The Things We Cannot Say Page 16

  “So, how did you convince your parents?” he asked me.

  “I told them I wanted to retreat to pray the rosary,” I told him, and I lifted the beads from my pocket to show him. He burst out laughing.

  “And your parents actually believed that you were taking meditative prayer walks in the woods?” he asked me incredulously. I giggled as I nodded, and he kissed my hair again.

  “You need to trust me,” I scolded him gently. “I can keep your secrets, Tomasz.”

  “I have no doubt about that,” he said quietly. “But I have a responsibility to keep you safe—above everything else. It’s risky enough for us to meet just now.”

  “Have you joined the resistance?” I asked him. The Polish underground army had been chipping away at the Nazis for some time—more of an irritant to the occupying forces than a matched opponent—but Truda occasionally brought whispers of a secret newspaper and supplies shipments delayed or destroyed by organized attacks. I was scared for Tomasz—but I was also proud to think he might be involved in those efforts. I had a feeling our liberation was only a matter of time if heroes like Tomasz Slaski were on the job.

  “I am fighting back the only way I know how,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”

  I pulled away to look up at him a little incredulously.

  “How can you even ask me that. Do you trust me?”

  “With my life, Alina,” he said.

  The intensity in his gaze was breathtaking, but I wasn’t distracted this time. I gave him a pointed look and said, “Then you must tell me everything.”

  “I will,” he promised. “I will tell you every excruciating detail, just as soon as I can. But today...let’s sit somewhere here and pretend it’s an ordinary day and the world isn’t going to Hell around us.”

  I sighed and let him take me away with chatter about this glorious postwar life we were going to share once all of the ugliness and the fighting died down. I gave him the bread, and he pocketed it, but promised to eat at least half himself. I wanted to believe him, but somehow, I knew that his “friends” in the resistance would benefit from the spoils of Mama’s generosity much more than Tomasz himself would.

  We kissed goodbye, and although it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m., we said good-night because he wouldn’t risk a visit to me at the window anymore. I ran back down the field to the farmhouse, and I was surprised to find Mama weeding right at the edge of the woods—much closer to Tomasz’s hiding spot than I’d anticipated. She was close enough that if we’d spoken at normal volume, she’d likely have heard us, so I was suddenly very glad that we’d kept our voices at a whisper. When she saw me approaching, Mama asked me wryly, “Has your soul been comforted?”

  “Oh yes, Mama,” I called back, and I threw myself into my chores that day with gusto.

  CHAPTER 14

  Alice

  When Mom arrives from the chambers that afternoon, Babcia is resting peacefully.

  “How has she been?” Mom asks me.

  “So, it turns out she can understand at least some Polish spoken words,” I tell her. “How much Polish do you remember?”

  “None, unfortunately,” Mom says. “I spoke some when I was a kid, but when Pa was studying to recertify as a doctor here he had to learn English very quickly, and Babcia was trying to pick it up at the same time. They banned Polish in our house when I was maybe four or five so that we’d all have to use English at home, and I haven’t used my Polish since.”

  I show her the AAC message history and Babcia’s notes on the iPad, and she pauses and runs her finger over one line.

  “Alina,” she reads, frowning. “Hmm...”

  “Do you know her?”

  “No, but...” Mom’s brows knit, then she looks at me thoughtfully. “Remember? She wanted me to name you Alina.”

  I look at her blankly.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Sure you did.”

  “I definitely didn’t, Mom.”

  Mom suddenly looks a little wistful.

  “She said it was a family name. I grew up with an unusual name, at least unusual for here, and I didn’t want that for you. Your father suggested we use an American variation and ‘Alice’ was as close as we could get.”

  “Why did she call you ‘Julita’ if Alina is the family name?”

  “Well, this almost proves the point. I’m sure she told me at one point that Julita was from Pa’s side, so I guess that means Alina was from Mom’s side.”

  “You’ve never told me this, Mom,” I laugh softly.

  Mom frowns.

