Promised

“A man took Mama away,” said the little boy, looking into the woman’s face with confidence. “He said a lot of bad words. He hit her.” His wide, brown eyes filled with tears. “He hit her,” he repeated in a choked sob.

The woman nodded as she crouched down to look at him, one hand stroking his ruffled hair soothingly, the other holding his own small one. He thought she would never let go. Her fingers were hard and bony and her face was pinched, red, as though it had been scrubbed too hard. She was kind, he told himself, very kind, but she was not like his mother. His mother had soft blonde curls that he could wrap around his fingers, deep eyes and gentle, smiling lips; she was not old and tired and her voice did not have the timidity of this woman’s.

“Darling, you’ll have to come with me, now,” she was saying, pulling ever so slightly on his hand. “Your mama isn’t coming back just yet.”

“Where did they take her?”

“I don’t know, but she can’t come back now; we have to leave, little one. It’s not safe. The city may be bombed again.”

“They took her away to the camps, didn’t they?” the boy set his mouth in a thin, straight line to prevent the tears from returning. “They’ll hurt her more, there. She’s going to have a baby. What if the baby gets hurt, too? She said she had to be careful not to hurt her stomach because the baby is in there. But what if they hit the baby?” His voice was quickly rising, becoming more agitated.

The tired woman was looking around now, unhearing. She seemed to be searching for someone amidst the long line of people; bedraggled, tired, men and women and children carrying their belongings as they left their beloved city. Her grip on his hand tightened and she stood up, tugging on him firmly. He pulled back, trying to release himself, and repeated, “What if they hit the baby?”

“We have to leave,” begged the woman. “I can’t let you stay here.”

“She promised she would come back,” protested the boy, pulling more forcefully. “I have to wait for her. She promised.”

“You don’t understand, my dear, they’ll kill you if you stay,” the woman said, tears coursing down her cheeks. “Look over there ... my husband’s coming. We’ll all go together. We’ll go out to the country to be safe. There’s my little girl. Her name is Maja. You can’t help your mother right now, sweetheart ... please come with us.”

No, no, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he had to stay. In a sudden panic the boy tore himself away and began to run, quickly leaving the poor woman behind in the confusion. He ran faster and faster, his heart thumping in his ears, his bare feet aching and scratched, past the familiar houses, past the crumbling buildings and the few huddles of children or families salvaging what they could from the ruins, until he reached the old shop: Tata’s shop. He couldn’t leave Warsaw. If he waited a while, she would come. Perhaps Tata would come, too, and then they would all be safe together. Tata was big and strong; he could protect Mama and the baby and himself. The little boy buried his head in his arms and let the tears flow freely, wetting his sleeves. A dog yelped outside, someone screamed, a girl called to her brother to hurry; but inside, inside it was quiet and cosy and no one would hurt him. She was coming back. She promised ... she promised ....

she promised.