The Things We Cannot Say Page 22

  “Mom!” I exclaim. “Just stop!”

  Mommy hurt, Eddie’s iPad says. Mom and I stare at each other in the strained silence, until Babcia’s iPad announces, Alice okay. Julita naughty.

  The voice is robotic, of course, but that doesn’t mean it’s not accusatory. Mom and I both turn sharply toward the bed. Babcia looks pointedly at us—no words required to communicate her displeasure with our raised voices and Eddie’s reaction to them. I glance at my son, and he’s staring at me, visibly concerned and confused. I offer him a smile, trying to project a calmness that I don’t feel at all. Mom is in fine form today and apparently we’re going to dredge up every past disappointment I’ve ever managed to inflict upon her.

  “Mom,” I say, drawing in a deep breath. “May I speak to you outside, please?”

  Mom grunts her reply, then follows me into the hallway. We stand facing one another like fighters in a ring, our breathing ragged.

  This conversation is not new to us, so we both know how it goes now. This is the part where I back down—maybe I go ahead and do what I want later anyway, but at this point in the conversation, I usually concede that she’s right just so I can end the tension. Even when she’s not being downright mean, like today, my mother can run rings around me in any argument. She was a prosecutor for forty years—she knows how to get her point across. In some ways, it’s actually easier to argue with this emotional version of my mother because she’s not quite as rational as she ordinarily would be. Maybe that’s why, today, I’m going to ignore my automatic inclination to acquiesce.

  “She is not confused,” I say flatly. “She knows exactly what she wants. I don’t know why this is so important to her, but it clearly is.”

  “So you’re just going to leave me here to deal with all of this?” Mom says. It’s hard to stop my eyes from widening in shock, because suddenly I understand what this little spat is really about. Mom doesn’t care that I’m going; she cares that I’m leaving.

  The very idea of the formidable Judge Julita Slaski-Davis being afraid of anything—let alone something as pedestrian as being alone is jaw-dropping. I love my mom—I admire her—I resent her—I am intimidated by her—I’m so many things about and toward her, but one thing I’ve not often been is surprised by her, and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt sorry for her before.

  “Maybe it’s time to call Dad—”

  “I am not asking him to come home.”

  “He’d understand, Mom. He’d come right away if you asked him to.”

  “I am not you, Alice Slaski-Davis,” she hisses at me, predictably resorting to my full name as if I’m a child, also predictably refusing to acknowledge that I took Wade’s surname without so much as a hyphen! Mom is nothing if not consistent; she was horrified with that decision ten years ago, and apparently it still smarts today. “I do not and will not rely on a man to get me through this. It is—”

  “Listen,” I interrupt her, because I know we’re about to start the whole Alice-is-a-bad-feminist argument again and it never ends well—or at all, actually. “I don’t want to argue with you about Dad.” Or Wade. Or my surname. Or my mind-boggling ability to survive without a career. “I just want you to understand why I want to do this for her. She’s given me real places, real names...” At least, I seriously hope so. “I’m just going to go to Poland and take some photos for her, maybe FaceTime her once or twice if the time zones line up okay. I don’t really understand why this matters so much to her, but clearly it does and God only knows how much time she has left.”

  “What on earth do you think you’re going to achieve? Who travels halfway across the globe to take some photos? It’s a fool’s errand.”

  “Well,” I say quietly, thinking of Callie’s comments about Wade in the car this morning. “Let me find that out the hard way.”

  I pack Eddie up after that and kiss Babcia on the cheek.

  Today is Saturday. I tell her, via the iPad. Alice home tomorrow. Alice plane Poland Monday. She looks at me, and her brow furrows with confusion.

  “See?” Mom says bitterly. She’s sitting in the corner with her arms crossed over her chest. “I told you we need a translator.”

  I look at the iPad, and for a moment or two I can’t figure out what’s confusing Babcia. She knows the symbols for today and Alice and home and plane and she had no trouble at all finding the flag that means Poland.

  It’s the days. The titles are in English, so she can only use the icons she creates herself and the ones she already knows. A sudden thought strikes me and I hit the settings on the iPad.

  Polski.

  I change languages, and move back to the icon screen. Babcia looks again, and she grins at me and nods. She takes the iPad and I wait as she plays with the device for several minutes. She takes a selfie, grimaces, deletes it and repeats this process several times until she’s apparently happy with the result. Finally, the device reads me a string of robotic Polish. I look at the icons, and find she’s created a new icon and adorned it with a selfie of herself midsmile, and she’s wedged that around grinning clip art faces. I flick the iPad back to English and reread it.

  Babcia happy. Babcia proud.

  Five minutes later, Mom, the head nurse and Babcia all know how to use the AAC as an inelegant translator. I take Babcia’s precious letter and snap a series of photos, trying to catch it in just the right light so that Zofia-the-Polish-tour-guide has a chance of translating it.

  “Okay, I’m going now,” I say, pointing toward the door. Babcia beams. Mom stares at me impassively. “I won’t be in tomorrow, I have to get things ready for the kids. But I’ll be home in six days, and I’ll try to keep in touch via phone and text messages.”

