The Things We Cannot Say Read online

  Babcia beams at him, then at me. I smile back at her, and for a moment, we’re all just sitting there grinning like fools.

  “Is that all she wanted, do you think?” I ask Mom, who shrugs.

  “To see a map?” Mom surmises, almost wryly.

  Babcia looks from Mom to me, waits a bit, then when she realizes we still don’t understand her, her face twists into a grimace. She has our full attention, but we’re helpless and soon she’s distressed all over again. I’m not sure what to try next, but again, it’s Eddie who saves us. He swipes the screen and flips it back to the AAC, then he hands it to Babcia and he rests his hand against her forearm.

  Every time I see a movie where a character has autism and their single defining feature is a lack of empathy, I have an almost-overwhelming urge to smash my television. Eddie is, at times, challenging, even maddening—but his heart is immense. He might never speak or live independently, but what no one ever tells you is that a well-placed hug from the little boy who hates hugs can entirely change your day. Edison Michaels understands frustration better than anyone I know. He recognizes even its most subtle calling cards, because frustration defines every aspect of his life.

  Babcia types, then plays the words just to make sure we all hear them.

  Find Tomasz. Please Mommy. Find Tomasz. Trzebinia. Poland.

  This time, when Babcia looks up at me, I stop and I really focus on her. Her eyes are bright and clear. She looks determined and frustrated, and not the least bit bewildered. I still have no idea what she wants, but I am inexplicably certain that she knows.

  “Mom,” I say slowly, “I don’t think she’s confused.”

  “Alice, she seems to be telling us that her dead husband is in Poland,” Mom sighs. “Of course she’s confused. Pa is in an urn in her retirement unit, for God’s sake.”

  For the next several minutes, Babcia repeats herself via the AAC, over and over again.

  Find Tomasz. Please Mommy. Find Tomasz. Trzebinia. Poland.

  Mom shakes her head and huffs out a breath, then turns away from the bed.

  “Now she wants to talk about Poland,” she mutters. “Now that she can’t talk. You know as well as I do how closed she and Pa were to talking about their life back in Poland. You and I both went through phases as teens where we all but interrogated the woman about the war and she’d always shut the conversation down.”

  Find Tomasz. Mommy, find Tomasz.

  I look at Mom again, and she throws her hands into the air.

  “She’s calling you Mommy, for God’s sake!” Mom says in exasperation, but I reach down and edit the label on my photo, then press the icon pointedly.

  Alice.

  “Better?” I say to Mom, and she sighs impatiently. Babcia reaches for the iPad again.

  Find Tomasz, Alice. Please find Tomasz. Your turn.

  I take the iPad, and I stare down at her message, then I draw in a deep breath and I type a promise I’m not sure I can actually fulfill.

  Yes, Babcia. Alice find Tomasz.

  She reads the message, then she looks at me and tears swim in her eyes. I kiss her weathered cheek and sigh.

  “I suppose we may as well tell her what she wants to hear,” Mom says stiffly.

  I can understand why Mom said that, but that’s not what I’m doing at all. This is no false promise of assistance to my grandmother to bring her comfort.

  This was the woman who picked me up from school most days and who always had a batch of fresh cookies waiting for me at home. This was the woman who made it to all of my school assemblies and recitals because Mom never could. This woman taught me to deal with heartbreak as a teen and helped me to do my college applications and get my driver’s license.

  But somehow, most importantly, this woman taught me how to be my own kind of woman and wife and mother. I’m the person I am today because of Hanna Slaski, and now that she needs me, I will not let her down. I fully intend to do whatever I can to help her find whatever it is she’s looking for.

  CHAPTER 8

  Alina

  Even in the worst of times, life takes on a rhythm and the days blur into one another. The first year of the occupation was no exception to that rule. Every day ran on routine, and that routine began and ended with thoughts of Tomasz. Most of the time, I didn’t even let myself consider the possibility that I was pining for a dead man.

  There was just so much more to worry about.

