The Girl Down the Stairs

When our parents died, I didn’t expect that a war was about to begin. So now, it is just Charlie and I in our small German city. We were supposed to go to live with our grandparents, but exactly one week after our parents died, the bombings started. Now, it is too dangerous to travel cross-country. Most of the trains have been derailed or bombed. All of the remaining trains that are still running require you to have papers, which neither of us have. There is no way that I’m risking traveling without them. These days, mercy isn’t even shown to 9-year-olds, and certainly not 14-year-olds, like me. 

As we are walking through the town’s small market, Charlie pokes me. “Sharon.” I look down. “Sharon, can we buy celery?” My parents always found it funny that Charlie loves celery. A sharp pang hits my chest. “Yes.” Even though we barely have enough money to buy the very essentials, like some watered-down broth and unidentified greens, I always try to work a few extra hours at the factory so that Charlie can buy celery. Even with my extra hours, though, I don’t always have enough. Not having enough food or money is now a common problem. The war has taken so much. 

We usually go to the market once a week, after I get off of my ten-hour shift at the factory. While I am working, Charlie stays home with Granny Thelma, a bent, white-haired washerwoman who has shown us so much kindness. When our parents were killed in a house fire, she took us in and allowed us to share her small space. However, on this day, when we returned from the market to Granny Thelma’s small, cramped hut, there was no toothless smile, no splash of laundry. Only a deep crimson pile of what could only be Thelma’s blood. I push Charlie backwards out the door. “I’m sure she’s fine. She’s lying down on her cot, I’m sure…I’m sure she just cut herself on her metal drying racks.” Charlie begins to shake, unconvinced. I wrap him tightly in my arms, trying to keep the tears from rolling down my face. I must be strong for Charlie. 

“Wait here,” I tell him, opening the door again. I pause halfway through the doorway as he grabs my hand with his own grubby fingers. “Don’t leave me out here alone, Sharon,” He pleads, a single tear making a track down his face. “Please.” I don’t know what to do. I don’t want him to have to face the horror of what has surely happened to Thelma, but I also don’t want to leave him outside alone where whatever has hurt her could hurt him. Neither is a good choice. 

As I motion for him to enter with me, I notice a small piece of paper tucked into the empty flower pot that Thelma always insisted on keeping next to her door. I thought it was tacky. She said it symbolized things to come, like a flower blooming, despite the fact that there were never flowers in it. But that doesn’t matter now. Thelma is gone. I reach in and pull it out, revealing a paper with the words To Sharon at the top. It is folded in thirds, and as I unfold it, I am shocked to find a small sum of money inside. This must be what she had left when she was— I refuse to think about it. At least this house wasn’t burnt too. It’s the one place we have left. 

I tuck the letter and money into my apron pocket and lead Charlie slowly over the threshold. We quickly take in the state of the main room, which is the laundry room. Other than the blood, while there is no sign of a scuffle or any other things out of place, something seems wrong. Maybe it is just the shadow of grief that now hangs over us, deeper and darker than before. We continue into the second of the two rooms, the place where we eat, sleep, and, in Charlie’s case, play. Nothing is out of place here, either. No sign of Thelma, other than the blood.

“Charlie, stay here for a moment,” I tell him, tucking the thin blanket around him. I walk into the laundry room and grab the age-worn mop. I begin to mop up the blood, dipping my mop in a bucket of water that slowly turns iron-y orange. 

After I have finished this simple, but powerful, task, I cross the small hut and sit next to Charlie. He tries to offer me some of the blanket, but I insist he keep it. I pull the paper and money out of my apron pocket. “Charlie, would you mind counting that for me, dear?” I never call him dear, except for when he’s terrified or sad, or, in this case, both. I don’t like it, because that’s what our mother called him, but to him, it’s comforting. He begins to slowly count the money, better than I thought he would be able to. I guess Granny Thelma has been teaching him. A wave of gratitude fills me up. I’ve been gone too much in the past few months. I open the letter and begin to read to myself.

To Sharon: As I’m sure you know by now, the war is complicated, and the world is an even more complicated place. You have done a wonderful job taking care of Charlie the best you can, and I was happy to assist with that, but, if you are reading this, I am gone. Please take this money and use it to sustain yourselves. 

