The Things We Cannot Say Read online

  The hotel lobby is plush, with huge crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and highly polished marble floors, and amongst the other guests mingling in the space, I hear plenty of English—in fact, plenty of English accented just like mine. The driver brings my bag in, and I approach the counter.

  “Checking in?” The young receptionist greets me, again in English.

  “Yes, thanks. I’m Alice Michaels. I have an early check-in arranged.”

  “One moment,” the receptionist says, and her fingers fly over the keyboard, then she looks up at me and winces. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Michaels, your room isn’t quite ready.”

  “Oh—but my guide said she’d confirmed an early check-in? I’m just getting off an overnight flight and I haven’t had any sleep...”

  “I’m sorry. It won’t be too long, maybe another hour or two? You can leave your bag here. Why don’t you go for a walk, find yourself some lunch and come back in the early afternoon.”

  I blink at her. What I want to do is put my head on a pillow and get some sleep. Exploring a foreign city on my own probably wouldn’t sound appealing even on a normal day, but when I’m this tired? Hell no.

  “But...”

  She smiles at me reassuringly and withdraws a map from beneath the desk.

  “You’re here. Old Town is just here, and the Square is there too. Enjoy!”

  I glance at the clock on the wall and see that it’s 11:45 a.m. here in Krakow, which means its 5:45 a.m. back home. I can’t call yet, even if I do get into my room, and I’m starving.

  Looks like I’m going for a walk.

  It’s busy on the street. The traffic is manic, with endlessly congested cars and trams and buses competing for the narrow street space. The sidewalk is packed with people too, all flowing in the same direction I’m headed, so I slip into the crowd and start to walk. Bicycles push past me on the sidewalk, and a few adults ride on skates and rollerblades. It’s now midday on a Tuesday morning, but as I walk with this crowd, I feel a bit like I’m headed to a party or a festival. Soon, the restaurants start—brands I know from home, as well as unfamiliar restaurant names promising “authentic Polish food” and even “authentic American cuisine.” I’m struck by the flowers all around me—brightly colored blooms on live plants are featured in pots on tables and in planter boxes along the street, even hanging in pots from balconies, and cut flowers rest in the arms of men and women as they walk. Babcia’s love of flowers is starting to make a lot of sense.

  I planned to stop at the first appealing place that I came across, but I just keep walking, because everyone else is walking and I thought I’d feel alone, but I don’t. The sidewalk is paved with a delicate cobblestone comprising slightly uneven square granite bricks. Maybe heels would be impossible to manage on it, but I’m just wearing canvas shoes and even the sidewalk seems charming.

  Soon, I arrive at an expansive square, and it’s clear that the crowd and I have arrived, because this is a place that would draw you. There are immense, ornate churches and restaurants and stores around the edge, and young people holding giant strings of helium balloons and carts for lemonade and pretzels and coffee in the center. One young man is working enormous sticks wound with rope, and he’s dunking the rope into a huge bucket of watery bubble mixture, so that when he lifts it into the breeze, giant bubbles float all around the square. Masses of young children squeal and run to pop or try to catch them. Other performers sit on cushions and sing or play accordion or guitar. Several of these have adorable puppies or kittens sitting sedately on cushions beside them, patiently watching their owners work. It’s a magnificently sunny day, but the sunshine has no bite to it, and as I step into the square, I close my eyes for just a moment and I breathe it all in—the sunshine, the laughter of the children as they run around the car-free space, the scent of sausage and beer and even cigarette smoke.

  I wonder if Babcia ever visited Krakow—if she ever visited this square. I wonder if it looked just like this, seventy-odd years ago—the buildings feel old, so surely it did. I fish into my pocket for my phone and I snap a few quick, casual photographs, then I turn the camera around and take a selfie in the square with the buildings and crowd behind me. I stare at the photo, and then I can’t help but grin, because I look exhausted but also, I look happy. Proud. Excited.

