when you work at it. I come to this country aged four,

and by five, I know all my numbers and letters.”

Easy for him to say. Mischka stopped to calculate her age:

40. In fact, she would be 41 in a few days. English wasn’t so easy

to read and was a much trickier language than Romany. Or

German or Polish, for that matter. She decided she would go to

the library and check out some books. She would learn the

language better. She would.

That settled, she was still left with nothing to do. The library

Snow Moon Rising 333

was closed today. A man in gray slacks and a camel’s-hair jacket

walked by. He glanced her way and gave a quick nod, then

continued on his way. She didn’t know him. Other than Mrs.

Levinstein and the two other girls who lived in the

boardinghouse, she didn’t know anyone in the neighborhood.

She knew plenty enough people at work. She could hardly keep

track of them and didn't need any more acquaintances. She

should have planned something with Elena.

She was tempted to get up and take another walk, but just

then she spied a familiar figure coming her way. Pippi’s golden

hair shone, and she carried something boxy under one arm.

Halting at the foot of the stairs, she said in German, “Hello.

What do you think?”

Mischka thought the afternoon might be a good one—Pippi

was willing to let down her guard and speak in her native

tongue. Her friend had been trying so hard to speak English, and

she still wasn’t very good at it. “Think about what?”

Pippi let out a huff. “My outfit.”

Now Mischka looked closer at Pippi’s apparel. Her jacket

was yellow with black trim, and she wore a black over-the-knee

skirt. The blouse underneath the jacket was white with yellow

trim, and her shoes were also black. Mischka shrugged. “You

…you look very nice,” she stammered out, but she had no sense

of fashion or what any of the clothing styles were called.

Pippi sighed as if she knew that. She mounted the stairs. “I

designed this and sewed it myself. This cloth coat is lined, see?”

She pulled open the front of the baggy coat, and pointed. “The

blouse underneath doubles as a suit-top. It’s made out of

gabardine, and the pockets were very hard to get right. This is a

straight skirt—nothing fancy. All I need is a decent hat to go

with it. But do you want to know the best thing about it?” She

didn't wait for Mischka to answer. “I showed it to the shop

supervisor, and he wants me to sew more of them, in various

colors. I will have a design all my own.”

Mischka glanced down at her own outfit, a low-necked

peasant blouse, a pair of dark, pleated slacks, and ankle-strap

leather flats. She knew she looked positively dowdy next to

Pippi. She’d never have the flair for fashion that Pippi did. “I’m

so glad to see you happy about something.”

“I’m not the only one who’ll be happy. Wait until you see

what I’ve brought you.” She handed her the square object, which

was wrapped in butcher paper and tied up with string.

“What is it?”

“I suggest we take it up to your room so it can be plugged

in.”

334 Lori L. Lake

“Plugged in?”

“You’ll see what I mean.”

Outside the door to her room, Mischka said, “Lucky I tidied

up the pigpen.”

“Don’t be foolish. Your room is never a pigpen.”

Mischka looked back with concern. Pippi had said that with

so much rancor in her voice. She hoped Pippi wasn't losing the

good mood she’d been in. She walked over to the twin bed and

set the package on it. “Shall I take your jacket?”

“I’ve got it.” Pippi slipped it off and hung it on a hook by

the doorway, then walked over to the straight-backed chair near

the window. “Go ahead. Rip it open.”

“I can’t loosen the string.”

“Just cut it.”

Mischka went to the dresser for scissors, and with two quick

snips, the paper fell away and revealed a brown rectangular box

with two dials. “A radio!”

“Plug it in. It needs to warm up a minute or two.”

Mischka practically tripped over her own feet finding the

electrical outlet behind the little table next to her bed. She set the

unit on the table and turned both knobs. The one on the right

clicked, and she heard a faint hum. “Where’d you get this?”

“It was Emil’s. He got it from somebody when he first came

here. He bought a new one, and he wanted you to have this.”

“What about you? You don’t have a radio. You should keep

it for yourself.”

“Oh, Mischka, you love music and dancing far more than I

ever will. I thought you should have it.”

“How do you know I love music? Or dancing?”

“Oh, please. Remember when we were kids—at Emil and

Drina’s wedding?”

“I remember.” Sadness had a way of cutting through her

when she least expected, and the thought of Drina and so many

others who were gone sobered her.

The hum grew louder, then a burst of static coughed out and

stabilized into a steady crackle. Mischka adjusted the left-hand

knob until she found a radio station playing the end of a swing

tune featuring piano, strings, and horns. She twiddled the other

knob to adjust the volume. As the song drew to a close and

segued into a slow orchestral waltz, she swallowed the lump in

her throat. “You’re right. I do love it. I hear music all day at

work.”

“So do I, and when I go home, I like the quiet.”

Mischka grinned and lowered herself to the edge of her bed.

“I would leave music on night and day if I had the choice.”

Snow Moon Rising 335

“And now you do. Keep Emil’s radio, and you can sing and

dance to your heart’s content.”

“I never was much of a singer.”

“But you could ‘cut a rug’ as my American coworkers say.

Get up. I’ll show you the steps for this waltz. Come.” She rose

and reached for Mischka’s hand. “Even though you’re taller, I’ll

lead.” Pippi’s right hand went around Mischka’s waist as she

looked up into her eyes. “Now just follow me on a three-count.”