However, I do have to tell you something. There is one more person that I need you to take care of. In our room, under my cot, is a small rug. Lift the edge of this rug and you will find a set of stairs. This is why I was taken away. I have been hiding a small girl of about 12 years old. She is a Jew. My final wish is for you to help her survive. This is what your parents would want.  

I gasp. “What, Sharon?” Charlie asks. Nothing, I almost say. But we must face everything together. I must be brave for Charlie. “Granny Thelma was housing another girl, twelve years old. We must help her. That’s what Granny Thelma wanted.” I don’t mention the part about our parents. What does that mean? They weren’t involved in anything illegal, were they? They couldn’t have been! They would have told us. Charlie looks up. “A friend?” I’m not sure what to say. I want to explain that she’s a Jew, that she could get us all killed, but I don’t have the heart. “Yes..?” I rise slowly, trying to keep my breathing even as my brain goes round and round in loops, trying to figure out what Thelma could have meant about our parents. 

I motion for Charlie to pick up the other end of Thelma’s cot. He makes a questioning face, but helps me move it anyway. I lift up the rug, revealing the stairs. I don’t like how dark and narrow the stairs are, so I grab our small lamp and quickly light it. 

“Hello,” I call, stepping down onto the first step. I hear a small shuffling noise. I take three more steps down, calling out again. “Hello?” I pause. “Who’s there?” I hear very quietly. “I’m armed!” I shrink back, unsure whether or not to continue. “Thelma sent us. Something has…happened…to her. We live upstairs with her.” Charlie tries to peek over my shoulder, but there are still about five more steps and it is very dark. 

“Okay,” the girl’s voice calls up, still a whisper. I walk the remaining stairs, and touch solid concrete. I turn in a circle with my lantern, attempting to sum up the space. A slight girl walks forward a step, eyes narrowed, dark braids swishing behind her. She is not, in fact, armed. “Who are you?” “Um, well, I’m Sharon, and that’s—” “I’m Charlie!” Charlie exclaims. “Elizabeth,” she says, followed by a curt nod. “Elizabeth Adler. But you can call me Lizzie.” I smile gratefully at her attempt to be friendly. 

“Where are your parents?” I blurt out carelessly. This girl is a Jew. She may not even know where her parents are. But she doesn’t seem bothered by the question. “They—” She falters, her eyes dropping. “They were killed in a fire. They were staying with another family a short walk from here. I didn’t see them very much, but some nights I would go out this tunnel-“ Lizzie motions behind her, “-and meet in the woods. My mother was always very worried about me. But about four months ago, German soldiers came and burnt down the house, with my parents and the other family inside. The two children, about your ages, were out at the market, so they were spared.” 

My brain begins to turn faster and faster, until I begin to feel dizzy, and my knees begin to collapse. I lean on the wall for support. “Whoa, are you okay?” Lizzie asks. I have to tell Charlie what I have just figured out. “Charlie, that was our parents housing Lizzie’s parents. We lived a short walk away,” I explain to Lizzie. “-and our house burnt down. But we never knew anything about Jews. Our parents never told us anything about that. And I always thought the fire was a cooking accident, but it was the Germans.” 

Charlie begins to cry softly and I cradle him into my side. This.. is too much, and we need to eat before it is time to sleep. “We’re going to go back upstairs. We’ll bring you dinner in a little while.” Charlie and I return up the stairs. Despite the fact that we have a Jewish refugee in our secret basement, life must go on. 

Tomorrow I still have to go to work at the factory. Charlie will stay here in the house. I light a small fire in the fireplace and heat our small pot of broth and greens. I chop the celery and add that. We use our dented metal spoons and eat straight out of the pot, then bring the extras to Lizzie. “Good night, Sharon. Good night, Charlie,” I hear her whisper as we head back up the stairs to bed. 

The next morning, everything seems out of place. Like we can’t just go on living when Granny Thelma is dead, there’s an illegal Jewish girl hiding in our basement, and we’ve just found out that our parents were murdered. But I can’t sit around, or we will die from starvation, so I get dressed and tie on my apron. No laundry customers show up, so I guess that they have caught wind of Thelma’s murder. Gossip spreads quickly, quietly and dangerously in this small German town. I walk to the factory, thinking hard. How could our parents have been working to hide Jews? Why wouldn’t they have told us? 

