The Things We Cannot Say Page 12

  That’s a problem for later. He’s in the kitchen now, and so for now, it’s his problem, and I’m going to snatch some time for myself while I can. I walk straight to the cupboard, withdraw a bottle of merlot and pour myself a glass.

  “Wade,” I say. He looks at me expectantly, as if I’m about to praise him or thank him. He’s visibly disappointed when I instead ask, “Can you bring me a plate of dinner when it’s ready?”

  “Going to eat in the bath tonight?”

  The man has some redeeming qualities—at least he knows me every bit as well as I know him.

  “I most definitely am. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Wade smirks, then shakes his head.

  “Honey, we’ve been married a long time, so I’m very aware that there’s not much you won’t do in a bathtub.”

  I drink half the wine in one long gulp, then top the glass off before I take a few steps toward the door. An afterthought hits me, so I turn back to the cupboard, withdraw a can of soup and pass it to Wade.

  “Eddie needs to eat too. See you soon. Thanks, and...don’t skimp on the potato?”

  * * *

  I soak in the bath until my skin has wrinkled. It’s my only refuge sometimes, and Wade is right—there’s not much I can’t accomplish as the relaxed, bathtub version of myself. I do hours of reading whenever we encounter a new challenge with Eddie, and most of the time I do that on the iPad or my Kindle here in the bath. Wade used to worry that I’d electrocute myself one day, so he installed a spring-loaded cable to the ceiling. Now, if I drop my device, it bounces up instead of falling into the water.

  This place—the gleaming white tiles, the soothing weightlessness of the water, the magnificent, restorative silence—this is where my thoughts flow uninterrupted. Callie knows not to disturb me in the bath, and although Eddie will eventually seek me out if he needs me, most of the time he’ll just sit in whatever problem he’s gotten himself into until I come find him. That’s an issue most of the time. It’s a blessing when it comes to my bath time.

  I luxuriate in the bath. I am still in the bath—completely motionless, but for the gentle movements of my arms as I read. In every other sphere of my life, I constantly feel like I’m rushing—but not here. This is the only treat I give myself, but I take it greedily—during stressful periods, I take a bath every single day. And yes, on days like today, I’m not above a glass of wine or two here—or even dinner. I can’t say chicken steak is a particularly bath-friendly meal, but I make it work. Then, when the water has cooled for the second time, I sigh and return to the real world.

  Next, I convince Eddie to take his melatonin—the only way he’ll sleep more than a few hours. Then, I convince Eddie to half clean his teeth, a task he still hates, even though I’ve tried every special needs toothbrush, toothpaste flavor and technique known to humankind. Then I convince Eddie to climb into bed, and once he’s settled, I call past my daughter’s room. She’s reading—she’s always reading—so much so that it’s a challenge to find texts that are complex enough to engage her but don’t cover themes that are just too mature for her emotionally. Tonight, she’s engrossed in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy for the umpteenth time, and when I kiss her good-night, she barely looks up from the page.

  Not ready to apologize yet, then. I know it’ll come, so I tell her I love her and leave her be.

  There’s no more prolonging the inevitable—that kitchen needs attention, so I head there next. It takes over an hour to undo the damage Wade did cooking tonight, and just as I suspected, he’s nowhere to be seen. I try not to resent that, because he did help me out today, and in doing so, he significantly exceeded my expectations. Still, my thoughts wander back to Babcia as I clean, and I think about how much easier this whole situation would be if Wade was different—Wade, not Eddie. I can’t let myself wish Eddie was different. Even letting that thought linger in my mind would feel like a betrayal to my son.

  When I finally wander into the bedroom Wade and I share, I’m surprised to find he’s in the bedroom too—I assumed he was in his study working, but he’s had a shower and he’s pulling on his pajamas. I sit on the bed and watch him dress.

  “Want to talk about it?” he asks softly.

  The offer is surprising, but it’s most definitely welcome. I lean back into the pillows and tuck my legs up, then wrap my arms around them, pulling myself smaller as if that will make me stronger.

  “Babcia keeps asking for Pa.”

  “Poor Babcia,” Wade sighs. “Has she...forgotten?”

  “I don’t think so. Mom thinks she’s confused, but... I’m starting to think she wants something else. Maybe she wants some information about Pa, but she doesn’t know how to ask.”

  “That sounds pretty frustrating.”

  “It is,” I sigh, and now dressed in his pajamas, Wade approaches the bed and sits up beside me. He turns me slightly, and I shift to give him access to rub my shoulders. The pressure and the kneading feel amazing, but just as I start to relax, he drops a gentle but lingering kiss against my neck.

  There’s a subtext in that kiss—an offer and a request, and it irritates me to my very bones. Seriously? He thinks I’m in the mood for sex after the day I’ve had?

  I try to maneuver subtly out of his way and keep talking as if I didn’t notice the kiss.

  “I honestly don’t know what we would have done if it wasn’t for Eddie’s AAC app. Her right hand doesn’t seem to be working the way it should—I don’t think she can write.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “The thing is, what could she possibly want me to find out? She lived an entire life with Pa, what question did she never think to ask him? After seventy-plus years with someone, how can they still have secrets from you?”

