Besides, I’d feel stupid doing such a thing. Or more stupid than I already felt.
Varpas. The titles in the bold lettering on the top had about the same number of letters in each bin. I recognized the A’s in both titles since I knew I had A’s in my name, but that didn’t help, either, since I didn’t know the letters that would be in Varpas, nor did I know any of my letters other than the A.
This was humiliating.
While I stared between the two, I heard a quick hiss that might’ve been Milda saying my name, then the opening above me slammed shut and I was left alone with nothing but the single flame in the oil lamp I’d taken down with me.
I started up the ladder, certain that it must have been some sort of mistake and ready to call out to Milda about why she had closed the opening. Then I heard men’s voices speaking almost directly above me. Speaking in Russian.
I froze in place on the ladder, worried that even moving my foot might cause a creak in the wood. Here, I was so close to the stairs. Could they hear me breathing, or the pounding of my heart? It seemed impossible that they wouldn’t have heard Milda slamming the lid shut for this little room, and then they’d realize she was in disguise and as healthy as ever. Surely they would search the home until they figured out what had made that slamming sound.
Until they found me.
Maybe that was why they had come, to arrest me, or to take the book I’d given Milda. If I dared to move, I would’ve slid that book behind the others. My parents were in prison or on their way to Siberia because of that book. I wouldn’t let them take Milda for it too.
If I listened carefully, I could barely make out the conversation happening almost directly above me. In her false voice of sickness, Milda was trying to list off her many ailments for the men, but they told her to stop or her ills would hardly be the worst of her problems. Their tones were sharp, sounding impatient. In Russian, they demanded to search the home, and Milda laughed, telling them they were welcome to look anywhere they’d like.
It was a lucky thing I’d come to Milda’s home without any possessions, only the clothes I was now wearing and my father’s shoulder bag. It was always at my side, except for when I slept. Milda had offered to find me a change of clothing when she had more time, but I was glad she hadn’t done so yet.
If only there were something in my father’s bag powerful enough to help Milda, who I knew was in grave danger upstairs. I knew how hard the Cossacks had looked for me, and that was for a single book. Milda had hundreds down here. What if it wasn’t simply my father’s book they wanted? What if they wanted all these books?
As the Cossacks moved into another room for their search, I crept down the ladder and
used the oil lamp to look over the different volumes, wondering what their titles said. All these books had somehow come to Milda. Some of them must have been carried by my father. She said she’d been expecting him.
This was my parents’ work, these books. I was surrounded by their secrets, their risks. How many times had I wished that my father would just tell me the truth of where he went at night? How often had I wished to be as brave as him, as determined as my mother?
And when Milda had asked for my help, I’d refused her. I wasn’t brave like Papa, and my only determination had been to refuse the very work my parents had literally dedicated their lives to doing. I’d failed my parents.
I wandered into the secret school room and picked up a square piece of chalkboard, then used the chalk to scrawl the letter A onto the black surface. It wasn’t as elegant and straight as the A’s I’d seen on the books in the other rooms, but it was recognizable.
I didn’t know how to write the letter for my mother’s name—I’d never seen her do it. I assumed she could because I knew she could read. I’d asked her once if she would teach me, but she’d told me it would bring trouble into my life. Obviously she was right.
My father could write too. He used to record the secrets of his tricks into a brown leather notebook, but I didn’t know where it was. Certainly not in my shoulder bag.
His shoulder bag.
My father’s name, Henri, started with two straight lines standing beside each other like twin trees in the forest, then connected by a shorter line. I didn’t know the name of the letter, but my A was almost the same as his, only the tops of the trees in my A touched, like the branches had decided to grow together and become one.
I drew his letter next to mine, then made a small forest of the letters. Papa would say to avoid the forest, that it was full of thieves like Lukas, and villains like the Cossack policemen who hunted them. But I thought it was a nice picture anyway.
Then a loud sound clattered overhead. Glass shattered with it and I froze, wondering what had happened. Was Milda all right? Was she hurt or arrested? Would they do to her what they had done to my parents and then light this place on fire? I’d be trapped!
As quietly as possible, I looked around the room. A curtain hung against one wall, likely concealing some storage, but at least I could hide in there. I pulled it aside and was surprised to see a small passageway leading away from Milda’s home. More secret places?
I started down that way, then jumped when I rounded a bend and saw a girl a year or two younger than myself crouched in the corner. Her arms were wrapped around her legs and tears streamed down her face. As frightened as I was, she looked so much worse that I immediately forgot my own worries and knelt beside her.
“It’s all right,” I whispered. “What’s your name?”
“Roze.”
“Like the flower?” I forced a smile to my face, hoping to calm her. “My father used to call me rue, another flower, but my name is Audra. What are you doing here?”
“I forgot something earlier today.”
“You were here at the school earlier?” When had Milda found time today to teach down here?
Roze added, “We’re not supposed to come if we see soldiers, but they weren’t here when I came.”