  “But I must have told you—because you put your own spin on it with Pascale.”

  I looked at her in disbelief.

  “Mom, adjusting the name ‘Alina’ to ‘Alice’ is a stretch enough already. How on earth do you think Pascale relates to this?”

  “Alina—Alice. Ally—Callie,” Mom says, then she pauses, and says incredulously, “Are you telling me that was an accident? What other reason could you possibly have for giving your daughter a name that shortens to almost exactly the same nickname as yours?”

  “Mom, we named Callie after Blaise Pascal, just like Eddie is named for Thomas Edison—it was Wade’s dream to name his kids after famous scientists, and I just so happened to like those names. I didn’t even notice the nickname thing until you just pointed it out.”

  “Huh,” Mom says, and we both laugh softly.

  I sober quickly though, and I say, “Do you think Alina was Babcia’s mother?”

  “I don’t even know. She just said it was a family name...” Mom frowns, then she looks at the iPad again. “Dziak isn’t familiar at all, though. Babcia’s maiden name was Wis´niewski.”

  Next, Mom picks up the letter Babcia wrote me, and then she scans the older letter—the one we can’t quite read. Finally, I show her the tiny shoe, and recognition and surprise flicker across her face. “I forgot all about that shoe,” she murmurs. “I haven’t seen that thing in decades.” She picks it up and cradles it in her palm with utmost care.

  “Was it yours?” I ask her. She shrugs.

  “I have no idea. It was probably Pa’s most precious possession, other than his US medical board registration once that came. He kept this in a padded box in the top of his wardrobe, and when I was really young, he’d bring it out sometimes and just sit in his armchair to stare at it. Actually, I remember asking him over and over again what it was from, because he would always answer me with silly jokes... One time he told me it was a time machine, another he said it was portal to another world...things like that,” she laughs weakly, then sets the shoe back on the table. “Maybe he got sick of me asking because eventually he stopped bringing it out, at least when I was around. I know you’ve never understood this, Alina, because we tried to be open with you about everything we could right from when you were tiny. Sex, death, Santa Claus...you know how I liked to tell you the truth, as much as you could handle at every stage of your life.”

  That approach had been uncomfortable at times—like the time I walked in on my parents at a very awkward moment, and the next morning they sat me down and talked to me in excruciating depth about love and sex and intimacy and why there was nothing shameful or embarrassing about the whole incident. Somewhat ironically, the single most embarrassing moment of my life was not so much seeing my parents’ naked bodies in flagrante, but the long postmortem the next day. That conversation aside, I’ve always appreciated their openness. There was never any time when I’d ask my mom about something and she’d shut the conversation down—that just wasn’t how she parented.

  “Well, you know Pa and Babcia had a very different approach in life to all that,” Mom says now. “There were things we talked about when I was a kid, sure, but...there were also plenty of things that we did not talk about. My parents had a whole set of memories they just could not bear to face. Everything to d
o with the war was off-limits. Mama would talk about her childhood a lot, but Pa couldn’t even manage that.” Mom hesitates suddenly, then she sets the shoe down onto the tray table and she glances at Babcia’s sleeping form. “Maybe it’s a crazy theory, but sometimes, I wondered if Pa was actually Jewish.”

  I look at her in surprise.

  “But he always came to Mass with us at Christmas and Easter.”

  “Yes, but the Catholic church was definitely Mama’s passion—Pa never once went without her. And even when he did go, he never took communion, and once they moved into the care home, I think Mama was taking him to a synagogue. I asked her about it a few times, even directly once, but she dismissed the question and just said they were spending some time with friends who happened to be Jewish. I mean—that retirement home has a great Jewish community, so that did make some sense. But...” She hesitates, then shrugs. “They left Poland bang in the middle of the Holocaust, and I do remember Mama telling me they were petrified when they arrived here and realized that America wasn’t the multicultural paradise they assumed it would be. Mind you, I have no idea what actually happened to them in Poland, but if Pa really was Jewish? Well, you don’t need to be a historian to know it would have been Hell on earth.”