  There’s a moment of silence as my husband ponders this, then he says cautiously, “You have secrets from me and we’ve been together for well over a decade.”

  “I don’t have secrets from you,” I say stiffly. Wade sighs and drops back to sink into his pillows. I turn around and frown at him. “I don’t.”

  “You’re angry at me all of the time, and most of the time I have no idea why.”

  “Seriously, Wade? You have no idea why?”

  He raises his eyebrows at me.

  “Go on,” he says, taunting me. “Get it off your chest. You’re obviously wanting to vent. What is it today? I’m a shit father? I’m a shit husband? I work too much? I don’t understand how hard your life is? I don’t get what it’s like to sacrifice your career?”

  I glare at him, then I stand, pick up my pillow and head for the door.

  “Go on, Alice,” he calls after me, his tone flat. “Run away and feel sorry for yourself because Big Bad Wade tried to make you have an adult conversation.”

  “You asshole,” I say, and I turn back to him from the doorway and scowl at him through my tears. “She’s going to die, Wade. Babcia is going to die and I don’t know how to help her and you pick today to try to address the problems in our marriage?”

  I see the brief flash of remorse cross his face as I slam the door and walk to Eddie’s room. My son is curled up in the corner of his bed, but the duvet is on the floor beside him. It’s weighted and to me, uncomfortably heavy, but the pressure helps keep Eddie calm, although it also tends to slip off the bed when he’s restless. I lift the duvet over his body and tuck him in, then reach under the bed and withdraw the trundle mattress.

  It’s already made up, because I end up in here pretty often. Usually I come in here to help Eddie sleep, but tonight, it’s for me. Maybe Wade is right. Maybe I am running away, but all I know is, I need comfort from him tonight and not demands, and if I can’t get those things, I’ll settle for space instead.

  CHAPTER 11

  Alina

  Since the invasion, the Nazis had been executing any citizen who provided Jews with material assistance�
��but when this failed to deter some people, they broadened the decree. Now they would execute the family of such a person—women and children included. For a crime as innocent as handing a Jewish person a glass of water, an entire family would now be slaughtered.

  We learned about this new ruling the same way we learned about many of the struggles in Trzebinia, from Truda and Mateusz at Sunday lunch. It was snowing that day, and Emilia was wearing a black coat that was several sizes too big for her, inherited from one of the other children in their street. Her gifts of posies had stalled when the cold came, but Emilia still brought me a drawing each week, often on the back of propaganda pamphlets, because paper was increasingly difficult for Mateusz and Truda to come by.

  That week, she’d given me an artwork in charcoal, a shadowy image of a rose missing many of its petals. I had a pile of such pictures in my room now, the motifs increasingly dark as the world around us was drained of light. Now Emilia drew in charcoal all the time, and she drew flowers in various states of death and, occasionally, sharp, bewildering abstracts. I still accepted each gift with a surprised smile, and she always looked so happy to have pleased me. The moodiness of her pictures concerned me, but I kept them all—I had a neat pile in the drawer with my precious ring.

  That day, the conversation at lunch was focused all around that new punishment for assisting Jews. Truda was sullen in her sadness, but Mateusz was visibly shaking in frustration.

  “It’s just hopeless,” Truda said miserably. “Every time I think it can’t get any worse, they find new depths of cruelty.”

  “This will go a long way to discouraging those who are in the business of helping the Jews in hiding,” Father murmured, and his gaze flicked briefly to me. “People are noble, but when you threaten someone’s children...the very idea can make even the bravest man rethink heroic efforts.”

  “Why do the Nazis hate the Jews so much?” Emilia blurted in her usual fashion. Everyone stared at her, searching for a way to respond, until she slumped a little. “Why do they hate us so much? What did we ever do to them?”

  She was growing up before my eyes, each week a little less innocent than the last. She was a little shy of nine years old, but Emilia sometimes seemed more grown-up than I felt.

  “Hitler wants land and power, and it is much easier to convince an army to die for you when you have an enemy to fight,” Father said, quite gently. “And the Jews make for an easy enemy, because people will always hate what is different.”

  “Some people will help the Jews regardless,” Mama said suddenly. I felt as though she was trying to reassure us somehow. “Some will be undeterred by any punishment. Some will help them no matter what those pigs threaten us with.”

  “And some are making so much gold from hiding Jews that even the threat of death to their families will not deter them,” Mateusz sighed. This was the first I’d heard of such an arrangement, and I was shocked.

  “Who would do such a thing?”

  “They are the worst of our countrymen, Alina, those who profit from the suffering of the innocent,” Mateusz said, suddenly scowling. “They are little more than pigs, just as the Nazis are.”

  “Evil is closer to home than you think,” Mama murmured under her breath as she rose to clear her plate. “That’s why we trust no one outside of this family.”

  There was no mistaking the undertone as she said it—my mother was implying something. I waited for someone to elaborate, but instead, my father shot my mother an exasperated glare.