  From the day my brothers left, my existence was caged. My parents told me I wasn’t to leave the farm, although they would permit the occasional visit with Justyna at the boundary between our properties. I argued against this, and at first, I was sure I’d find a way to change their minds. I had friends in the town—Emilia and Truda and Mateusz were in the town, and besides, the farm was surely no safer than the township. We often saw Nazi trucks rumbling past on the road at the front of our home. Since the occupation began, even the newspapers had ceased to operate, other than Nazi propaganda publications, which Father refused to read. Wireless too was now banned—Father destroyed his precious radio unit after the decree that any Pole found owning such a device would be executed.

  If I couldn’t leave the farm, I’d be cut off from the world altogether.

  I was desperate for any news at all, but I particularly hoped for news of the work farms or of Warsaw, where I could only assume Tomasz remained. When Father made his trips into the town, I’d beg him to let me join him, but nothing I said would sway him. He promised me he was asking after the twins and Tomasz, but for the longest time there was no news at all, and with my adolescent arrogance, I was certain that I could do better.

  “You have heard about the lapanka, of course,” Father told me casually one day.

  “The game?” I asked, frowning. “Yes, of course, we played it as children...” Lapanka was much like the English game “tag.” Father shrugged.

  “The Nazis play lapanka too, Alina. They block off the ends of a street in the township and they round up everyone inside and cart them off to a camp or prison for even the slightest reason.”

  “I wouldn’t give them a reason,” I said stiffly.

  “Can I see your identity card?”

  I blinked at him, confused by what I thought was an abrupt change of subject. We’d recently been ordered to carry our identity cards with us at all times, but I was still getting into the habit of carrying mine, and besides, we were in the dining room so I knew I was safe enough.

  “It’s in my room, Father.”

  “Well, there is your reason, Alina,” Father said flatly. “If a soldier happened by you and caught you without your identity card, they would take you or maybe shoot you on the spot. Do you understand that? You tell me you want to go into the township, but even here at home, you cannot remember the basic requirements to keep yourself safe.”

  After that, Mama sewed pockets into all of my skirts for my identity paperwork, and I stewed in my anger toward Father. I was certain that he was being unfair, that I was perfectly capable of remembering the rules if he gave me the chance to prove myself. The problem with rage is that it takes a lot of energy to maintain, and the very nature of our situation with the twins gone was that all of my energy had to be reserved for farmwork.

  Whether or not I was allowed to leave the farm to visit with people in the township became a moot point because most days, I didn’t even have the energy to walk to the field boundary for a chat with Justyna. And whether or not I had a pocket in my skirt remained equally irrelevant, because most mornings I still forgot to put the identity card inside. We hadn’t yet had any spot checks from soldiers checking our ID cards on the farm, and while Father’s story of the lapanka roundups in town had frightened me a little, I didn’t yet appreciate how close the danger was.

  Monday to Saturday I toiled with Mama on the land, sometimes working in the fields from before the sun rose
until after it had set again. I’d take the animals to graze before the sun rose, let the chickens out to roam the house yard, and then I’d join my parents in the fields. Almost everything that needed to be done had to be done by hand, an endlessly laborious cycle of plowing and planting and weeding and harvesting, then ploughing again. Mama, Father and my two strapping brothers had struggled to keep up even with my halfhearted help, but now the twins were gone, and with Father’s rheumatism worsening whenever the cold came in, Mama and I had to struggle to maintain the usual workload, effectively on our own. The blisters on my hands grew until they joined and then popped, and the raw skin gradually morphed into a thick, dirt-stained callus that covered each palm. I spent so much of the daytime bending over in the fields that by nighttime, I’d have to lie in a fetal position because my back would spasm if I tried to lie straight.

  I fretted for my brothers and for Tomasz, but during the daytime, the mere act of surviving took so much energy that thoughts of those missing were just background noise beneath the constant terror. We had to make the land work harder because our very survival depended on it. I had no capacity during the long days to think about anything other than work and the dread that would leave me frozen every time we saw a Nazi vehicle anywhere near our gate.

