by Kelly Rimmer
“The address she gave you is not far along this road,” Zofia murmurs. “We’re headed to that house over there on the left. It’s quite unusual to see a prewar house in this district...we’re lucky it’s still there.”
“Because it’s so old?”
“No—just because farmhouses in this region generally didn’t survive the occupation. I’d say what saved that one is the construction material—if it were brick, it would be gone too. The Nazis deconstructed all of the brick structures because they couldn’t manufacture bricks fast enough to expand the second part of Auschwitz—the camp they called Birkenau,” she says. “That’s not far from here, and I’m pretty sure this property would be just within the twenty kilometers they designated for their ‘area of interest.’ They basically cleared the farms of all residents so they could put up a big fence and make sure no one inadvertently saw what they were doing in the camp. They did it under the guise of making a huge work farm—which was true too, of course, they did farm much of this land but...secrecy was the real goal.”
“I can’t even imagine living in such a small house,” I admit. The house is probably only the size of my living area at home, maybe even smaller.
“It was a different time. People’s expectations were different.” Zofia pulls up into the drive, then glances at me. “And here we are.”
I stare down the drive at the house and the woods on the hill beyond it, and to my surprise, I recognize the scene before me. I’ve never been here before and I know nothing about Babcia’s life during the war, but I know all about her childhood. I’ve heard about the woods on the hill behind her home and the township on the other side. She told me she lived in a very small house with a large barn. She told me the land was poor because it was so rocky and most of their fields were steeply sloped.
And that’s exactly the scene before me.
“Is that hill called Trzebinia Hill?” I ask Zofia. She tilts her head.
“I don’t think that hill has a formal name, but the township of Trzebinia is on the other side, so I suppose that would make sense.”
“Babcia told me so little about her life once the war began, but she always told me stories about her childhood...life with her brothers and her sister and her parents on their tiny little farm,” I say to Zofia. “This is everything she described to me, and it is exactly as she described it.”
I am totally caught off guard by the swell of intense emotion that rises as I step from the car. There is something unexpectedly profound about being here—in this country that was my grandmother’s home and a place I have always understood she once loved very dearly and has always missed. I feel Zofia’s patient gaze on my face, and I try to blink the tears away, but one escapes and rolls down my cheek.
“Do you need a minute?” she asks softly, and I clear my throat and shake my head.
“It’s so silly...” I mutter through my embarrassment. “I can’t quite believe I’m here. I’ve always known her as the other version of herself, you know? And this is like a glimpse into...” I clear my throat, unsure if I am expressing myself adequately. “This is just a farm, right? An unimpressive one at that, and we can’t even be sure it’s the one she told me about. I don’t know why I’m so emotional about it.”
“You’re looking at it all wrong, Alice. This might be ‘just’ a farm to anyone else—but to you? It’s clear just by your willingness to come here that you have a great depth of love for your grandmother. This may be a piece of your own history, and it’s a history that was lost to you until now. I’ve helped people track their ancestors before, and the smallest things are sometimes unexpectedly intense.”
I nod, and another tear trickles over onto my cheek.
“I just wish I had come here when she could travel with me,” I whisper, then I impatiently swipe the tear from my cheek and clear my throat one more time. “I wish she’d been able to tell me more about her life here. I wish she was just standing here with me, telling me the things she wants me to know.”
I stare at the house, set against that odd little hill, framed by the thick green woods behind it and the shock of deep blue sky that stretches above. The scent of dust and grass hangs heavily around me, and the breeze stirs my hair. I breathe in that country air, taking it deep into my lungs, as if I can store the memory of it, as if I can take it home with me.
There’s a rusted and low chain-link fence around the yard, with a gate at the front. The lock on the gate seems a little redundant—it would be easy to jump the fence anyway, and I have a feeling that with a little pressure, the hinges would give way. Zofia approaches the gate, then looks back at me expectantly when I hesitate.
