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.Zyd. Jew.
    The building that housed the hospital had once been grand, its marble steps and tall columns suggesting a bank or perhaps a government office. Now its stone facade was black with soot and the steps covered with droppings from the pigeons that occupied the eaves. Helena walked through the vacant lobby, past the front desk nobody bothered to man anymore, down the lone gray corridor redolent with old plaster, urine and bile.
    When Tata had told them that he’d placed their mother in a Jewish hospital, the only facility with a bed they could afford, Helena had imagined somewhere dark and exotic, with shrouded men performing strange rituals. She had been surprised on her first visit by just how unremarkable it was—the white walls were bare and the nurses wore simple dresses and caps. The gowned patients were undistinguishable by faith, time and illness stripping away all social division. Save for the tarnished ornaments affixed to each doorway (mezuzahs, she’d heard them called on a past visit) and the occasional rabbi or other visitor in religious garb, one would not know it was a Jewish place at all.
    Helena crossed the ward. Though it was a dismal affair, there were little touches, light-filled windows and slightly wider-than-average beds that said the people who ran it had once cared. Nearing her mother, Helena’s heart sank. Mama had been a beauty, tall and slender with alabaster skin. Now her green eyes were clouded and her chestnut hair dulled to a lifeless gray. The skin below her cheekbones had caved in, giving her a ghoulish look. “Mama,” Helena said, touching her hand. Her mother did not move or respond, but stared vacantly at the ceiling.
    The elderly woman in the next bed listed to one side, her gown hanging open to expose a withered breast. Helena walked over to her and straightened the woman’s head, keeping her own eyes averted as she fixed the woman’s gown. “Excuse me,” Helena said gently, hoping she did not mind the intrusion. The woman blinked, conveying with the simple movement an ocean of gratitude and relief.
    A nurse moved swiftly at the other end of the ward, folding blankets, shifting patients from side to side with deft hands as she freshened the beds. Her name was Wanda, Helena recalled. She was more capable than most of the other staff, and kinder when time allowed it.
    “Dzie´n dobry,” Helena greeted as Wanda neared. The heavy-boned nurse did not respond, but stared downward at the fresh red wound on Helena’s hand.
    As if on cue, the cut from the thorny bush, which Helena had rinsed hurriedly in the icy stream, began to throb. Wanda disappeared into a closet across the room and emerged a moment later with a piece of damp gauze, which she gave to Helena. She closed the closet door swiftly, as though something might escape.
    “Thank you.” As Helena cleaned the wound, alcohol stinging the raw skin, she waited for Wanda to ask how she had hurt herself.
    “She sat up this morning,” Wanda informed her instead, too busy to take further interest in maladies not her own. “Took a bit of broth and even said hello to me.” The words, offered to make Helena feel better, slammed her in the chest. Her mother had been cognizant for a fleeting moment and Helena had missed it. Had Mama felt all alone, confused about where she was and why no one was there with her?
    “Perhaps in the spring when the weather is nicer, I can wheel her outside in one of the chairs,” Helena offered.
    A strange look crossed Wanda’s face. Did she not think that Mama would still be here then, or was her concern larger than that? “With so many Jews gone...” Wanda faltered in her explanation.
    “Where have they gone?” Helena was glad to have the opportunity to ask.
    Wanda lowered her voice. “Some have left the city, or even gone abroad, if they were able. Others have been ordered to the ghetto.”
    Helena shook her head. “Ghetto?”
    “The walled neighborhood in Podgórze.” Helena had