  I look down at Babcia, my chest constricting as, just for a moment, I try to picture my sweet, compassionate grandparents surviving in Nazi-occupied Poland. Pa was the kind of person you only meet a few times in a lifetime—whip-smart and determined, but also humble and generous to a fault. As for Babcia, she’s tough as nails, but she’s always been so optimistic and sometimes too quick to believe in the goodness of people.

  I can’t even begin to understand the kind of resilience my grandparents must have possessed to survive that war, and remain gentle in spirit the way they did.

  “Did they ask you to take them back to Poland?” I ask Mom quietly.

  “Yes and no,” Mom says. “Pa was adamant he would never go back. I think that’s why Mama didn’t even entertain the idea until he got sick. Then she asked me right after I took the district court posting and there was just no way I could take the vacation time. In fact, the timing could not have been worse for any of us. And frankly, I was a little annoyed she waited so long, just like I’m annoyed about this photo nonsense now. You know as well as I do, Alice—your father and I went to Europe several times when you were a kid—long before Pa got sick. Why didn’t she ask me then? I’d have gladly added a stop in Poland if all she wanted was some photos.”

  “And there’s no one back there we can contact?” I ask. “No one at all?”

  “She used to send letters to her sister, every week for years and years.” Mom glances at the iPad again, then reaches for it and unlocks it. “Well, I thought it was her sister, but... I remember her saying she was trying to write to ‘Amelia.’ But look—she’s written Emilia Slaksa. I wonder if that’s who she was writing to? Slaksa... Slaski...maybe it’s a typo... I wonder if it was a relative on Pa’s side?”

  “Did they fall out of contact?” I ask, and Mom looks up at me.

  “Oh no. Emilia or Amelia or whatever her name is never responded. Eventually I think Babcia had to accept that she’d died. I’m sure you know Polish history about as well as I do—even once the war ended, the country was occupied by the communists for decades and things were still really rough there. Who knows where this sister of hers ended up, if she was even alive after the war ended. You know, I was well into adulthood before Babcia gave up with those letters. She must have sent hundreds over the years...” Mom pauses, then adds softly, “Actually, maybe it was thousands.”

  “Poor Babcia,” I whisper, my throat tightening. “I can’t even imagine what it would be like to leave everything like that and not know what became of the people you’d left behind.”

  We stand in silence for a long moment, then Mom asks, “So, did she understand when you told her you can’t go?”

  “I...” I swallow, hard. “I didn’t tell her I can’t go. Not yet. It’s hard to say with the AAC. I need to explain to her all of the reasons why it’s impossible. I’ll have to think about how to word it tonight.”

  “Surely she understands this is just asking too much of you.”

  “I don’t know,” I say. It’s too hard to explain to Mom why I’m so tempted to try to find a way through the difficulties of my home life to actually fulfil this crazy quest, because so many of my motivations start with when Mom was too busy working to give me what I needed, Babcia filled the gap.

  “Who knows what’s going on in her mind? She’s probably confused.” Mom sighs. “Maybe she’ll forget she even asked this tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” I agree weakly, but then I glance at the time. “I have to go pick the kids up. I’ll bring them by a bit later so they can see her.”

  “Fine,” Mom sighs, but then her weary gaze brightens just a little. “You’re bringing Callie too this time?”

  “Yes, Mom.” I match her sigh with my own. “Callie too.”

  I’m back at Babcia’s bedside within an hour, this time with both kids in tow. Eddie climbs up to snuggle into Babcia’s side. He pulls the tray table over their legs and he tries to make the precious dreidel spin. After a few attempts, Callie gets impatient, snatches it from his hand and sets it going. Eddie sucks in a delighted breath, then he squeals and claps his hands.

  Callie greets Babcia, but quickly falls into a conversation with Mom about her school day. Babcia’s eyes follow me as I move around the room. I keep my body busy just to expend the frenetic energy generated by my racing thoughts. I toss out some old flowers in a vase from earlier in the week and adjust and readjust the blinds as the afternoon sunlight grows too bright. I’m vaguely aware of Babcia using the iPad, but I’m startled when it speaks for her.