  I send all of the photos to Mom and ask her to show Babcia, and then I march across the square to a restaurant with planter boxes of red and white geraniums all along the outside of the outdoor seating area. The menu on display is entirely in Polish, and I hesitate a moment before I walk toward the waiter.

  “Table for one?” he says in English. When I give him a surprised nod, he reaches under a counter and says, “English menu?”

  “Yes, please. How did you know I speak English?”

  “We assume everyone speaks English until they tell us otherwise.” He shrugs. “All young Polish people speak English and so do most of the tourists so...makes sense, no?”

  As I settle at my table, I plan to order the safest dish I can find, maybe just a sandwich, perhaps a strong coffee—I mean, perhaps with some caffeine, I could stay up until a more sensible bedtime and explore just a little. But then I read the menu—and there are no sandwiches on offer at all. Instead, it’s herrings and soups and sausages and odd cuts of pork and something called bigos and stews, and then several pages of varieties of pierogis. And the beverages list is equally decadent—there’s vodkas and wines and beers. So many beers.

  “Have you made a selection?” the waiter asks me. I close the menu.

  “Yes please,” I say. “Can I have a beer and some pierogi?”

  “Which kind, miss?”

  “Surprise me,” I suggest, and he laughs as he nods.

  * * *

  The pierogi is a revelation—but the beer goes straight to my head, so I’m a little too happy as I wander back to the hotel, and more than ready for a nap by the time I get to my room. It’s 7:30 a.m. back home now, so I crawl onto the hotel bed and Skype to Wade.

  “Honey,” he greets me. As the video feed kicks in, I see he’s sitting at the kitchen table. He’s clean-shaven and his hair looks damp. He’s wearing a neatly pressed business shirt—and I normally do the ironing, but I ran out of time this week, so I know he’s had time to iron it himself.

  He looks perfectly put together, and not at all flustered. I’m surprised and kind of impressed.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “You made it safely?”

  “Yep. I just had lunch in the Old Town Square. It’s...”

  “It’s what?” he prompts when I trail off, and I smile uncertainly.

  “You know, it’s actually a pretty amazing city.”

  A broad smile covers Wade’s face, and I am struck by how handsome he looks this morning. Familiarity has a way of masking that kind of observation. I guess that right now, I’m basking in all of the benefits of doing something completely out of routine.

  “That’s great, honey,” he says, and he sounds thrilled for me, which makes me even happier.

  “And things are good there?”

  “Oh sure. Things are fine,” he says, and he smiles again. “All under control.”

  Except that just then, there’s the sound of glass breaking, and Wade’s easy smile becomes panicked. He stands and I see that he’s only wearing his boxers, and then Callie comes flying into the room and she’s still in her pajamas and she’s screaming at the top of her lungs and Eddie is hot on her heels and he’s clutching his stuffed Thomas the Tank Engine and sobbing. The last thing I see before the screen goes black is Eddie’s tearstained face as he picks up Wade’s phone from the table.

  Adrenaline pumps through me as I redial, and Eddie answers on the first ring. He’s staring into the iPad, and he looks incredibly distressed.

  “Eddie,” I whisper, touching the screen with my fingertip.

 
“Eddie, I love you,” he says, and then he drops the phone back onto the table. He’s rocking back and forth and still visible just at the edge of the screen. I can see that he’s pinching his upper arms.

  “It’s okay, darling,” I say, then I call furiously, “Wade Michaels! What the Hell is going on there?”

  “Everything is fine!” Wade calls from somewhere in the background. “It’s all under control, Ally, I just—”

  “Mom...” Callie snatches the phone from Eddie and her face fills the screen. “It is not under control. I told you Dad wasn’t up to this. Dad said Eddie didn’t need melatonin so Eddie hardly slept and he kept us both awake half the night, and Dad couldn’t figure out the iron so he burned a hole in his trousers and we’re not sure what Eddie eats at school and he just smashed a glass because Dad wouldn’t give him his sippy cup—”

  There’s another struggle for the phone, then Wade appears again.

