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the Poles about the Russians,” said one man, and the laugh was louder this time, but with the same sad edge to it.
    The Russian was not offended. He nodded. “He can stay. He’s the Mechanik.” He gave the word the Polish pronunciation. “We may need him, God willing.”
    She kept the gun in the Russian’s belly for a second so he could see that she would never waver, never, and he understood. She lowered the gun.
    “But do you have guts? She showed us. Now it’s your turn.”
    There was a muttering of approval.
    “Where is this motorcycle?”
    “Back there. In a ditch beside the road. Under some brush.”
    “Then you have to go back and find it. Walk it up the road. Keep walking until you reach the first dirt track turning into the forest. Turn off on the track and walk until we find you.”
    She stared at them. “No.”
    “I’ll get it, darling. Don’t worry.”
    “He needs food. He’ll get lost. He’ll—”
    “You get the motorcycle and bring it back. Then you’re one of us, Mechanik.”
    She watched her husband turn and walk into the trees. He began a staggering lope, trying to move faster than his strength would allow. He was weak because he always gave his food up to his children when she wasn’t watching. She knew he was hurrying to try to find them. She knew it. For a moment she hated those children.
    The Russian was pleased. They would either acquire a motorcycle and a mechanic or the man would be killed. If he was killed, it was a sign that he hadn’t been able to survive and they were right to test him first. Of course, if he was tortured, the man might tell where he had come from—where in the woods he had last seen the partisans. But that would also expose the woman. He wouldn’t want to do that. It could be dealt with. They would move fast. He began to unfasten his pants. “Piss now. Shit if you can.” The men began to unfasten their pants.
    “You too.”
    “You do this next to where you live?” She was scornful. She knew all about hiding excrement. They had hidden their shit for months so the Nazis wouldn’t find them.
    “We don’t sleep here. We just want to leave our stink so if they bring dogs they’ll think they’ve found our camp.”
    “We don’t live this nice,” said a younger man whose ears stuck out from his head and had reddened with the cold. His round face was very young. “Not nearly this nice.”
    The men laughed. “Listen to Lydka. He’s right.”
    The woman smiled. The boy’s nickname, Lydka, suited him. He moved restlessly, with the springy walk of a young calf.
    She squatted and pulled aside her pants so the piss wouldn’t wet her. The men paid no attention. Her mind went to her husband, alone and running through the woods, back toward the hunters and dogs. There was nothing she could do for him now. She thought of the black and silver of the uniform splattered with red blood. She thought of the dead German, and she was happy for the first time in four years.

Brother and Sister
    H eavy snow had begun to fall. Gretel and Hansel sat watching Magda’s hut for nearly an hour. Every few minutes they stood and jumped up and down to get warm and knock off the snow.
    “Take a piece of bread. She won’t know.”
    “We can’t make her angry. Wait, Hansel.”
    Another hour went by. The door opened and Magda came out, ignoring the children and walking past them to the woods. She moved slowly, her back bowed with arthritis.
    “We can help.” Hansel moved after her.
    “It won’t do you any good. I can’t help you.” Magda talked without turning. Occasionally she leaned over and picked up a piece of wood. “There’ve been others. I couldn’t take care of them either. Walk a mile toward the sun. There’s a village. I can’t keep you.”
    Hansel dropped Gretel’s hand and began to pick up wood. He filled his arms, grunting with the effort, and Gretel picked up wood until she was breathing hard. They had walked for too long, and Hansel was giving a