by Kelly Rimmer
“Surely you can see how upsetting it would be for me to go to my eighty-five-year-old grandmother and tell her that some American woman thinks her beloved big brother was alive for seventy-five years longer than he actually was.”
Lia isn’t quite rude, and she doesn’t throw us out of the building, not exactly. Regardless, Zofia and I quickly find ourselves back outside in the sunshine.
“The family must be wealthy,” Zofia says.
“But we told her we didn’t want money,” I say helplessly. She shrugs.
“If you’re Tomasz’s granddaughter, perhaps he was entitled to a share of whatever inheritance Aleksy left behind. And if that was significant, maybe she’s nervous about what that would mean for her family.” Zofia glances back at the building. “It wouldn’t surprise me if she made up the story about the gravesite, just because it gives her an excuse to refuse to engage with us.”
“How do we sort this out?”
Zofia pauses thoughtfully, but then she slowly shakes her head.
“Well—the birth records were clear. There was only one Tomasz Slaski born in this parish in that period, at least that I could see. As far as I’m concerned, the only thing we can clarify is Lia’s story.”
“Maybe hers is a different family with similar names.”
“In a tiny little town like this, what are the odds of there being two Aleksy Slaskis who married Julitas and then had children named Emilia and Tomasz?”
“Well...” I ask hesitantly, “How common are those names?”
“Not that common,” Zofia laughs.
I hesitate, glancing back at the doors. Then I straighten my posture and say, “Wait here? And if she throws me out bodily this time, try to catch me before I hit the cobblestone?”
I walk back to the counter, where Lia and the young man have their heads close together, and they are whispering furiously. They only notice me when I’m close, and I bend down low and I say, “Lia, I understand you wanting to protect your grandmother—I’d probably do the same. But my grandmother doesn’t have long left, and she’s sent me here on this wild-goose chase and she’s looking for something. I just can’t help but think that your Emilia might be able to shed some light on all of this—and who knows? Perhaps this confusion is part of the puzzle. So, will you at least think about talking to her? Just tell her Alina Dziak or Hanna Wis´niewski is trying to get in touch with her, that’s all I ask. And—” Lia is glaring at me, but I reach across the desk, help myself to a pen and a sticky note, then scribble down my name and cell phone number. “I’m here for another few days,” I say. “Call me anytime.”
Lia hesitates, but when I hold her gaze, she eventually nods. I breathe my thanks, then quickly spin on my heel and leave before she can change her mind. I find Zofia leaning against the wall of the clinic. She surveys me warily, then laughs.
“What on earth did you say to her?”
“I felt like she slammed the door in our face,” I admit. “So I stuck my shoe in it, and made sure if she changes her mind, she has a way to contact me. That’s all I can do, right?”
* * *
Later that night, after dinner and a glass of wine at the hotel restaurant downstairs, I pick up the phone and call Mom. She’s driving to the hospital when I call, and her greeting seems unusually subdued.
“Hello, Alice.”
“Hi, Mom. How was your day?”
“Fine,” she says, but she sounds distant.
“Is everything okay with Babcia?”
“Oh, it’s fine. I’m just tired...a little confused by this whole secret identity thing with her. I don’t understand why she wouldn’t tell me if she changed her name,” Mom sighs.
“I know,” I murmur. “I’m sorry, Mom. I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m just hoping she recovers enough to explain herself. I was thinking that your friend there or a translator could ask her about it, but I can’t see the point, because how can she tell us what happened if she can’t speak? There’s a million reasons she might have changed her name so we’re never going to guess, and the AAC doesn’t exactly have a button for this.” Mom trails off, then she clears her throat and asks, “How’s the rest of the expedition through Poland going?”
“Good. We found out that Emilia Slaski is still alive. We found her granddaughter today, and her name is Lia, which is surely just a shortening of her grandmother’s name.”
“So, will you get to speak to this Emilia? Maybe she can tell us what happened with Babcia.”