“Are we going to trespass...?”
“If trespassing bothers you, perhaps you’ve just come halfway across the globe for nothing,” she laughs. I still hesitate, and she waves her arm around expansively. “Look at the property, Alice. No one is living here. Most likely it’s abandoned and has been for decades—that’s not at all uncommon. More recent generations either can’t or won’t make a living from small plots like this one, so sometimes the land just wound up left behind. In this case, perhaps there was no one left here to take the property on after the war.”
“There are car tracks in the grass,” I point out, and Zofia shrugs.
“It’s not so recent.”
Beyond the gates, I can see what amounts to something of a rough driveway through the grass, leading past the house—but she’s right, the grass is bouncing back even along this path—it’s hardly in frequent use. Zofia jumps the fence and starts walking along the quasi path. I’m still nervous to trespass, but it doesn’t look like I have much choice.
“Are there snakes here?” I call after her, and her soft laughter at the question carries on the wind past me. I decide to take that as a no, and I climb carefully over the fence, then jog a little until I catch up to Zofia. I stare at the tiny house as we walk. The roof is made of corrugated concrete tiles, but it sags in places. The walls still look sturdy enough, but that roof looks like it could cave in the next time a leaf lands on it. I can see two wooden structures beside the house—a tiny outhouse behind, and what I assume is a barn in front of it. The barn roof has indeed caved in, along with one of the narrow walls.
The electricity poles on the road run right past this house, and I have a sneaking suspicion that outhouse might not connect to a sewer. I don’t have the best eye for the size of spaces, but Wade’s brother has a hobby farm in Vermont. That property is twenty acres—and this feels maybe half that size. And the house feels even smaller now that I’m close. Babcia and Pa’s house at Oviedo was at least ten times as big, maybe more. I know they lived elsewhere in America before that big house—Mom remembers living in some very ordinary places as a child while Pa’s medical certification was recognized, but even so, to Babcia, it must have been quite the culture shock to shift from this life to the one she landed in once she arrived in the US.
I step gingerly through the long grass until I can snap a photo that includes both the house and the barn, then send it back to Mom.
Please show Babcia. This is the first residential address on her list. We can’t find birth records for Babcia here in Trzebinia and the guide thought that might mean she was born elsewhere, but this looks exactly as she described her childhood home to me.
It’s 6:00 a.m. back home, so I know Mom will be on her way to the hospital before work but I expect it will still be some time before she replies. Zofia and I wander around the house separately. She heads toward the barn; I walk right up to one of the small windows at the side of the house to peer inside. It’s difficult to see through the tattered curtain and dust that clings to the pane of glass in the window, but from what I can see, it appears the building was split into several tiny rooms. As my eyes adjust to the darkness inside, I can see a living room of sorts—there’s a potbellied stove, sofa bed and small dining area. The table and
one of the chairs are both off center, as if someone has stood up too roughly from dinner and failed to put it all back in place.
I wonder suddenly if this house has been abandoned since the war. If so, I’m looking through a window but seeing back in time almost eighty years. I have no idea how or why Babcia came to leave this place, but it’s unexpectedly eerie to think that I might be staring all the way back into that point of her life. Maybe she was sitting at that table when the moment came when her life changed forever, and maybe that journey she began that day ended all the way in America and with our family.
Just as I step away from the window, my mom calls.
“Hi,” I smile down the camera lens.
“Alice, hello,” Mom says. “I have one very excited grandmother here.”
She turns the phone to Babcia, who has tears pouring down her face, and is grinning at me like I’ve just discovered the holy grail.
“Jen dobry, Babcia,” I say, and she gives me a delighted smile and an awkward clap. I flip the camera and walk all around the house—showing her the fields, the decrepit barn and even the long-overgrown yard around the house. As I walk around, I shift my gaze from the fall of my steps to her reaction on the screen. I watch the dawning joy and sadness and longing on her face, and I know we’re at the right place.