  Mom is still giving me that expressionless stare. I sigh and kiss Babcia, and then I walk around her bed, and I bend to kiss Mom’s cheek too. At the last second, Mom catches my forearm in her hand, then she stands and kisses my cheek in return.

  “Good luck,” she says stiffly. I thank her, but then bolt out the door before she can add the inevitable you’re going to need it and spoil the gentle buzz her farewell has given me. Once Eddie and I are in the car, I grit my teeth and dial Dad.

  “Ally,” he greets me warmly. “How are things? How’s your grandmother?”

  “Not good, Dad,” I admit. “Has Mom told you she can’t speak?”

  “She did. And your mom seems to think the hospital is dropping the ball.”

  “Yeah, I know...”

  “But you think Mom is being a hard-ass, like she always is.”

  I laugh weakly. I seriously love my Dad, especially the oh-so-chill retirement version of him.

  “I kind of do. But, Dad—I actually think Mom needs you. I know she doesn’t want to ask you to come home, but I think you need to. Babcia has asked me to go to Poland, and I’m going to go, so Mom is going to be alone—”

  “Just back up a bit there, love,” Dad says patiently. “What’s this about you going to Poland?”

  “It’s complicated,” I mutter. “Babcia asked me to go and I’m still not sure why, but I’m going anyway.”

  “Well, that’s unexpected. How fun for you.”

  I laugh at the ease of Dad’s acceptance of my crazy quest.

  “This is almost exactly the opposite of how the conversation with Mom went when I told her,” I tell him. “She’s stressed out of her mind—between her work and visiting Babcia at the hospital—I’m a bit worried how she’ll cope if anything happens with Babcia while I’m away. Can you come?”

  “Of course I can,” Dad says, and he sighs heavily. “If she’d asked, I’d have come right home when Babcia got sick. You know that, right?”

  “I do, Dad.” I sigh too. “I really do.”

  “Well, when are you shifting gears from stay-at-home mom to international jet-setter?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon,” I say, then I swallow. />
  “I guess I won’t see you until you get back,” Dad says. “Do me a favor, Alice, and bring me back some vodka. Good stuff—as strong as possible. I think I’m going to need it to deal with your mom when Babcia finally goes.”

  “I can’t even think about that yet,” I admit.

  “Well, my darling daughter, I won the mother-in-law lottery when I met your mother, so I hate to say this—but Babcia is ninety-five years old. Sooner or later, we’re all going to have to let her go.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Alina

  After a few weeks with Tomasz in our house, I started to entertain fantasies that things might go on that way indefinitely. I should have known it wouldn’t last forever. If anything about the war had been consistent, it was that things always got worse.

  The morning everything changed, I’d just said goodbye to Tomasz, and Mama was about to shut the latch so he could sleep. I walked from the house into the fields, knowing she wasn’t far behind me, already thinking about the day’s tasks. Father had been in the town delivering the week’s produce, but I heard him shouting as he returned through the gates. He leaped from the cart and started running—something my Father never did because of his rheumatism.

  “Alina!” he shouted, as he ran toward the doorway. “Run, Alina! For God’s sake, run!”

  He disappeared inside and I sprinted to catch up to him.

  “What is it?”

  The table was shifted and the hatch had been reopened. Mama and Father were crouched beside it, whispering urgently to Tomasz.

  “There is no time. Into the hatch. Now,” Mama said flatly.

  “But what is—”

  She grabbed my forearm and as she pushed me awkwardly beneath the table, I felt the tremors running through her whole body. That startled me into silence, so I climbed quickly down the ladder, and Tomasz took me into his arms. He pressed his forefinger over my lips and he led me to the mattress, then sat beside me. The cellar was thrown into darkness, then we heard the heavy thump of the hatch and the rug, and the dragging sound as the table was pulled into place.

  I’d been into that tiny cellar every day for several weeks by then—but never with the latch closed—and even with the door open I’d still panicked every time. Now, my eyes began adjusting to the dim light, but my brain somehow could not adjust to the stuffiness of the air. Every time I drew in a breath, I was convinced it was my last.

  Breathe in. Oh! I found some air!

  Breathe out. That will be the last of me. Now I will suffocate.

  Breathe in. Oh! There is a little more air after all.

  I knew I wouldn’t stand two minutes in there, let alone two hours, so I had to ask Tomasz what was happening.

  “Tomasz,” I started to say, but he pressed his hand over my mouth—hard, just as I had done for Emilia once upon a time. I peeled his fingers from my face but sat in silence with him, simmering in my frustration, my confusion and—soon enough—genuine anger.

  But I heard the rumble of the truck as it came ever closer—and I knew when it was right at the front door. Until that rumble sounded, I was far more annoyed than I was scared. There was something ominous about that sound from underground—the way it rattled through the earth, as if the cellar would cave in all around us—it reminded me so vividly of those early air strikes and the terror that never seemed to end. I had no idea what the exact danger was this time, because our whole lives were danger by then. I just knew that for Mama and Father to hide me, it must be significant indeed.

  There were muffled greetings—but not muffled enough to hide the subtext. I heard the stiffness of the soldiers’ voices, the hopeful politeness of Mama’s.