Mischka didn’t know what a three-count was, but she would

have followed Pippi on any count of any number. Her heart

kicked up to double time, and she felt her face burning. She tried

to concentrate on the steps. Fortunately, she got the rhythm

immediately, but relaxing into Pippi’s body proved excruciating.

She wondered how anyone breathed when they danced so close

to another human being, especially when one longed for

something from the other. A strange combination of emotions

coursed through her. On the one hand, she wanted to push Pippi

away and back off as though she were being burned by a hot fire;

on the other hand, it was all she could do to keep from crushing

Pippi to her chest and pressing her lips to her neck.

Through gritted teeth she said, “Lavolta.”

“Hmmm?” Pippi was looking down, watching their feet.

“This is like the lavolta…or a slower polska.”

“I never danced much before. I’m not the best dancer, but

I’m trying to learn new things.”

The waltz ended, and a new song began, this one at a

medium tempo. She stopped and squeezed Mischka’s waist, then

looked up into her eyes, her lips parted slightly and a smile

beginning. “I have a good idea. You should go to the dance hall

with me and the other seamstresses some Friday night. I’ve gone

twice now. It’s great fun.”

Mischka dropped Pippi’s hand and backed up, shaking her

head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh, come now. It’s fun. You’d be a delight on the floor. You

pick up the steps so fast, and you’re so graceful.”

“No.” Mischka had trouble swallowing. Heat swept through

her body, and the blood in her veins pounded so hard that her

head hurt. She had the overwhelming urge to kiss Pippi, and she

could barely stop herself. Without thought, her next words

tumbled out of her mouth. “It’s mahrime. Not right.”

Now it was Pippi’s turn to flush. Her face turned a lovely

shade of pink, and a spark of anger lit her eyes. “Mahrime? Not

right? What’s wrong with you, Mischka? We’re dead women.

We’re not even supposed to be alive. It’s a damn miracle that

either of us is here today. Can’t you see that? The old customs,

336 Lori L. Lake

the old traditions, the old rules—what’s the point? I’ll never get

my husband back, and we’ll probably never locate anyone else

from your family.”

Mischka’s breath caught in her throat. She stumbled back,

and her hand searched for the edge of the bed. She found it and

sat heavily.

Pippi lowered her eyes and seemed to sink into herself. Her

chin nearly touched her chest, and her hands knotted into fists.

Head bowed, she said, “I’m sorry. That came out harsher than I

intended.” She stalked to the chair by the window and sat down.

“At this point, my friend, I’ve decided to live life to the fullest.

It’s been hard to realize, to understand, but life goes on,

Mischka. The past is past, and there’s nothing we can do about

it. What’s the point of following old rules that don’t matter

anymore? We’re in America, land of the free. I’m going to be

who I want to be and do what I want to do now.”

Mischka bit her upper lip so hard that she was afraid she

had broken the skin. Gradually her heartbeat slowed, and her

wits returned. She glanced up at Pippi, then away.

“You disagree?” Pippi’s voice was full of surprise. “How can

you disagree?”

She rose and strode toward the bed. Mischka felt like a small

animal, cornered in the forest.

Pippi came close and stepped into the V of Mischka’s legs.

She bent slightly and took Mischka’s face gently in her hands.

“Mischka, I’m forty-four years old. I’ve loved. I’ve lost. But I

never lost you—not for long. You were always in my memories,

in my thoughts, in my hopes for all these years. I’ve loved you

since I was fourteen years old, when we sat in the entrance to

your tent and drank apple wine and talked. I’ve never met

anyone like you, and I never will again, so I can’t lose you. Do

you understand? If you turn away from me, I’ll die.”

“I wouldn’t.” Mischka choked the words out.

“Wouldn’t what?”

“Turn—turn away.” She angled her head slightly and leaned

into the warm hand stroking the right side of her face. Every

nerve, every tendon in her body was on high alert, but this time

she didn’t feel the panic of the earlier moments. It helped to be

seated. At least she didn’t feel she’d fall over in a dead faint.

“Do you remember what you told me once, long ago, when

we were girls?” Pippi’s hand paused. “I know I'm going to

mangle the pronunciation, but here goes. Te' sorthene sutho.”

“Dearest friend bonded by heart and spirit. Forever,”

Mischka said in a hushed voice.

Pippi smiled. “You remember.”

Snow Moon Rising 337

“Of course.” She brought her hands to her chest and crossed

them over her heart. “North, south, east, west, by the sun and

the moon—and inside my heart.”

“I still feel that same way, Mischka.”

“What are you saying?”

Pippi stooped so that her face was level with Mischka’s, and

her hands dropped to grip Mischka’s shoulders. “I’m saying that

we should stop playing these games, stop pretending. You feel

the same way I do. Admit it.”

Mischka straightened up. “I admit nothing.”

The laugh that bubbled up from Pippi was infectious. “You

stubborn woman. You must have been worse than hell and high

water everywhere you went over these many years.”

“No, I think not.”

“We belong together.”

“I don't have the courage.”

“Well, I do.”

Mischka couldn’t take her eyes off Pippi’s lips. She watched

them part slightly. Pippi took a deep breath and let it out slowly,

then leaned forward. Her eyes searching, she pressed her mouth

against Mischka’s. So gentle, so sweet.