I can’t help but imagine this scene playing out in a very different way if we’d made this trip together ten years ago. I’d have asked her a million or more questions. Maybe she’d have answered some.
“Alice,” Mom interrupts me, after a few minutes, and then it’s her face filling the screen again. “I need to get to chambers. Is that it, then? She seems...” Mom’s eyes flick from the camera, then back to me. She shrugs and smiles, and her sudden approval is quite dazzling. “You know? She suddenly seems incredibly happy.”
“Good,” I say, and I beam at her. “Good.” I pause, thinking again about that missing birth record, then ask, “Mom, did she ever tell you she was born in the house she grew up in?”
“That’s right. She and her twin brothers and her sister were all born at home.”
I glance at Zofia. She’s tilted her head to the side and she’s staring at the iPad curiously.
“Huh,” Zofia murmurs thoughtfully. She raises her voice a little as she confirms, “Twin brothers, you say?”
“Hello there,” Mom says, frowning. “Who is that, Alice?” I adjust the camera so that Mom can see Zofia, and Zofia waves and smiles.
“Mom, meet Zofia, Zofia meet my mom—Judge Julita Slaski-Davis.”
“It is so lovely to meet you, Julita,” Zofia says. “Tell me, was Hanna the youngest of her family?”
“That’s correct. She used to tell me she was the spoiled baby girl, although I don’t imagine spoiled in her childhood context means the same as it does in ours.”
“Do you know her siblings’ names?”
Mom looks uncharacteristically uncertain.
“I always thought the sister’s name was Amelia, but then we saw the list she wrote for Alice last week and it said Emilia so I’m not really sure...”
“Emilia was Pa’s little sister,” I confirm for Mom, and she sighs.
“I’m really not at all sure how it all fits together. I distinctly remember her saying she was writing to her sister, but maybe I’m wrong...”
“Perhaps her parents’ names...” Zofia prompts. “Do you know what they were?”
“I only remember her mother’s name. That was definitely Faustina,” Mom gives a little laugh. “The Catholic church canonized a Saint Faustina...goodness, maybe twenty years ago, and Babcia was excited like a kid in a candy store.”
“Ah. Her mother was Faustina, and her father was...” Zofia reaches into her handbag and withdraws her iPad, then says, “Bartuk. Yes?”
I see Mom glance beside herself, and I can hear some kind of movement offscreen. Mom is frowning.
“What is it, Mom? Is everything okay?”
“Hang on a minute, Alice,” Mom says, and the camera shows her walking back to the bed. She sets the phone down for a moment, onto the bedside table I think, and all I can see is the ceiling in the hospital room. “Mama? Are you okay?”
The camera swings wildly, and for a minute, the camera is blocked by a finger. It shifts, and then I see Babcia’s face.
“Hello, Babcia,” I murmur, by habit. She looks distressed and frustrated, and I peer helplessly into the screen. “Mom? Could you give her the iPad? I think wants to tell us something.”
“Alice, did you say she still understands spoken Polish?” Zofia asks me softly. I nod, and she extends her hand toward my phone. “Do you mind if I...may I?”
I pass her the phone, and Zofia smiles gently into the camera. She speaks very slowly and carefully for a few minutes in Polish. A single tear rolls down Babcia’s cheek, but she’s nodding. Zofia looks at me and she grins.
“Well, that’s one mystery solved.”
“It is?”
“Alina Dziak was the youngest child of Faustina and Bartuk Dziak. They had four children...a daughter, Truda, twin sons and then Alina. I only remembered the composition of the family because the twins and Alina were born very close together and I felt so sorry for poor Faustina,” Zofia says wryly, but then she sobers. “Alice, I just asked your grandmother if she is Alina, and she’s nodding yes.”
My eyes widen.
“What? Mom? Are you listening to this?”
I see Mom hand Babcia the iPad, and she takes her phone back. Her face fills the screen, and she’s frowning.