  “We mustn’t engage in rumors, Faustina. Gossip gets people killed in times like these.” Father’s tone was dismissive, but I frowned at them.

  “Who are you talking about? Do we know someone who would do this?”

  “Please leave it, Alina,” Truda said, nodding pointedly toward Emilia. I glanced at my “little sister.” She was watching me closely, and I suddenly felt embarrassed to be dismissed in front of her, yet again.

  “I am so tired of you all treating me like a child!” I exclaimed. “You want me to pretend I am a fool, that I don’t even have eyes in my head. Does no one in this family trust me at all?”

  “We trust you,” my mother said stiffly. “It is everyone else we don’t trust. And Alina—you are only seventeen years old. You have to accept that there are reasons for the secrets we keep from you. I spoke out of turn. Please forgive me for that.”

  “I don’t keep secrets from you, big sister,” Emilia said hesitantly. Everyone looked at her, and she raised her chin. “I tell Alina everything because she lets me talk to her.”

  “I know you do, babisu,” I said softly, and I reached across the table and squeezed her hand. “And you know I love talking to you.” Emilia nodded, then she frowned at the rest of the adults at the table, as if they’d let us both down somehow. Truda changed the subject then and the conversation moved on, but long after our guests had left, I was still thinking about Mama’s comment. I’d turned it over and over in my mind during the night—thinking of all of the people we knew in the town and the surrounding farms. Some were easy to dismiss—people like Justyna’s father, Jan, who had made his hatred for the Jews clear. But beyond that? Everyone was desperate for food—almost everyone was desperately poor too—and gold could buy food on the black market. Despite Mateusz’s disgust, I could imagine virtually anyone we knew agreeing to hide Jews if there was good money to be made.

  I followed Mama out to the well the next morning when she went to fetch water, and as soon as we were alone, I asked her directly.

  “Who were you talking about last night? When you said people we knew were hiding Jews for money?”

  “I knew you would ask me today,” Mama murmured.

  “Well, I...” I paused, then I said in frustration, “Mama, you have to let me grow up. Even Emilia is growing up, but you and Father keep me locked away like an infant.”

  “One day, when this war is over, you’ll look back and with the passing of time, these things that right now feel like unfair deceptions will seem like mercies,” Mama said, and her gaze grew distant. “It might not be much, but all we can offer you is to protect you when we can, and sometimes that means to relieve you of the heavy burden of secrets. One day you’ll be grateful that we kept you busy and kept your focus on survival. One day, daughter, all of this suffering will be contained in your memories, and you’ll be free.”

  That seemed a dream too unlikely for me to waste energy hoping for it. I slumped even as she said it, and tears filled my eyes. I blinked them away, then whispered, “Do you really believe that?”

  She sighed sadly.

  “Alina, if I didn’t believe that, I couldn’t drag myself out of bed in the morning.”

  * * *

  Spring came again, but it was difficult to find any joy in the blooming of the wildflowers in the grasses around our fields. Mama and I again resumed our frantic schedule to prepare the new season’s crops, but one day when we were working in the field together, I saw Justyna approaching the boundary of her property. She waved to me hesitantly.

  “I think your friend would like a chat,” Mama murmured.

  “Can I go?” I asked. Mama nodded, and I scrambled to my feet and ran to greet her.

  “Hello!” I said, excited at the prospect of a conversation with someone other than my family. “How have you been? I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I know,” she said, dropping her gaze. “Father has kept me busy. I am sure it is the same for you.”

  “It is,” I sighed, but then I noticed the purse of her lips. “Justyna, are you okay?”

  “My aunt...my mother...” she started to say, then she inhaled and said in a rush, “I don’t exactly know what’s going on, but I think my aunt Nadia might know something about your Tomasz.”

  My stomach dropped to my toes because I immediately assumed the worst.

  “Oh no, Justyna...is it bad news?”<
br />
  Justyna shook her head hastily, but then she shrugged.

  “I don’t actually know. I just heard Father and Mama whispering. They were arguing—Father wants us to stay, but Mama wants to take me to go to her other sisters in Krakow. She said it’s too dangerous in the country these days. Father said something about Nadia, and then Mama definitely said ‘Tomasz Slaski.’ I didn’t hear much, but I heard that bit clear as a bell.”

  “Did you ask them what they were talking about?” I whispered, through suddenly numb lips. Justyna nodded, then her gaze saddened.

  “They wouldn’t tell me. Father got so angry when I asked, and Mama is very upset about something—she was crying so much last night. But you know my aunt Nadia, Alina. She is so kind...and she has suffered so much loss herself, I am sure she would be sympathetic to your situation. If you found a way to see her, I know she would tell you what she knows.”

  Nadia’s house was just a few streets into Trzebinia, right on our side of town. I could run there, talk to her and still be home in under half an hour.

  I turned back to look at the house and saw Mama’s eyes inevitably fixed on me.

  “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you. I know your parents will never let you go to her,” Justyna said, her eyes following mine. I swallowed as I nodded. “I couldn’t not tell you, though. If Filipe...back before...well, if someone had news. Any news. I would want to know.”