  It was only when the frantic activity stopped at bedtime that I’d let myself focus on Filipe, Stanislaw and Tomasz. I’d pray for my brothers with whatever energy I had left, and then I’d open my drawer, fumble for Mama’s ring and fix my mind for one pure moment on Tomasz.

  Sometimes I relived a memory, sometimes I imagined a reunion, often I thought about our wedding day, planning that victorious moment in irrational detail, right down to the number of ruby-red poppies I’d carry in my bouquet. I could still see him so clearly in my mind—the laughing green eyes, the lopsided smile, the way his hair flopped forward onto his forehead and he’d push it back out of habit, only for it to fall forward again immediately.

  The problem was that once thoughts of Tomasz filled my mind, desperate longing was never far behind. In the quiet seconds before sleep overtook me, I was sometimes overcome with despair at my helplessness, and I’d wake with gritty eyes from having sobbed myself to sleep.

  I had no power to change my lot. All I had was the breath in my lungs and a tiny fragment of hope that if I kept moving forward, I could survive until someone else changed my world.

  * * *

  The quotas for our produce increased and increased. Eventually Father had to load the cart with all of our produce, and he’d take it all into town to hand over to the soldiers. In return, they would give him our allotment of ration stamps. The first time he returned with food, I thought I’d somehow misunderstood the arrangement.

  “You have to go collect the food every day?”

  “No, Alina,” Father said impatiently. “This must last us the week.”

  The rations were not simply scant, they were untenable. Father had returned with a bag of flour, small blocks of butter and cheese, a half dozen eggs and some tinned meat.

  “How will we live off this?” I asked my parents. “We have so much work to do—how can we run the farm with just the three of us when they are only feeding us scraps?”

  “There are plenty who have it worse than us,” Mama said.

  “Worse?” It seemed unfathomable. Mama’s gaze grew impatient, but this time, it was Father who spoke.

  “This is nearly seven hundred calories per day, for each of us. The Jews are only allotted two hundred calories each per day. And, child, you think our farmwork is hard? Come into the town with me next time and see the way the Jewish work crews are being treated.”

  “I want to go into the town,” I said, lifting my chin. “You won’t let me.”

  “It is not safe for you there, Alina! Do you know what kinds of things those monsters have done to some of the girls in the township? Do you know what might—”

  “We will get by,” Mama interrupted him suddenly, and we all fell quiet. It seemed to me that we had a choice: break the rules and survive, or follow the rules and starve, and I was terrified my parents were going to choose the second option. I cleared my throat, and I suggested, “We could just keep some of our food...just a little? We can just take a few eggs or some of the vegetables—”

  “The invaders say that our farms belong to the Reich now,” Father said. “Withholding our produce would see us imprisoned, or worse. Do not suggest such a thing again, Alina.”

  “But—”

  “Leave it, Alina,” Mama said flatly. I looked at her in frustration, but then I noticed her determined stance. Her body language told me what her words did not: Mama had a plan, but she had no intention of sharing it with me. “Just do your jobs and stop asking so many questions. When you need to worry, Father and I will tell you to worry.”

  “I am not a baby, Mama,” I cried in frustration. “You treat me like a child!”

  “You are a child!” Father said. His voice shook with passion and frustration. We stared at each other, and I saw the shine of tears in my father’s eyes. I was so shocked by this that I didn’t quite know what to do—the urge to push and argue with them drained in an instant. Father blinked rapidly, then he drew in a deep breath, and he said unevenly, “You are our child, and you are the only thing we have left to fight for. We will do what we must to protect you, Alina, and you should think twice before you question us.” His nostrils flared suddenly, and he pointed to the door as the tears in his eyes began to swell. “Go and do your damned jobs!”

  I wanted to push, and I would have, except for those shocking tears in Father’s eyes.

  After that day, I put my head down, and I continued in the rhythm where work consumed my life.