I continue to ponder this through my long workday and on my walk home, until I hear a scream. A high, childish scream that I immediately recognize.Charlie! I begin to sprint, tripping over the uneven paving. But nothing will deter me. I arrive at our house, watching a German soldier hold a knife to Charlie’s throat as Lizzie is dragged out the front door, a black eye blooming. She glances at Charlie, then me, her eyes widening as she realizes that I am going to try to rescue him. 

The war has taken our parents, Lizzie’s parents, and Granny Thelma. And it is about to take Charlie. But I will not let it. 

I fling myself at the soldier with the knife to Charlie’s neck. Thinking back on the moment now, that probably wasn’t the smartest idea. The soldier could have cut Charlie’s throat then, but he was too surprised by my silent attack. I kicked him between the legs and clawed his face with my ungroomed fingernails. Charlie broke free, shocked out of his stupor. I went to check to make sure that he was okay, when a knife began swinging towards my chest. I dodged, tilting to the side, so instead of plunging into my heart, I took the knife right in my shoulder. Agony ran through my body, but still I stood, my arms spread over Charlie’s small body. They could not have him. 

At this point, Lizzie’s soldier had drawn his gun. She plunged her elbow back, right into his gut, and he doubled over. She ran like a jackrabbit, agile and quick, making it over to our side before her guard could regain his focus. The two soldiers stood side by side, both holding guns. Why they did not shoot, I do not know. Maybe they had orders to take us alive for questioning. 

Either way, I wasn’t waiting for that answer. I pulled the knife out of my shoulder, screaming, and threw it. Straight into the heart of the soldier that had almost killed Charlie. He clearly did not expect this. 

Then, as blood streamed down his chest, we turned and ran, barely avoiding the bullets that streaked after us. It would only take them a short amount of time to get into their military car and follow us, but we had the head start and one of them was wounded. I grabbed Charlie’s hand with my good arm, pulling him along. Where should we go? I wondered. 

Where is the one place they wouldn’t expect us to go? Where wouldn’t the Germans think to look? I scramble for an answer, but then, it hit me. My mind frantically combed the first time we met Lizzie. “Wasn’t there a back tunnel to your hiding spot?” Lizzie’s eyes lit up. “Yes, it starts in the middle of the forest. Come on!” We ran the opposite direction we came, turning into the woods. We ran diagonally and sideways, dodging trees and branches. Charlie tripped over a small bush, and Lizzie and I stopped to help, finding that he had twisted his ankle. We helped him up, hobbling through the remainder of our journey. 

After some amount of time of which I am not sure, my vision started going spotty. I was beginning to black out from pain and blood loss. I’m not sure how much longer it was, but after a while, Lizzie began to dig in a pile of leaves and sticks and twigs, throwing them over her shoulder. I crouched and began to help, motioning for Charlie to do the same. 

A pit was revealed after not too long. Lizzie jumped in first, and I helped guide Charlie down to her waiting arms. Then I began my descent, collapsing as I jumped to the bottom. Lizzie and I helped cover the entrance loosely with the leaves as best we could from underneath. As we walked forward into the dark tunnel, Lizzie began to run her hands along the walls. “I’ve never done it in the dark, but it should be a straight path,” she said, leading the way. 

Turns out, I am claustrophobic. I began gasping for breath, anxiety mounting into a knot in the back of my throat. We arrived in her space, in what appeared to be under our stairs. We limp in, Lizzie supporting me as I support Charlie. I feel tears coming on, but I must be strong for Charlie. I sink against the wall, trying not to let my tear ducts triumph. A fresh surge of pain runs through my body as I slide down the wall. Then, suddenly, everything goes black.

Three days after our attack, we have gathered all of our supplies and are wearing all of our clothes, creeping along backroads. Two days after the attack, a woman showed up at our door, claiming to be Resistance. She had long, blonde hair and blue eyes, but she assured us she wasn’t German. She offered us travel to a Resistance safe house in the Netherlands, if we could only make it to the abandoned train station about a mile away from Granny Thelma’s house. I was reluctant to leave our old home and comfort behind, but war changes everything. 

War has taken so much from us: Charlie, Lizzie, and I. But one thing it will not take?

Our spirits.