A whimper escaped from Mischka’s throat. Pippi’s lips

trailed kisses down the side of her face, to her neck. Mischka

raised her hands, feeling disbelief and desire so strong her whole

body pulsed. She moved her hands to the woven twill at Pippi’s

waist, felt the swell of her hips, the ridge of hipbone, and pulled

Pippi close. She wrapped her arms around her, buried her face in

the cool gabardine, and felt the tears rise.

Pippi’s hands were in Mischka’s hair, stroking, patting,

caressing her neck. “Shhh… No need to cry.”

But Mischka couldn’t stop herself. The tears came anyway.

She didn’t even know what she was crying for. She knew the

moment was perfect. She’d never felt as happy, as comfortable.

Never in her life had anything felt so right. The feeling was so

bittersweet that she both wished it would end so she could

cherish it forever and hoped it would never stop. Her

ambivalence almost made her laugh. She rose and enclosed Pippi

in a full embrace, buried her face in her neck, breathed in the

faint smell of Pippi’s soap, and felt Pippi clasp her just as tight.

The sun shone on them through the window. Pippi

whispered an endearment in her ear. The radio played a Duke

Ellington song. Life went on.

Chapter

Forty-One

New York City, November 1989 (Snow Moon)

MISCHKA LOOKED AT her watch. “It’s nearly seven. Are

you finally tired, Tobar?” She glanced over at Pippi who was

dozing at the other end of the sofa.

He yawned. “I guess I am. But it’s still only midnight to

me.”“You’ll have to change your sleep schedule soon.”

“I will. Maybe I won’t go to bed now at all. That way, I’ll be

tired tonight.” He rose and stretched. “So today's your birthday,

Beebee Mischka.”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

“My passport says seventy.”

Pippi roused at that comment. “Don’t let her fool you,

Tobar. She’s eighty. Three-and-a-half years younger than I am.”

“But my passport says—”

“Ha! Your passport also says you were born in Halkiades,

Greece, as Sophia Giannakos. All lies.” Laughing, she informed

Tobar. “She’s eighty, and that’s why your parents have come all

this way to stay with us and celebrate.”

A rapping at the door startled them. Mischka said, “Who

could that be at this hour?” Tobar made a move toward the

foyer, but Mischka called out to him to stop. “Let me look. I

don’t know who could have gotten into our building, but lately

there has been some vandalism.” She rose with effort, and her

knees made a cracking sound.

At the peephole, she saw several familiar dark heads

bobbing, so she opened the door.

“Beebee Mischka. Are you watching TV?” Her sister Elena’s

grandson Nico leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. His

young wife Gloria patted her arm and slipped past carrying a

grocery bag packed full.

Snow Moon Rising 339

“You won’t believe what’s happening!” Nico called out. He,

too, carried a brown grocery bag overflowing with vegetables

and bread and noodle boxes.

Suddenly a moving mass of small children pushed past her

and dashed into the living room.

Nico said, “Sorry it’s so early, but we knew you’d want to

know.”

“Know what?” she asked.

“Hey!” Nico yelled at the kids. “No jumping on the couch.”

He stepped away to lecture his unruly brood.

More people clomped up the stairs, and Mischka stood in

the doorway, puzzled, watching her living room fill up.

A tousle-haired, pajama-clad François stood in the hallway

looking grumpy. “What’s happening?” he asked. Pippi was

already going to him, so Mischka didn’t answer.

Nico headed for the kitchen. “We have to call Grandma

Elena,” he said. “She’ll want to be here, too.”

“I’ll go get her,” Nico’s wife said. “You tune in the news.”

She swept past Mischka and headed for the stairs. Since the hall

was now empty, Mischka closed the door.

Mischka looked across the room and met Pippi’s eye. Pippi

shrugged. They hadn’t planned on having people arrive until

closer to noon, but Mischka didn’t care. “Who wants spiced

Roma coffee?” she called.

She helped to prepare snacks and distribute coffee. The talk

and the excitement were all about The Wall.

“It’s finally opening up,” Nico said with glee.

Mischka hadn’t been following the news, so she wasn’t quite

sure what he was referring to. All she knew was that something

momentous was about to happen overseas. She stood in the

doorway between the kitchen and living room, sipping at a mug

of sweetened coffee laced with milk and almond. Pippi sat across

the room on a flowered, two-person divan. She looked tired.

Early morning sunlight shone through the wall of windows

behind her and illuminated her silver hair.

Mischka handed her mug to Pippi before carefully lowering

herself.

“I'll have a sip of this,” Pippi said.

“You said you didn’t want any.”

“Just a sip.”

“I’ve seen your idea of a sip. Go ahead. Have all you want.

We certainly have enough people here to get us more.”

She gazed in amazement at all the people. Men and women,

young and old, and of many different skin tones. They sat or

stood or squatted, and all of them spoke in excited tones.

340 Lori L. Lake

Children ran through the arch leading to the front door, down

the hallway to the bedrooms, and back. She counted forty-one,

including the tiniest toddlers, and then the front door opened,

and Nico’s wife Gloria ushered in Mischka’s sister Elena along

with the Sanchez family, another group of five.

Ramon Sanchez, married to her brother Stevo’s

granddaughter, was a big man, not unlike her old friend Tobar.

