Chapter 6
Anya's Unease
Anya observes Janek's haunted eyes and the strange tremors that wrack his body. She fears the war is breaking him, unaware of the true, grotesque burden he carries.
The chill of the cellar seeped into Anya’s bones, a damper cold than the usual Warsaw damp. It was a deeper, more pervasive chill, one that had nothing to do with the crumbling plaster or the damp earth floor. It was Janek. He sat across from her at the rough-hewn table, his face a mask of exhaustion, but it was more than that. His eyes, usually so full of a fierce, protective fire, were hollowed, dark pools that seemed to stare through her, through the room, into some abyss she couldn’t fathom. He hadn't touched his soup, a meager broth of potatoes and what little was left of their dried herbs.
“Janek?” she ventured, her voice a soft rasp against the oppressive silence. He flinched, a sudden, violent tremor that ran through him, making the chipped enamel cup on the table rattle. He brought a hand to his temple, his knuckles white, and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Just tired, Anya,” he murmured, his voice rough, strained. But the tremors… they were becoming more frequent, more violent. Sometimes, when he thought she wasn’t looking, she’d see his hands clench and unclench, his fingers twitching as if trying to grasp something that wasn’t there. And the way he’d stare, that vacant, unfocused gaze that made her heart clench with a fear that had nothing to do with the Nazis.
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