"Fyedka?"
"Hmm?"
The young man propped himself up on his elbow, his cheek resting on his fist. The soft mattress underneath him softened his movements, and the pulsing winter night settled in as there was no answer.
"Chava?"
The small figure next to him turned, red hair spilling around her shoulders. Her intoxicating perfume still lingered on her skin as she stared out the window, the covers clutched tightly around her body.
"Where are we?"
Silence.
The young man bit his lip, not sure how to answer. The border had been closed off, the only way out could be dangerous…
"I think Poland, vhy?"
His heavy accent gave his heritage away. His past was spent wandering the Russian hills, the open fields, the snow storms every winter, but his blue eyes and blonde-red hair gave away his true identity. The "perfect" race as his mother said he was. She talked about how Wilhelm II would be proud of her "pure" boy. He was tall, lean, not exactly well-built but could take care of himself. His parents had always boasted how they were here in Russia to spread the good word of their great leader.
Where were they now? Rotting in a jail cell because of the revolution?
Kraków, he could almost taste the freedom. He'd gotten her this far… it would be safe there. Jews were welcomed as heroes, they'd never be prosecuted. This talk of a world war would end and they'd live there in peace. It was only a matter of time before fate caught up with them…
The girl shifted next to him so they could look at each other. Her pale skin was almost white in the shadows cast from the moon, her freckles standing out more than ever on her nose and cheeks. To most, she was plain, but at this very moment, she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Worry lines creased her forehead, though she was not yet eighteen. Young, vulnerable, afraid…
"I'm scared, Fyedka," she answered at last, almost afraid to admit it. "What is to become of us in this world?"
His tender arm wrapped around her and he buried his face into her soft hair. "No Chava, no. We're safe. We'll always be safe."
"Where are we going?" she asked meekly. "I hardly remember anymore."
He couldn't answer that. He kept praying for a way out, to leave this damned country. They'd heard the rumors of the end to the German Empire and their feelings of the Jewish people. He didn't hide his concerns, and his love could tell for the way he looked upon the dirt road they set out on every morning. His eyes would harden, and she could tell there was something terribly wrong with this world.
He shook these thoughts from his head and stroked her hair, letting it tangle in his fingers. His tender touch against her skin blocked out all fear for a moment, and she sighed softly. She sat up and reached into a nearby bag and took out something small with a leather cover to it. Very softly, she turned back to him and pressed it into the palm of his hand.
"Do you remember this?" she asked, brushing her hair from her face.
The book, of course he remembered. It was the reason they met. It was a stupid move, offering her a book to make up for his friends harassing her, but there was something about her that made him unable to resist doing it.
"Yes," he said, sitting up, cross-legged from her and opened it, flicking through the covers. A smile crept onto his lips as he saw a dandelion pressed between the pages, being used as a bookmark.
"I never gave it back to you," she giggled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "Papa wouldn't let me. He didn't want me talking to some no good 'German' boy."
He ran a hand through his hair and set the book in his lap, reading a paragraph aloud:
"So he fared through the bitter winter. He was very happy. He had hungered for freedom, love, and appreciation so long! He had been unspeakably lonely at home; and the utter loneliness of a great desert or forest is not so difficult to endure as the loneliness of being constantly surrounded by crows of people who do not care in the least whether one is living or dead…"
His voice trailed off, tears in his eyes. The girl, touched, reached out and placed a hand on his cheek. For a minute they say quietly like that, before he pressed the book to his chest. They both leaned toward each other until their foreheads were touching, nearly nose to nose. The young man put the book on their touching knees and held her hands in his.
"Chava," he said, the 'ch' hard and accented. "I promise you'll see your family again."
She looked down, blushing, before looking back up and him and smiling. "Just pray Papa doesn't crack your skull open."
A smile broke across the young man's face, before a giggle escaped the girl's lips. In a matter of minutes, they both fell back onto the bed, howling with laughter. The city around them was sound asleep, whatever that city was, for they did not know and maybe never would. All that was for certain, was that a young couple was laughing as Russia awoke, and somewhere far in the distance, you could just make out the sound of a lonle fiddle… calling them home.