Each time Mischka caught sight of Ramon, she was struck by

how much he looked like her long-dead friend. Even after all

these years, she missed him. But today was meant to be a happy

occasion, so she put Tobar out of her mind.

In years past, her people sat around a campfire; nowadays,

the television seemed to be the center of their gatherings. Her TV

was blaring over in the corner, but she wasn’t following the

program. Even though her hearing wasn't what it used to be, she

could make out the patter of children’s footsteps, the clinking of

glasses, the guttural sound of men’s laughter, and a rising buzz

of expectation. Two black-haired little girls sat at her feet

munching on old Halloween candy from an orange plastic

pumpkin. One held out an empty red wrapper and let it flutter

from her fingertips.

From across the room, the child’s mother, clad in jeans and

an NYU sweatshirt rose from her seat on a folding chair. She

threaded her way through children playing with Legos in front

of the TV, all the while scolding the girls for littering. Grabbing

up the wrapper, her eyes met Mischka’s. “Sorry, Beebee.”

“It’s not a problem, Liza.” Mischka smiled at the young

mother. Liza, who was her sister Elena’s daughter, had always

been her favorite—perhaps because she bore the name of

someone once near and dear. She was secretly pleased that so

many of those in this younger generation were named after

Roma from the Old Country.

Liza frowned at her child. “Valentina, it’s too early in the

morning for you and Cousin Maria to be eating candy. If you’re

hungry, go see Gloria in the kitchen.” She took the plastic

pumpkin from the girls and looked toward Mischka, who smiled

back at her. “Are you warm enough, Beebee? ”

“How could I not be with these toasty little ones at my

feet?”

“They’re not crowding you, are they?”

“No, no. Of course not. I’m fine. We’re fine.” She glanced

down at the head leaning on her shoulder. Pippi shifted and

sleepy blue eyes opened. “Wake up. You’re missing all the fun.”

Her sleepy companion yawned and Mischka laughed. “Look at

this. Look at this family. Aren’t we lucky?”

Snow Moon Rising 341

Pippi said, “Such vielfalt—how do you say it?”

“Variety.”

“Yes, we’re so lucky to have it.”

A shout went up, and Liza’s husband, Daniel, rushed to the

television set. “This is it!” he shouted. “The people are passing

through the wall to the other side!”

Tobar nestled in on the floor next to the divan and looked up

at Mischka. “What does this mean?”

“Well, if the wall opens between the halves of Germany,

Tobar, it means that people from the west—such as where your

father was born in France—can now cross over to the east and be

with family and friends in Germany or Poland or Hungary and

so on. After all this time, Europe will be open again. Perhaps the

travelers will once again wander the roads.”

A gradual hush fell over the house as parents quieted their

children. Mischka shivered. Even with the blanket on her lap and

Pippi pressed close, she suddenly felt cold. The hand entwined

in hers squeezed tighter, and she held her breath, not quite

believing. Could it be true? Would it really happen? Daniel

turned the TV up so they could all hear the news announcer:

“…is imminent. Officials from both East Berlin and

West Berlin have verified to our correspondents in

Germany that the border has begun to open. It’s

reported that Bornholmer Strasse is open. Ah, here’s

some footage at Checkpoint Charlie. As you can see, a

stream of people—not sure if they’re tourists or what—

are making their way through, and the border guards

aren’t stopping them. The German officials have been

allowing this all night…”

Footage of cheering people, some laughing, some crying,

beamed out over the airwaves all the way across the Atlantic,

from a land far away from New York City. Mischka thought of

how far her family and friends had traveled, how long their

journey had been from Europe to New York, and it was almost

too much to imagine. All that time and space and distance.

“Ohhh…” Pippi said. It came out like a sigh. Mischka

watched hot tears run down Pippi’s face, and her own eyes filled

in sympathy. The picture on the television blurred, and the room

shifted to the left, then to the right. A feeling of panic hit her,

and she closed her eyes.

“Beebee? Beebee, are you all right?” She felt hands gripping

her shoulders and forearms, and someone cupped the back of her

head.

342 Lori L. Lake

Nico said, “Beebee Mischka?”

In a concerned voice, Liza said, “What’s wrong, Beebee?”

Mischka opened her eyes and saw a cluster of faces all

around, with her sister’s grandson Nico’s face closest. He

tenderly supported her head. His hair was dark and his black

beard neat. For a moment, she thought he looked exactly like her

father. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop

them. “Papa,” she said in wonder.

Two dozen adults took a collective inward breath, and she

knew she needed to clarify. With a tentative hand, she reached

up and patted the side of his face. “Nico, you remind me of my

father, that’s all. And this—this spectacle brings back so many

memories. So much I have not said. So much I—” she glanced at

Pippi “— we have never told. So this is unexpectedly emotional

for us.”

Nico said, “I knew it, Beebee Mischka. We all knew you’d feel

that way. We can’t wait to hear all about it. Jan is going to bring

a video camera over, and we’re going to film your birthday

party, and then we want you two to tell us everything.”

“Yes,” many voices called out. “Everything.”

“But first, we’ll be having lunch and cake,” Liza said in her

quiet voice. A chorus of children’s voices cheered that idea. “It’s

a happy birthday to Beebee Mischka!”

Mischka smiled at them across the room. And then everyone

went back to the TV, occasionally shouting out in exultation.