  “Everything is fine,” he says firmly. “It’s all under control. But we have to get ready for school and work now so I’m going to have to say goodbye and we’ll talk to you later. Okay?”

  Everything is clearly not fine, and the urge to fix it for him is almost overwhelming. But seeing my generally unflappable husband who was so sure this would be a walk in the park in this state of panic is kind of satisfying. So I draw in a deep breath, and then I ask lightly, “Did you give Eddie his visual schedule and the social script I prepared?”

  He confirms my worst fears when he says dismissively, “It’s fine, Alice. It’s all fine.”

  “Okay then,” I say easily, although I actually suspect things are about to get worse for my husband given he clearly hasn’t read my documentation so he probably has no idea about Callie’s after-school routines this week. “Well, I’ll talk to you tomorrow morning, about the same time?”

  “Sure...sure...”

  I hang up, and the memory of Eddie’s distressed face flashes before me, and I could almost panic—except that the beer still has me feeling so mellow and sleepy that I convince myself that I can maybe just postpone the panic until a bit later. I mean, there’s not actually all that much I can do to help them right now... I curl up in a little ball on the bed and fall quickly to sleep, and when I wake, there’s a message waiting from Callie.

  Mom. I set up messaging on my iPad so we can keep in touch while you’re away. I miss you and love you very much.

  I sigh and reply.

  Callie Michaels, you know you’re not allowed to have text messaging. And aren’t you at school??

  Her reply comes instantly.

  I promise I’ll only use it with you. Yes I am at school but I explained to Mr. Merrick what I was doing and he thought it was a great technology and geography extension project. So have you seen anything cool? Can you take some photos for me?

  I send her the photos from the square, and she replies immediately.

  Mommy! That’s so cool! We were just talking in class about inspirational figures in our lives and I was going to talk about Grandma but I talked about you instead because it’s so amazing that you’re doing this. Don’t worry about Dad and Eddie. I’d like to say they’re fine, but instead, I’ll just remind you that a few days from now you’ll be back and I’ll help you clean up the mess. Haha. Love you Mommy.

  I decide to focus on the part of that message that doesn’t make me want to run home right this very minute. My daughter actually thinks I’m inspirational. All I’ve done is caught a damned plane by myself, and Callie thinks that’s amazing. There’s something both exciting and depressing about that.

  Love you too, honey bear.

  I put the iPad down and glance at the window. It’s still light outside. I was planning to have an early night in with some room service, but suddenly I’m dying to see what the square looks like of an evening when the city has finished its workday. I pull my shoes on, fix my hair and head out for another walk.

  CHAPTER 26

  Alina

  When the clock struck 10:00 p.m. the next night, Tomasz said, “Come with me.”

  I was dozing lightly in his arms, but I woke immediately at that.

  “Yesterday you said it was too dangerous.”

  “Yesterday I had to visit four nearby farms, then go into the town to see Nadia. Today I am only going next door to the Golaszewski house, and just for Eva. Tonight’s trip is so much less risky, and I would love for you to meet my friends.”

  The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to remain in that cellar without him for a second night in a row, and so we climbed out of our hiding place together and slipped into the night. The moon was full and the skies were clear, but I still managed to convince myself that every shadow on the horizon was a Nazi soldier. By the time we’d crossed the fields to the Golaszewski house, I was shaking with fear.

  “I don’t know how you do this every night,” I whispered.

  “You’ll understand when you see the baby,” he said quietly.

  The Golaszewski house was much larger than my own; their soil was very fertile and their farm was much more profitable than ours ever had been. Jan had added many rooms to the house over the years, and it was now a hodgepodge of materials and building styles. Tomasz avoided the front portion of the house; instead he led me to the back of the structure. I knew the layout of the house, so I was surprised to see where we stopped.

  “Knowing how Jan feels about Jews, I can’t believe he has given your friends his own bedroom,” I whispered to Tomasz. Tomasz sighed.

