Free The Girl from Krakow by Alex Rosenberg

nothing.
    At 1:00 a.m. Josep pulled the truck up to the border three hundred meters beyond the single street and stillness of Puigcerdá. The town behind them looked like it had slept soundly through the whole Spanish Civil War, every window dark.
    The border gate barred the road, and Josep had to honk. After a minute or so, a dim light came on in the border hut. Then the door opened, and a man emerged, in a dirty undershirt, wearing the distinctive patent leather hat of the Guardia Civil—Franco’s Guardia Civil, or maybe Stalin’s. Josep must have felt Gil’s shudder. “Not a Guardia . Just likes the hat, I think.”
    The man turned on an electric torch, shined it up to the cab, and put out his hand. Josep handed down the papers.
    “What are you doing crossing at this hour?” He looked from the cards to their faces.
    Gil could think of nothing to say and did not trust his imperfect Catalan. After a moment of silence, Josep volunteered.
    “Doctor. Midwife sent for him. A patient delivering a baby with complications.”
    Coming around the truck, the border guard climbed the running board and looked at Gil, asking in Catalan, “What’s in the case?”
    Gil gave a one-word answer, “Look.” He opened the case.
    The guard shuddered slightly at the sight of the speculum. He jumped down. “Pasad.” He raised the barrier and turned back to the hut.
    Josep stopped at an intersection, leaned across Gil, and opened the door. “You are in France; in another minute you will be back in Spain.” Gil held out his hand. Josep took it. “ Bon viatge. ” Good travels. Two minutes later, Gil was still at the crossroads when Josep drove by in the other direction, going back to Spain. Each gave the Popular Front salute: a clenched fist, arm raised.

    A month later, in November 1938, Dr. Guillermo Romero was a gynecologist on the staff of the Municipal Hospital, Lvov, Poland. It was remarkable how welcome Spanish doctors were in Poland. A medical man with Catalan certification had to be a good Catholic, unlike so many candidates for these positions.

CHAPTER FIVE
    R ita, we must talk.” Urs had just returned from the office. No doubt he had stopped at his mother’s home again, she thought. Eager to deflect him from whatever subject his mother had put in his head, she turned toward the kitchen.
    “Dinner is ready . . . It’s coq au vin .” It was a decidedly un-Polish way of cooking chicken, one that reminded Rita of other countries, other mores.
    As they sat down, Urs cleared his throat. Rita could tell that he was not to be deflected. A set speech was coming. “In the two years since we married, we have made love approximately eighty-four times.” He was going on, but all she could focus on was the fact that he’d been counting. “I know you have been worried about not becoming pregnant. I have not brought it up before because I thought the problem of our having no children might be mine.” Evidently, for this automaton, sexual intercourse really was just for procreation. And suddenly the careful structure supporting Rita’s equanimity collapsed beneath her. She could feel herself sucked down toward a question she could never answer: Why have I done this? How could I have made this mistake? What was I thinking? The emptiness of things was overwhelming her, and it must have showed.
    Urs made matters worse by mistaking the source of her anguish. He moved toward her and surrounded her with his long arms. She resisted his embrace. Without really noticing, he continued, “So, I read. I made a study.” He spoke with clinical dispassion. “I have subjected my sperm to microscopic inspection in the clinic. They are sufficient in concentration per cubic centimeter and in motility.”
    Rita pushed free from Urs and stood. “So, the problem is with me?” She heard the inward command, Get a grip on yourself!
    “I don’t know. It could be a problem between us. But I want you to go to Lvov. I have consulted a physician