From his spot on the floor, Tobar caught Mischka’s eye and

winked. She turned to Pippi and whispered, “Look at him. He’s

more like his Uncle Emil than perhaps we realized. I think he’s a

teacher and future historian.”

PIPPI WATCHED THE commotion in the flat. With wall-to-

wall people, she almost felt claustrophobic. Ordinarily she’d be

in the kitchen, making strudel, fixing sandwiches, and talking

with the women, but today, she just wanted to stay huddled with

Mischka on the divan, out of everyone’s way.

The size and jubilance of her family amazed her. When

François married the daughter of Mario and Sylva, she didn't

lose a son, she gained an entire clan. Mario and Sylva had four

more children after young Tobar’s mother was born; Stevo and

Chavi’s son Tem and his wife had seven children; Elena and Paul

had five; Emil’s son Palko three; and her François, now an

amazing forty-two years old, had three with Maria. Twenty-

three in that generation. She was awed by it. Two-thirds of them

had started their own families, and when she looked around the

Snow Moon Rising 343

room, she couldn’t even keep track of which child was which or

to whom he or she belonged.

The enormity of it brought a lump to her throat. Still, she

believed she had been luckier than most. When she considered

all that Mischka had lost, she didn’t know how her partner could

face each day. Mischka had deserved a fairytale life after all

she’d been through, but it was not to be. Her father died a long,

slow death from cancer, and when Gyorgy and Stevo died of

heart attacks the same year, Pippi didn’t know how Mischka had

stood it. But she had, and she became the matriarch of the Gallo

clan, the person to whom everyone came for advice. Pippi looked

at the white-haired woman seated so close, her eyes still clear

and dark, and she loved her all the more for her endurance.

Pippi believed in her heart that these last four decades in

America had made it worth the pain and suffering of her first

forty-odd years. But of course, things were in no way perfect.

Even after all these years, she still missed her mother. Her father

seemed a distant memory that bore no pain, but her brother…

Oh, Emil. She knew perfectly well why she had kept avoiding

Tobar’s questions about Emil.

The last time she had seen him, he’d been so frail, so weak.

Ravaged by congestive heart failure, he could barely speak. He’d

never married again, so she took care of him at the end. She

remembered the bittersweet comfort of sitting in the chair next

to his hospital bed for hours holding his warm, dry hand while

he slept. Once he had awakened and looked at her with such

pain in his eyes. He gasped out, “Pippi…I did my…best.”

“I know you did, my dear. I know you always did.”

That hadn’t satisfied him. “They—come. In dreams.” He

closed his eyes and let out a choking cough.

“Who? Who, Emil? The soldiers?”

“No, no.” It took some time for him to answer. “The Roma.

They come. For me.”

Those were the last words he ever spoke to her. He died in

the night, after she had gone home to sleep.

The Roma come for me—not to me; he had said for me. She

wasn’t sure if that was a good thing, but she hoped it was. If

there was an afterlife, she wanted to believe that even before

Emil found their parents, he would be reunited with his Roma

wife, Drina, his lost children, and with his great friends, Tobar,

Gyorgy, and Stevo.

She didn’t know if she could believe in an afterlife. She’d

been raised Catholic, but she had fallen away from that faith a

long time ago. If there was an afterlife, she prayed that one day

she might be reunited with all of those people from her past,

344 Lori L. Lake

Emil included.

A pang of regret, of physical pain in her heart and throat,

brought tears to her eyes, and she reached for Mischka’s hand to

steady herself. Seven years had passed, but she never

remembered her brother without such a feeling of homesickness

that she felt unsteady. And here was her grandson, Tobar,

looking exactly as she remembered Emil when she was six and

Emil was twelve.

And now the family—this vast and sprawling bunch of

Germans and Roma, Italians and Spaniards, Poles and Jews—

they wanted to hear the story of the old days. The thought took

her breath away. She realized that she wanted to leave a record.

She wanted to tell the stories. Until she and Mischka had talked

about it with Tobar, she’d put as much of it out of her mind as

she could. All these years she’d kept it pressed back, but now

she could let it out. Why hadn’t she felt safe before? She didn’t

know the answer. All that mattered was that she wanted to share

it all now.

MISCHKA STOOD AT the front door of the brownstone,

waving goodbye to some of their visitors. The cold night air

gusted in. She shivered and closed the door and made her way

up the stairs to the apartment. People had been encouraging her

and Pippi to move to a smaller flat on the first floor, but she

secretly believed that walking the flights of stairs was what had

kept them fit and alive all these years.

In the living room, Pippi was curled up on the divan next to

Tobar, and most of the remaining adults looked sleepy.

“It’s late,” Mischka said. “Perhaps we should retire for the

night and celebrate again tomorrow.”

Nico said, “Yes, we’d love to get more footage of you.”

Pippi sat up. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk more tomorrow. My

throat is actually sore from all the talking.”

Liza, Elena’s daughter, was seated on the floor against the

sofa, her knees up and her arms around them. “Before we go to

bed, I need to ask—how did you survive all that? How?”

Pointing her index finger in the air, Mischka answered, “The

Goddess—or perhaps the moon—watched over me.” She pointed

to Pippi. “And that one, too. She saved my life more than once.”

“No, no,” a groggy voice said, and Pippi swung her legs

around to the floor. “Mischka had the will to live. She had the

will to go on. My liebling would have made it through—no

matter what.”