  Alice home now. I turn back to Babcia in surprise. She looks pointedly at me, then she turns back to the iPad. Alice home now. Later, Alice plane Poland.

  “What’s she talking about?” Callie frowns.

  “She’s very ill,” Mom tells her sadly. “She’s not making much sense at the moment, darling. You needn’t worry.”

  But Babcia is making sense to me. And it’s becoming increasingly apparent that she’s not going to let this drop.

  CHAPTER 15

  Alina

  Each day over the next few weeks, Tomasz and I would sit in the woods holdings hands or embracing—happy enough just to be together. On the very best days, he’d spin a tale for me—usually a tale about us escaping, moving far away from the war and the occupation and the sadness and the hunger. One day, I was sitting on a log, leaning up against a tree trunk, and he was resting on the ground, his head on my lap as I played idly with his hair. I’d trimmed his hair and beard a few times since his return—sneaking scissors under my coat to help tidy him up. I did a woefully bad job of it, but I took an immense amount of pleasure from being able to do that one small thing for him.

  “Where should we go today?” he asked me. I pondered this for a moment, running through the very limited list of countries I knew about, but I settled on his favorite fantasy.

  “America,” I said.

  “Ah, America is a very rich country, you know. We would surely live in a mansion,” Tomasz said, and a big grin covered his face as he glanced up at me.

  “I’d settle for a house,” I sighed, because at least that day, I wanted the fantasy to be a little realistic. But then I paused, thinking of my parents’ tiny place and how much larger the home Tomasz and Aleksy and Emilia had once shared. “House” could mean so many different things, even in Poland. I couldn’t fathom what homes would look like in a wealthy country like America. “A big house, mind you.”

  “Well, we’d need a big house,” he agreed, and when I looked down at him, his eyes crinkled. “For our eleven children, of course.”

  “Eleven!” I gasped, then I laughed. “This is my fantasy, Toma
sz, so I get to pick the number of children we have. We’ll have a small family—just four.” I paused, then added, “Okay, maybe five, but certainly no more than six.”

  “And I’ll be a doctor, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I be a specialist doctor in this fantasy?”

  “A specialist?” I said, then I looked at him in surprise. “What kind of specialist?”

  “A children’s doctor,” he smiled.

  “Do children have their own doctors?” That seemed as unlikely as the idea of us living in a mansion.

  “In Warsaw they do,” Tomasz told me. “I am sure it would be the same in wealthy countries like America. Pediatricians, they are called.”

  “I didn’t know you wanted to do that kind of medicine.” I gave him a confused smile, and he drew in a sharp breath, then exhaled it slowly.

  “At college in Warsaw, I studied under all kinds of specialists in the hospitals. For example, at the Jewish hospital, I met a surgeon.” A look of sadness and regret crossed his face. “His name is Saul. He inspired me so much—he made me think that maybe there’s something to that more focused path. But surgery is not for me. I like talking to people...putting them at ease. I like the idea that if we ever find a way out of Poland and I can study again, I’d dedicate my life to children.”

  “We don’t need to leave Poland for you to study again,” I laughed softly. Tomasz turned his gaze back to me and sadness sparked in his gaze.

  “Perhaps we do.”

  “But...when the Nazis leave, the universities will reopen. You can go back to Warsaw. And trust me, Tomasz, no one is going stop me from coming with you this time.”

  “Alina,” Tomasz said abruptly, and he shifted on the ground, then sat up so that he was facing me. He reached up for my hands and held both of them between his, resting them on my lap. I could tell from the intense expression on his face that he was about to say something I didn’t want to hear. I resisted an odd urge to cover my ears like a child. “Even when the war ends, we can’t stay here. It will be years before the universities run as they should, and I will never be able to rebuild a life in Warsaw or even in Krakow. We will need a fresh beginning.”