  “He has walled them in behind a false wall, my love. Even the exit is blocked—they are trapped unless Jan moves a heavy bookshelf in his room. Besides which, as soon as he moved them in, he locked the doors to that part of the house and shifted into his son’s old bedroom at the front to keep a buffer between Eva and Saul and his space. If I didn’t visit to pass food through this vent, they’d die in days. Make no mistake, their situation is dire.”

  A memory sprang to mind of the times I’d been inside the Golaszewski house as a child, before Jan and Father’s relationship soured. I remembered being amazed by how much space they had—it amazed me that parents would have their own bedroom, given my parents had always slept in our living space. I remembered that large bedroom, and I also remembered the tiny little nook at the very back, which had once housed a bookshelf. It would take very little effort to wall in that small nook, but it would leave such a tiny cavity.

  “How do you talk to them...” I started to ask, but Tomasz held his finger up over his lips and bent to the ground level. There was a small rock sitting in the dust at the bottom of the wall.

  “We devised a system so I’d know if they’d been compromised. If the rock is here, it is safe for me to knock on the latch. It opens from the inside,” he murmured, then he stood and knocked on one of the wooden panels on the walls. The panel trembled, then it slid down to reveal a gap in the wall at face height. I caught my first glimpse of Eva’s wide brown eyes and high cheekbones, and a delicate heart-shaped face that I knew would be strikingly beautiful if she wasn’t so deathly thin. Behind her, I could see the interior of the false wall—and as I’d feared, the space was so small the two barely had room to move around.

  For a moment, though, she didn’t seem fazed by her predicament, because all of her attention was on me and her eyes were alight.

  “Tomasz! Is this the famous Alina?” she whispered excitedly.

  “It is,” Tomasz said, and he slid his arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Alina, meet Eva Weiss.”

  “Hello,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

  There was more movement in the window, and then Saul was there, positively beaming at me.

  “I’m Saul, and the pleasure is all ours,” he assured me, reaching out through the window frame to shake my hand. His fingers were bone thin, but his grip was strong. His facial hair was
very dark, which made for a shocking contrast against the ghostly white skin of his face. “We have heard so much about you.”

  “So much,” Eva said, flicking a slightly teasing glance at Tomasz. “All of those months traveling and every day it was the same thing—Alina this, Alina that. It wasn’t enough that he was willing to walk across Poland to get back to you, he had to try to make us fall in love with you too.”

  I glanced at Tomasz, and then giggled a little at the embarrassment that crossed his face. He looked back at me and gave me a rueful shrug.

  “It should be no surprise to you that you were on my mind,” he said. I felt heat on my cheeks.

  I whispered back, “And you were on mine.”

  “Thank you for everything your family has done for us, Alina,” Saul murmured suddenly.

  “It is nothing...” I said hastily, and I meant it. Whatever we had done, it wasn’t enough. Not for these people—who immediately struck me as kind and cordial, despite the desperate circumstances they found themselves in. I was embarrassed in that moment that I hadn’t found a way to do more—to do something real for them beyond letting Tomasz bring them crumbs of food that was probably going to spoil anyway.

  “Nonsense,” Eva said, eyes widening. “You have risked your lives for us, and the food...the food is probably the only reason...” She cleared her throat suddenly, then held up one bony hand. “Well, let me show you.” She bent away from us, and then straightened, bringing a little bundle back with her. “Would you like to hold her?” Eva asked me softly.

  “I... I don’t really have much experience of babies,” I admitted.

  “Just hold her gently against your body and support her head—it’s still quite weak,” she said, as she passed the tiny bundle through the gap in the wall. The few babies I had held in the past were pink and perfect, their faces plump with milk fat and their smiles angelic. Tikva Weiss looked different from the first moment I saw her. She was only a few months old, but the skin on her face hung across the hollows of her cheeks and stretched over her cheekbones, as if there was nothing between the two surfaces.