Tobar asked, “What does liebling mean, Grandma Pip?”

Snow Moon Rising 345

Mischka answered the question. “It means darling—or sweet

one.” She moved across the room to the bay windows. Reflection

from inside shone off the glass, but even so, as she drew closer,

she could see the moon up over the buildings. “Look. Look at the

moon.”

She leaned over, turned off the floor lamp, and made a

gesture to Liza to do the same with the overhead lights. Her

niece flipped the light switches on the wall, and the room was

plunged into near darkness with only the light of the muted

television in the background. For a moment all was quiet, and

then she heard the rustling of many footsteps. At the same time,

two small hands took one of hers, and she glanced down to see

Liza’s daughter, Valentina, standing to her left in the moonlight.

On her right, Pippi held her other hand and pressed up against

her, one arm around Mischka’s back.

“Do you remember the name of that moon, Liza?”

After a pause, Liza said, “No, Beebee. I’m so sorry but it

escapes me.”

“I thought you had memorized them all.”

“Yes, when I was a child I did. I remember January is the

Wolf Moon because it’s a time to protect your family, and Seed

Moon is April for planting. I also remember other names: Barley

and Mead...and Storm Moon...but not when they are. I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Mischka said. “But this November moon

is a special one. October was the Blood Moon, when we make

offerings in the memory of those who have gone from this world.

Pippi and I have thought so much these last weeks about those

we loved—and lost. But now it’s Snow Moon. Time to let go of

the bad or the things that soak the soul in negative ways. Here in

America, the New Year celebration is for this, but that’s not how

the old Roma ways work. We Roma make these commitments

under the light of the Snow Moon, and when December’s Oak

Moon rises, we do all we can to be steadfast, to be strong, and to

keep those promises we made. It’s a time of forgiveness. Time to

let go of the past.” She paused, holding back tears. “Still, I want

you all, my family, never to forget. The despicable things that

happened in the war must never happen again. Not ever.”

All around, her nieces and nephews and Pippi’s son and the

grandchildren murmured. “Don’t worry,” they said. “No, Beebee,

we won’t forget.”

Filled with alarm, Tobar’s voice called out, “Look, Beebee,

look.” She turned away from the light of the Snow Moon rising.

“They’re attacking!”

As Mischka’s heart beat wildly, the group moved with

various degrees of speed toward the television set, and it was

346 Lori L. Lake

not until she stood six feet from it that she realized what was

happening. Gleeful men and women, some young, some old, had

rushed the Berlin Wall.

Nico darted forward to turn up the TV’s sound. From both

sides, the people of East and West Berlin were taking down the

stone monstrosity that divided them.

The newsman stopped speaking, and all that could be heard

was the sound of hammers, axes, and sledgehammers—and

people shouting encouragement. The camera shifted and went

aloft, giving an aerial view of the scene below. When one person

tired, another stepped forward and continued to strike the wall

with whatever implement was available. Soldiers stood aside, at

ease, and watched, not bothering to stop a single person’s effort.

Soon, as both sides worked, someone began to sing, her

voice plaintive. Other people joined in until the singing was loud

and clear. Mischka recognized the words. “Unbelievable. They’re

singing an American song, something called ‘Blowin’ in the

Wind.’ ”

Mischka backed up and went to sit on the divan, joining

Pippi. With tears coursing down her face, she whispered, “Well,

Pippi, we can all go there now and visit or travel where we want.

They can come here, and we can go there.” Wonderment in her

voice, she said, “So it’s over, my love. It’s finally, truly over. You

can go home to Reims or to Eisenhüttenstadt or anywhere you

want to go.”

Pippi's arm curled behind Mischka’s back, encircled her

waist, and squeezed tight. “I am home, liebling. We’ve been

home for many years.”

Mischka wiped her cheeks. “I guess you’re right. And now

that I’m seventy, I probably don’t need to travel much more

anyway.”

Pippi rolled her eyes and snuggled in closer. “Seventy, my

foot!”

The End

The Roma Moons

January ~ Wolf Moon: A time for rituals of protection for home,

family, and travelers

February ~ Storm Moon: A time to ask the Old Ones for rituals

to plan for the future

March ~ Chaste Moon: A time for rituals seeking fulfillment of

appropriate wishes

April ~ Seed Moon: A time for rituals for planting seeds in

Mother Earth

May ~ Hare Moon: A time for rituals to look forward to goals of

the future

June ~ Dyad Moon: A time to find a ritual that balances spiritual

and physical desires

July ~ Mead Moon: A time for rituals of thanks to be given to the

Old Ones when your goals are reached

August ~ Wort Moon: A time for rituals celebrating preservation

of what one has

September ~ Barley Moon: A time for rituals of thanksgiving for

all that has been received

October ~ Blood Moon: A time for rituals and offerings to

remember those who have passed from this world

November ~ Snow Moon: A time for rituals to banish negative

and unproductive thoughts or practices

December ~ Oak Moon: A time for a ritual to strengthen and

maintain one’s dearest convictions

Select Bibliography of Roma/Gypsy Resources

A History of the Gypsies of Eastern Europe and Russia

by David M. Crowe

The Gypsies in Poland: History and Customs

by Jerzy Ficowski

Bury Me Standing: The Gypsies and Their Journey

by Isabel Fonseca

The Gypsies (Peoples of Europe)

