Rusakov shook his head. “They won’t take me in.”
“They will, or we’ll smuggle you in,” I said. “But we’ve got to get you somewhere to bind that injury, and we’ll all become ill if we stay out here in these wet clothes.”
Together we helped Rusakov to his feet, then Lukas braced his father’s weight while I kept watch ahead. Slowly we made the trek into the patch of trees where a barn stood as silent as the night should have been.
At first I wondered if anyone was in there—from the outside it looked as abandoned and quiet as before, but when I opened the doors, I saw it filled with people.
Their eyes widened in alarm at seeing Rusakov with us, but Lukas said, “This is my father, and he saved our lives.”
They made way for us and let us lay Rusakov on the ground, then a woman came forward and tore at her apron to create a bandage for his leg.
Only then did I look around at who was in this barn with us. We had a little light filtered in through the slats to illuminate our barn, and I welcomed the sight of every person here.
We hadn’t saved all these people. Several of them must have escaped here on their own, though I noticed many injuries, some more serious than Lukas’s father’s. Tears streamed down their faces as they held one another and desperately looked out the barn windows in hopes of seeing even one more person join us.
Ben.
I h
oped if there was one more person, it might be Ben.
We waited there for the rest of the night, huddled together for warmth, until in the early morning hours the priest of the church entered the barn with only a small candle to guide him. His face was grim.
“How bad is it?” one man asked.
“At least a hundred and fifty arrests,” the priest said. “We’ll appeal to the authorities for their release. I hope we’ll have some success, given what else happened tonight.”
But it wasn’t only arrests, or else his face would not seem so pale now, so haunted.
“What else?” Lukas asked.
It took the priest a long time to answer, but as gently as he could, he said, “Some who tried to escape were recaptured and beaten. Another thirty or forty are seriously injured from the initial attack.” The priest drew in a deep breath as he looked around our solemn group. “And we have at least six dead, driven to the river and drowned.”
The news was met with an eerie silence. No one moved or spoke, and if they cried, it was with silent tears and mouthed words of comfort. But no sounds.
I vaguely realized Lukas’s arm was around me, and I leaned my head on his shoulder to cry. I knew we were both thinking the same thing, that Ben had not returned. Would not return.
And he never did return.
It felt like an entire month of silence passed before people began moving again, speaking again. I watched them as if through a fog, as if seeing each person through the same thick smoke that had brought them here in the first place. If only I could have lit the rest of our smoke bombs, or made one that lasted longer. If I’d done just a little more, maybe another ten or twenty or thirty people could have gotten through it. Maybe more people might still be—
“I’m alive because of you.”
I looked up to see a woman staring down at me, her plump cheeks and kind smile reminding me of Milda. Tears still creased the corners of her eyes, but I wondered if maybe a little gratitude was mixed in with her sorrow.
The woman took my hand in hers and gave it a firm squeeze. “You, dear girl, I don’t know how you did what you did for us, but I’m alive because of it. We all are.”
“Thank you,” a man behind her echoed. He hoisted a young boy with curly hair into his arms, probably his son. “Thanks from us both.”
“And from us,” said a girl who was standing with her arm around a woman I hadn’t noticed earlier, maybe her mother. “We were among the first you pulled from the smoke.”
“Thank you,” a voice in back called, then another voice repeated the words, and another. The sun broke through the loft window that morning to warm us, but it was nothing compared to the warmth bursting in my chest. Yes, we had losses, and yes, the night had given us a terrible tragedy. But once again, my people had proved that we would never stop fighting, never stop resisting.
And we would never forget who we were.
The priest stepped toward me and smiled. “You’re the book carrier who does magic.”
I shook my head, aware that everyone had gone silent, waiting for my answer. Suddenly, I was that shy girl again, the one who never wanted to speak if there was any way to avoid it, the one who was certain she had nothing worthwhile to say.