  “Hübsche tochter?”

  I was already confused and on edge and terrified, but at the sound of those words, my blood ran cold, because I knew then which soldier was in the house.

  Pretty daughter.

  It was the young soldier from that day in fall, the last time I wore a dress. He was back, and he was asking about me. I was too terrified to cry out, but equally, I was too terrified to control myself and I couldn’t think rationally enough to be sure of what I might do next.

  But Tomasz’s arms tightened around me, and he raised his arm to gently begin to stroke my hair. I closed my eyes and rested against him, and he planted the softest kiss against my temple. I had never understood the phrase “draw strength” from someone until that very moment, because with the entire universe out of my control, the only thing that grounded me into silence then was the strength of his arms around me and the warmth of his body beside me.

  “Gone to Warsaw...” I heard my mother say. “...caring for her sick nephew...”

  Sick nephew? I didn’t even have a nephew—Mama’s lie was outrageous and ridiculous—and what’s more, it made no sense at all for her to tell it. In all that we’d survived to that point, she’d never done something so crazy before. I started to tense up again—because surely, she’d be caught out, and surely, we’d all pay the price for that. Had she lost her mind?

  Then the soldiers’ voices—fiercer now, more determined, and closer, and closer again until...oh my God, they were in the house. They were standing right above us, next to the table that sat right over the hatch.

  Tomasz held me so tightly in that moment that the pressure around my reed-thin arms was painful, so I focused on the discomfort. I needed the stimulus to ground me, because other than that mild pain, all I knew was fear. I heard the soldiers stomping through the house. Heard as they walked into my bedroom—heard the way they mocked our simple life—heard as they walked right past the table again on their way to check for me in my brothers’ room.

  And then I heard the front door close. Everyone was outside now, and the voices faded again, until the truck started up, and then there was silence.

  Tomasz and I waited for a very long time. I thought perhaps Mama and Father would go about their business outside and leave us down there for a while, until they were sure it was safe, but time passed and the door didn’t open, and their voices did not return. Eventually, Tomasz shifted just a little, and he made a sound with his nose that I didn’t initially recognize. I turned to him and waited. I was used to the dark by then, but even so, it took me a moment to realize that his face was shiny.

  “Why?” I whispered. I didn’t know what question I was asking. Why are you crying? Why are they not coming back inside? Why the war?

  “They told your father at the rations station. They told him to go home and pack a suitcase. They told him they were coming for you.”

  “For me? But—”

  “No, Alina. The soldiers came for all of you.”

  “But is this because of me? Because I...”

  I didn’t say it, because I didn’t want to make him feel bad—but was this because I’d helped him?

  “It is simply for the fields, Alina. This morning when he went into the rations station, they told Bartuk they are creating an Interessengebiet—an ‘area of interest’ around the big work camps, and he was to come home and pack a bag and prepare to leave immediately. At least we know now why most of your neighbors have gone. There are tens of thousands of prisoners in the camps now, an army of free labor—and your rations are scant, but still vastly more than the workers receive.”

  “So where have my parents gone?”

  “Alina, moje wszystko...it doesn’t matter where your parents are, we have to leave now. As soon as we can.”

  “Leave the house?”

  “Leave...the district, at the very least.”

  “Leave? You want to leave now? My parents are gone and we have no idea where they are—are you insane? I have to stay! I have to try to help them!”

  “This is bigger than your parents, Alina,” Tomasz whispered. “Your father heard talk of a fence around the whole district. Who knows if this farm will be within that boundary line,
but we need to get out in case it is.”

  “But my parents...”

  “They are resilient and resourceful people,” he said, but the attempt at reassurance was entirely unconvincing.

  Earlier, I had been convinced that I couldn’t bear two minutes in the cellar, but we stayed in there for the entire day. We huddled together under the blankets on the mattress and we listened to the clock upstairs chime away the hours. I cried a little, and sometimes, Tomasz did too.

  When I finally started to feel sleepy, he helped me upstairs and he fetched some fresh water from the well while I used the outhouse. We weren’t able to start the fire or turn on the light, just in case someone was keeping watch on the house from afar, so instead, we stumbled around in the dark. When the time came to climb down the ladder, it occurred to me how difficult it was going to be to replace the table and rug over ourselves without outside assistance, but Tomasz had already made a plan with my parents for a situation like this. He pulled the table over just a little, so that two of the legs no longer rested atop the rug, but the table still covered the hatch. Hopefully, to anyone visiting who had not been before, it would look only like our little table was off center on its rug. It was awkward for him to climb back inside with the table over top, but now, when he pulled the hatch closed, the rug sat flat atop it.

  He climbed back under the blankets with me and he held me until I slept for a while, but when the clock upstairs chimed 2:00 a.m., he roused me with a kiss to my forehead.

  “I have to go,” he told me. I was frantic at the thought of it—and I tried to convince him to stay, but he was insistent. “I need to find out if anyone knows where your parents have been taken, and to take some food for Eva. I’ll be gone a few hours because I will need to go into Trzebinia to see Nadia.”

  “Tell me,” I murmured. “Is Nadia your Zegota contact? Is that why you were so determined that I should stay away from her house?”