by Angus M. Fraser

We Are the Romani People

by Ian Hancock

The Rom: Walking in the Paths of the Gypsies

by Roger Moreau

And the Violins Stopped Playing: A Story of the Gypsy Holocaust

by Alexander Ramati

Gypsy Folktales

by Diane Tong

Gypsies

by Jan Yoors

The Heroic Present: Life Among the Gypsies

by Jan Yoors

Gypsy Law: Romani Legal Traditions and Culture

by Walter O. Weyrauch

FORTHCOMING TITLES

published by

Regal Crest

In Broad Daylight

by Jane Vollbrecht

Colleen McCrady, an aspiring writer, is on the verge of

having her first novel accepted for publication. Elizabeth

Albright, owner and managing editor of Standing in Sappho’s

Shadow Publishing—Triple S, as it’s known in the lesbian

publishing industry—gives Colleen a helping hand, and in the

process, the two discover that a love for lesbian literature isn’t

the only thing they have in common.

Despite their romantic chemistry, Colleen and Elizabeth

are at odds over other aspects of their relationship. Try as she

might, Elizabeth can’t get Colleen to reveal many details of her

childhood and family life. Colleen is likewise stymied in her

attempts to get Elizabeth to bring their relationship out into the

open. The situation comes to a head when Colleen offers

Elizabeth a new manuscript—one which will either take their

relationship in a new direction or destroy the bonds between

them. Elizabeth is drawn into Colleen’s tragic past as she

discovers the long-buried secret that Colleen reveals in her new

book. A mystery that is nearly a half century old is reopened

when Elizabeth helps Colleen unravel the puzzle of what really

happened to a lone, deaf black man who worked on Colleen’s

father’s farm in northern Minnesota all those years ago. The

story that unfolds is a multilayered tale of love and hate, bigotry

and acceptance, heartbreak and triumph.

Once the mystery is solved, only one question lingers: can

Elizabeth and Colleen step out of the shadows and stand

together In Broad Daylight?

Coming in February 2007

Devil’s Bridge

by Greg Lilly

Two friends, Myra and Topher, deal with their twisting

lives. Her husband beats her, his lover ignores him, and their

friendship must bend with changes of its own.

Dealing with their own problems, Myra's increasingly

violent husband and Topher's unrequited love for his partner

Alex, they don't realize how much their lives parallel each other.

Myra's husband Gil controls her actions with his violence.

Doubts finally creep into Myra's reluctant mind. Her dream of a

happy family is slipping out of her reach. Although Topher helps

her build self-esteem and is the stable influence in her life, he is

in a crisis over where he fits in the gay community—too old for

the club life, but not in a stable committed relationship. He

allows Alex to manipulate him with the future possibility of

love.Finding strength to leave their relationships, Myra and

Topher decide to escape from their life and start over—together.

But, Myra's husband craves revenge. At a place called DEVIL'S

BRIDGE, vengeance is redeemed.

Coming in May 2007

More Lori L. Lake titles

Gun Shy

While on patrol, Minnesota police officer Dez Reilly saves

two women from a brutal attack. One of them, Jaylynn Savage, is

immediately attracted to the taciturn cop—so much so that she

joins the St. Paul Police Academy. As fate would have it, Dez is

eventually assigned as Jaylynn's Field Training Officer. Having

been burned in the past by getting romantically involved with

another cop, Dez has a steadfast rule she has abided by for nine

years: Cops are off limits. But as Jaylynn and Dez get to know

one another, a strong friendship forms. Will Dez break her

cardinal rule and take a chance on love with Jaylynn, or will she

remain forever gun shy? Gun Shy is an exciting glimpse into the

day-to-day work world of police officers as Jaylynn learns the

ins and outs of the job and Dez learns the ins and outs of her

own heart.

ISBN 978-1-932300-56-7

Under the Gun

Under the Gun is the sequel to the bestselling novel, Gun Shy,

continuing the story of St. Paul Police Officers Dez Reilly and

Jaylynn Savage. Picking up just a couple weeks after Gun Shy

ended, the sequel finds the two officers adjusting to their rela-

tionship, but things start to go downhill when they get dis-

patched to a double homicide—Jaylynn's first murder scene. Dez

is supportive and protective toward Jay, and things seem to be

going all right until Dez’s nemesis reports their personal rela-

tionship, and their commanding officer restricts them from

riding together on patrol. This sets off a chain of events that

result in Jaylynn getting wounded, Dez being suspended, and

both of them having to face the possibility of life without the

other. They face struggles—separately and together—that they

must work through while truly feeling "under the gun."

Second Edition

ISBN 978-1-932300-57-4

Have Gun We’ll Travel

Dez Reilly and Jaylynn Savage have settled into a

comfortable working and living arrangement. Their house is in

good shape, their relationship is wonderful, and their jobs—

while busy—are fulfilling. But everyone needs a break once in a

while, so when they take off on a camping trip to northern

Minnesota with good friends Crystal and Shayna, they expect

nothing more than long hikes, romantic wood fires, and plenty

of down time. Instead, they find themselves caught in the

whirlwind created when two escaped convicts, law enforcement,

and desperate Russian mobsters clash north of the privately-run,

medium-security Kendall Correctional Center. Set in the

woodland area in Minnesota near Superior National Forest, this

adventure/suspense novel features Jaylynn taken hostage by the

escapees and needing to do all she can to protect herself while

Dez figures out how to catch up with and disarm the convicts,

short-circuit the Russians, and use the law enforcement

resources in such a way that nothing happens to Jaylynn. It's a

race to the finish as author Lori L. Lake uproots Dez and Jaylynn

from the romance genre to bring them center stage in her first

suspense thriller.