“Her name is Hanna,” Mom says stiffly. “She’s confused.”
“I couldn’t find any records at all for Hanna, or a family of origin with that surname in this district,” Zofia tells Mom gently. “It makes no sense. If this is her childhood home, and she and her siblings were born here, the Wis´niewski family would have left behind some records.”
Mom is shaking her head, but then I hear the electronic sound of a camera shutter in the background at the hospital room. Mom looks away from the screen, and then I hear Babcia’s iPad say Alina, and Mom’s eyes widen in disbelief. She silently turns the camera around, and I see Babcia sitting on the bed, the iPad resting awkwardly on her lap, facing toward Mom.
Babcia’s face is set in a mask of pure determination, and she’s made a label on the iPad screen for Alina, complete with a brand-new selfie of herself for the image. After a moment or two, Babcia gives us an impatient look, then she holds her left forefinger up, points to the screen, then stabs her finger against her own chest.
“Holy shit,” I say.
“That’s pretty definitive confirmation,” Zofia says.
“No. I don’t believe this,” Mom says. She turns the camera around again and she’s scowling at the screen. “Alice, I don’t understand this. It makes no sense at all. She’s lied to me for my whole life? No. I don’t—”
“Mom,” I interrupt her carefully. “Remember she wanted you to name me Alina? Maybe it does make at least a little sense.”
Mom’s expression stiffens. We stare at each other for a moment, then the camera picks up the sound of Babcia’s iPad speaking again.
Alina fire Tomasz. Babcia fire Tomasz. Alina fire Tomasz.
“Christ, she’s getting upset now,” Mom mutters. She’s visibly frustrated, and she glares into the camera screen. “I’m going to go calm her down. Alice, I’ll talk to you later. I need to think about this.”
The call disconnects abruptly, and I sigh and glance at Zofia.
“So, my grandmother adopted a false identity eighty-odd years ago. Is that what we’re assuming here?”
“I think that’s fair to deduce, yes.”
“Any ideas why?”
“There are an infinite number of possible explanations. Identity forgery was a thriving industry in occupied Poland.” Zofia shrugs. “
Perhaps she ran afoul of the Nazis at some point and needed to go into hiding. There’s not really any way for us to know, unless she finds a way to tell us.”
I look around the farm again. There’s not really that much here, but I find I’m not at all ready to leave, so I make an excuse to stay. “I think I’ll take some more photos... I’d like to send some back to my husband and my kids.”
“Take as much time as you like, Alice.” Zofia smiles, and then she steps away from me and says, “I’ll give you some space, hey? I’ll wait for you at the car.”
* * *
When I’ve photographed every feature I can find around Babcia’s old house, Zofia and I drive back into the town. The next address is only about a mile away from the farmhouse, nestled deep within a narrow laneway. As Zofia turns the car into the little street, I survey the towering trees along the sidewalk.
“Sweet chestnut trees,” Zofia explains. “They are all through that huge park at the end of the street too. What a beautiful spot. I’m guessing this must have been quite a prestigious address in your grandmother’s time.”
There are some very old, very large houses here and when we first enter the street, I fully expect that we’re headed toward one of them. I’m disappointed, though—because the number my grandmother has guided us toward happens to be one of the recently modernized homes in the street.
“I guess we got lucky with the farmhouse, but whatever she was expecting to find here seems to be long gone,” Zofia says.
“There doesn’t seem much I can do except take some photos to show her what it looks like now,” I say with a sigh. We knock on the door anyway and discover that the owners now are a young professional couple, and the house has sold at least twice in the last twenty years, so the woman who answers the door has no idea why my grandmother might have wanted a photo of it. Still, she’s warm and friendly—and once we explain why we’re there, she’s kind enough to offer to show us through the house in case it’s of importance. As we enter the ultramodern lobby, it’s clear that whatever Babcia wanted us to find here is long gone.