The Wolf Ballet || WW2

2. The Wolf Ballet

Chapter Two

Ophelia did not move as Madame Bal began pulling down the linens from behind the curtain rods. The dim light of day illuminated the dust that had been building up over time.

Petra, who was the last to reach for the door, stopped to acknowledge Ophelia. The two dancers stared at each other. It was clear that both girls were contemplating their farewells. Ophelia's blank stare was a contrast to Petra's, whose face flushed a bright red. The stains of her sadness still tainted her pale cheeks.

"For what it's worth, I never thought you weren't serious."

Ophelia shook as Petra spoke first, admitting her thoughts.

"Stay safe, Elia,"

Chills crawled up her spine as she watched the green door close behind Petra's fleeing figure. She blinked, as she tightened her mouth and swallowed her despair.

Sensing a gaze, her eyes turned to her teacher, who had been listening.

"If you're going to stay, then make yourself practical and fold these." Madame Bal instructed, averting her stare, as she continued to return everything to its original state. Ophelia nodded quietly, her finger fiddling in front of her as she walked over to the draped blankets. Her breath rattled as she reached for the ends, making the blankets smaller with every fold.

Everyone else had already left. Not many wished to stay behind, the building would still often shake beneath the heavy destruction of the German planes. Ophelia hardly had a chance to say goodbye—she wasn't sure if they'd be at the dormitories once she returned.

As far as she was aware, the troupe all planned to leave Poland. Though it wouldn't be easy as it was in the beginning. Had they all fled before the Nazis reached the city—then perhaps they wouldn't be as desperate. After the first attack, many of the company's dancers left—moved to any neighboring country that was taking them. Ophelia, and the seven others that were here, were all that was left of the prestigious company. Now there were to be none.

"You should leave,"

Ophelia looked up as the earnest voice of her teacher broke her of her thoughts.

"Madame I insist, let me help you," Ophelia responded, her hands still holding up thick olive linen in between her fingers.

"No silly girl," Bal scoffed, snatching the blanket away. "You must leave Poland. You must return to France, you'll be protected there."

"France?" Ophelia doubted, her arms falling slump. The thought had crossed her mind before. During the first attack, on September 1st, and every morning since. However, she feared it was too late, and every day she woke in Poland—she knew she was one day closer to death.

"I-I rather not madame," Ophelia stammered turning away, her hands beginning to tremble. Her teacher, however, would not stand for her vague excuses.

"Poland is dying Ophelia, the company is no more, and we now live by German rule. What could be keeping you here?" Bal pressed, noticing Ophelia become unsettled.

The ballerina was unsure of how to respond as she did not know what repelled her from leaving. She could feel her chest tighten as she thought it over, and over. To her, straying from Warsaw was like walking into the unknown. Into the large and brutal woodlands that were animated by the forewarning howling of wolves. She was afraid—afraid of them, of the wolves, the Germans. She would have to face them, speak to them—beg them to let her return home.