something wrong, afraid to touch her gorgeous skin. Trembling, trying hard to still my hands, I gingerly smooth the cream over her shoulders and down her spine. Then I stand up, moving back toward the clotheslines, the safety zone, the place I know I belong. Busily we check the fabric for dampness, keeping our hands busy and our minds silent, pretending this SS women's presence does not unnerve us.
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Danka and I wake up early on Sunday morning. Mama has cheese Danish for us in a little sack. We put on skirts to hide our shorts underneath, because Papa forbids us to wear shorts. She kisses us at the door, hands us our picnic, and tells us to have fun. We hike into the mountains until we reach the stream. Then we take off our skirts. Folding them neatly and putting them someplace to stay dry while we play in the water and sunbathe. Around noon we open Mama's Danishes, still warm from the oven, or maybe the sun kept them warm, and eat them while languishing in the sun
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A wave of homesickness revolts in my stomach, making it flipflop. How I miss lying in our forbidden shorts eating Mama's homemade sweets.
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Throughout the afternoon Wardress Grese suns, then abruptly she dresses, folds up her blanket, and disappears down the road. We watch her depart, folding laundry quietly into our baskets, each of us lost in her private thoughts.
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The morning tea comes, and with it the news. "Mala and her lover have been captured." Rumors escalate through the day; everyone is whispering about what has happened. That night, after the lights are out, we discuss her fate in the dark.
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"They were caught eating in a restaurant."
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"They had changed into civilian clothes, but an SS was eating there and recognized Mala."
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"She's too beautiful for someone not to recognize."
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"They shouldn't have stayed in Poland."
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