ISBN: 1-932300-33-3 (978-1-932300-33-8)

Ricochet In Time

Hatred is ugly and does bad things to good people, even in

the land of "Minnesota Nice" where no one wants to believe dis-

crimination exists. Danielle "Dani" Corbett knows firsthand what

hatred can cost. After a vicious and intentional attack, Dani’s

girlfriend, Meg O’Donnell, is dead. Dani is left emotionally

scarred, and her injuries prevent her from fleeing on her motor-

cycle. But as one door has closed for her, another opens when

she is befriended by Grace Beaumont, a young woman who

works as a physical therapist at the hospital. With Grace's

friendship and the help of Grace's aunts, Estelline and Ruth,

Dani gets through the ordeal of bringing Meg's killer to justice.

Filled with memorable characters, Ricochet In Time is the

story of one lonely woman's fight for justice—and her struggle to

resolve the troubles of her past and find a place in a world where

she belongs.

ISBN: 1-932300-17-1 (978-1-932300-17-8)

Different Dress

Different Dress is the story of three women on a cross-coun-

try musical road tour. Jaime Esperanza works production and

sound on the music tour. The headliner, Lacey Leigh Jaxon, is a

fast-living prima donna with intimacy problems. She’s had a

brief relationship with Jaime, then dumped her for the new guy

(who lasted all of about two weeks). Lacey still comes back to

Jaime in between conquests, and Jaime hasn't yet gotten her

entirely out of her heart.

After Lacey Leigh steamrolls yet another opening act, a

folksinger from Minnesota named Kip Galvin, who wrote one of

Lacey’s biggest songs, is brought on board for the summer tour.

Kip has true talent, she loves people and they respond, and she

has a pleasant stage presence. A friendship springs up between

Jaime and Kip—but what about Lacey Leigh?

It's a honky-tonk, bluesy, pop, country EXPLOSION of emo-

tion as these three women duke it out. Who will win Jaime's

heart and soul?

ISBN: 1-932300-08-2 (978-1-932300-08-6)

Stepping Out: Short Stories

In these fourteen short stories, Lori L. Lake captures how

change and loss influence the course of lives: a mother and

daughter have an age-old fight; a frightened woman attempts to

deal with an abusive lover; a father tries to understand his les-

bian daughter's retreat from him; an athlete who misses her

chance—or does she?

Lovingly crafted, the collection has been described as a

series of mini-novels where themes of alienation and loss, partic-

ularly for characters who are gay or lesbian, are woven through-

out. Lake is right on about the anguish and confusion of

characters caught in the middle of circumstances, usually of

someone else's making. Still, each character steps out with hope

and determination.

In the words of Jean Stewart: “Beyond the mechanics of

good storytelling, a sturdy vulnerability surfaces in every one of

these short stories. Lori Lake must possess, simply as part of her

inherent nature, a loving heart. It gleams out from these stories,

even the sad ones, like a lamp in a lighthouse—maybe far away

sometimes, maybe just a passing, slanting flash in the dark—but

there to be seen all the same. It makes for a bittersweet journey.”

ISBN: 1-932300-16-3 (978-1-932300-16-1)

Lori L. Lake is the author of the “Gun” series, a trilogy

consisting of the romantic police procedurals Gun Shy and Under

The Gun and the adventure/thriller Have Gun We’ll Travel. Her first novel, Ricochet In Time, was about a hate crime. She has

also written a book of short stories, Stepping Out, a standalone

romance, Different Dress, and edited the Lambda Literary

Award Finalist anthology, The Milk of Human Kindness: Lesbian

Authors Write About Mothers and Daughters. She co-edited

Romance for LIFE, an anthology which is a benefit for the fight

against breast cancer.

In addition to earning Lambda Literary Finalist in the

anthology category, Lori has been the recipient of nine Stonewall

Society Literary Awards in 2003, 2004, and 2005. Have Gun We’ll

Travel was a 2006 Golden Crown Literary Award Finalist, and

Lavender Magazine’s readers have twice named her Twin Cities

OutStanding GLBT Author.

With her partner of 25 years, Lori lives south of the Twin

Cities in Minnesota. She likes to go to the movies, play guitar,

lift weights, and get together with friends to play cards and

board games. She teaches Queer Fiction courses at The Loft

Literary Center, the largest independent writing community in

the nation. Lori is currently at work on her next novel. For more

information, see her website at www.lorillake.com.

VISIT US ONLINE AT

www.regalcrest.biz

At the Regal Crest Website You'll Find

•

The latest news about forthcoming titles and

new releases

•

Our complete backlist of romance, mystery,

thriller and adventure titles

•

Information about your favorite authors

•

Current bestsellers

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Media tearsheets to print and take with you

when you shop

Regal Crest titles are available from all progressive

booksellers and online at StarCrossed Productions,

(www.scp-inc.biz), or at www.amazon.com,

www.bamm.com, www.barnesandnoble.com, and

many others.

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