Tulips in Her Hand

Chapter Three

The cool, nighttime air bit her skin, but not as much as his words did.

"Why does Żegota want me? I'm not even sixteen," Celina murmured for the hundredth time. She sat near an open window, lacy curtains fluttering in her face, in the confining apartment of Dawid Budny. Fingering the scorched letter in her hands, she tried to ignore the thick tension tainting the air.

Mr. Budny paused, almost hesitant to speak. "We are hesitant to put people in such a dangerous position, especially youth as yourself," he started, chewing on a bent toothpick, "however, I will point out that we do have several female couriers of your same age. Most of our activities our focused on Jews in hiding and supplying the proper necessities to sending them into hiding; rarely do we arrange for their escape. This, however, is more of a personal matter..." He trailed off, hesitancy lacing every word.

Celina swallowed, thick saliva pooling in her throat. These words scratched at her skin, clawing deep into her being. She hated this, every part of it. Yet it was the only way she could find her dear father, no matter what Mariusz said.

Besides, didn't she owe it to her father to finish what he started?

"I don't have a home to hid them in."

Dawid Budny's eyes seemed almost to chuckle at this, sparkling as if they were at a social event instead of a grave meeting. "You don't need one, darling." He handed her a yellowed slip of paper, various addresses slanting in cursive across the front. "You, too are a courier of sorts. You are a sort of guide to these Jews, searching for a safe hiding place where they can stay for the remainder of the war. These addresses are contacts of your father, and perhaps may be of assistance."

"And why am I in particular needed?"

"Well, for one, your father being Aleksander Rudaski puts you in good favor with a lot of his personal contacts, which may be there to help you along the way. These people are relying on you to find them a hiding place. The girl is merely a child, and Mariusz, well, he has weaknesses of his own.

"I should like to see you continue with this type of work when, and if, you return."

Celina gazed at the floor, sinking deeper into the patterned sofa. The reality of her situation was only beginning to sink in. And with it, seeped in anger. Why her? Why, of all people, did Celina have to help these people? Why did she have to put her life in danger so these two unwanted criminals could have safety? She could just get up and leave, leave this room, leave Warsaw, and become merely a homeless, parent-less girl.

Yet some unknown force strapped her to her chair.

Hope.

Sympathy.

Regret.

These three words flickered in her mind, a candle begging for attention.

"I just want to find my father."

❋ ❋ ❋

A small candle flickered in the center of the table, emanating light and a small bit of heat.

They were filthy, they were hungry.

Snores and heavy sighs escaped from the bedroom, where four children were asleep in a room intended for one.

The streets were barren outside their paint-peeling window, save the few soldiers strutting about with beams of light, holding them prisoner in an apartment. Mariusz sat across the table from his sister, her dark, thin wisps of hair pulled back into an old lilac ribbon. The candle cast eerie shadows on the wall, flickering like spirits, and suddenly Mariusz wished that the twelve other Jews living in this cramped apartment were present.