  * * *

  On an unseasonably warm day in late fall I was working the berry patch, which was just beside the house at the place where the slope first steepened. An early wind had settled and the sun was now out in full force, so I was tanning myself. At lunchtime, I’d changed into my favorite dress—a lightweight, floral sundress I’d inherited from Truda. It certainly wasn’t an immodest outfit—I didn’t own any immodest outfits—but I had chosen that dress because the cut of the neckline meant I could enjoy the warmth of the sun on my arms and upper chest. I was crouched on the ground harvesting ripe berries and resting them in a wicker basket, periodically plucking weeds as I found them and throwing them into a pile beside the patch. Father was having an unusually bad day—he was in such pain from his hips that Mama had opted to stay inside with him to care for him.

  I heard the truck approach, then slow. I held my breath as I always did when I heard vehicles rumbling past our house, but then released it in a rush when I saw the truck pull into our drive. Just as the roar of the truck engine stopped, there came the sound of the front door opening.

  That’s when I remembered my ID card. I’d remembered to put it in the pocket of the heavier skirt I’d been wearing that morning, and when I’d changed at lunchtime, I’d left that skirt on my bed and my papers were still inside.

  I prayed that they’d leave without approaching me, but I stood even as I did so because I had little expectation that my prayer would be answered, and I didn’t want to be crouching in the dirt alone when they came. There were only two of them this time. One was middle-aged, balding and so fat that it made me angry to think about how much food he must eat to maintain his build. His companion was startlingly young—probably the same age as my brothers. I wondered about that young soldier—whether he was scared to be away from his family, as my brothers surely were. For a moment, I felt a pang of empathy—but it disappeared almost immediately when I saw the look on the boy’s face. Like his older companion, his expression was set in a scornful mask as he surveyed our small home. Even given the slight distance between us, there was no mistaking the disdainful curl of his lip and the flare in his nostrils. With the locked set of his shoulders and the way his ha
nd hovered over the leather holster at his hip housing his gun, it was clear that this boy was simply looking for an excuse to release his aggression.

  And I was standing in a field in a sundress without my ID card, a red flag waving in the wind before an angry bull.

  The older man approached the house, but that young man just stood and stared all around. His gaze traced the tree line at the woods on the hill above and behind me, then shifted ever closer to the place where I stood. I wished and wished and wished that I had some way to make myself invisible, as the young man shifted back to face Mama and Father, his gaze skimming past me.

  I thought for a second he hadn’t noticed me or didn’t care to pay me even a hint of attention, but just as the relief started to rise and I exhaled the breath I was holding, the young soldier frowned, and then tilted his head almost curiously. It was as if he’d missed me at first and had only belatedly registered that I was there. He once again raised his eyes, only this time, his gaze locked onto mine. There was palpable disgust in his eyes, but it was mixed with an intense, unsettling greed. My stomach lurched and I looked away from him as fast as I could, but I still felt his eyes on me, searing me somehow, until I fought to suppress an overwhelming urge to cross my arms over my body.

  I knew I couldn’t stand there, frozen. To do so would draw more attention to myself, and that would only increase the chance of them approaching me, and if they did—I was done for. I knew they wouldn’t let me go into the house to get my papers—that would be an act of kindness, and kindness was not something the Nazis felt the Poles deserved. They considered us to be Untermensch, or subhuman—only slightly above the Jews on their perverted racial scale of worth. I had to act busy—I had to be busy—wasn’t that how we were to save ourselves? Be productive, keep the farm working, produce at any cost—this had been our mantra since the invasion. I tried to convince myself that strategy would save me now too, even in the face of such direct intensity from this soldier. The trickle of adrenaline in my system turned to a flood, and I felt sweat running own my spine right along with it. I started to move, but my movements were jerky and my palms were so damp, and when I bent to pick up my wicker basket, it slipped straight back into the dirt. The hundreds of berries I’d picked all tumbled out, and I looked back up in a panic to see the soldier laughing scornfully, mocking me without a single word.