“Something weird happened, actually. Lia was adamant that Emilia’s brother Tomasz died in 1942, but...well, obviously he didn’t.”
“So, some mix-up, then?”
“Yes, definitely,” I say. “Zofia seemed to think Emilia was assuming I was after her inheritance or something and trying to protect her family but...” I pause, then admit reluctantly, “My gut says that’s not it, to be honest.”
“Well, sometimes you have to trust your gut,” Mom says quietly. “And, Alice, given you’re in Poland despite my...subtle disapproval...” I snort, and I hear a smile in her voice when she continues. “I do suspect you already know this but I’m going to remind you anyway. You must always remember that sometimes knocking on doors just isn’t enough.”
“What else is there in a case like this?”
“Sometimes, if you want something badly enough, you have to smash the damn door down.”
“If I was going to make a Julita Slaski-Davis motivational poster, that’s exactly what the tagline would be.” I smile to myself. Mom laughs.
“Damn straight, daughter. I’m at the hospital so I’m going to go now. We’ll talk tomorrow?”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Even after Mom and I say our goodbyes, I’m thinking about her advice. At home, I automatically apply my mom’s level of determination to accessing help and support for Eddie, but when it comes to connecting with the man I share a bed with, it’s a whole other story. Why haven’t I forced the tension with Wade to a head in the last few years? I was definitely raised to address things straight-on, so I’m not quite sure how I managed to find myself in a situation where so many things remain unspoken in my own home.
I run a bath, buying some time to think before I place a call back to Wade. When I’m there at home, in the day-to-day grind, I never have the space and time to try to be an impartial observer of the dynamics of our family, but now, I start to reflect on the patterns we’ve fallen into. I think about the resentment I feel toward Wade—that awful feeling that’s muddled up with guilt and confusion because I’m in this role where I’m somehow the domestic kingpin of our family, but not at all the equal financial provider I always assumed I’d be—somehow both a reluctant dependent and the family chief operations officer. I think about the way I’ve let that tension fester for so long. I’m not at all a timid woman, so why haven’t I been more assertive at home? Why haven’t I forced the issue of Wade’s disconnect with Eddie? Why haven’t I demanded an equal partner in the parenting that needs to be done?
I’m terrified of what I might lose if I do.
Maybe I cling too tightly to the things I can control—the routine I put in place for Eddie—the tasks around the house I like to be done just so—because deeper and broader and wider than all of that run the things in my life I can’t control. I run myself ragged trying to control the world that exists around him, because I can’t change him at all.
I can’t fix Eddie, because Eddie is not broken. He is simply different, and he is going to be like this forever because this is who he is. This is what my life is always going to look like—probably into old age, because Callie will grow up and leave home, but Eddie will never live independently.
I haven’t grieved the life I thought I’d live, and I sure as Hell haven’t grieved the son I thought I’d get. I got right on with accepting the son I did get, which is exact
ly the opposing coping mechanism to the one my husband has applied to the situation.
I sink a little deeper into the bath, tears filling my eyes as I’m struck by a wave of longing so intense that it’s all I can do to stay where I am. I want to run to the airport and fly home right now and take Wade and the kids into my arms and hold them all so close that they can never slip away. Even Wade—maybe especially Wade. He and I actually need each other to achieve some kind of balance.
I can’t wait to hear Wade’s voice and to resolve the lingering tension before I go to bed. It’s 10:00 p.m. in Krakow now—that means 4:00 p.m. back home, and because it’s Wednesday, he and Eddie should be in the viewing room at ballet, watching Callie’s class. I slip quickly out of the bath, pull on the hotel robe and call, but when the call connects, it’s immediately obvious to me that they are not in the viewing room at ballet.
“Wade?” I call, surprised.
“Eddie, I love you,” Eddie echoes, surprise and delight in his tone. The phone shifts a little and his face fills the screen. He stares into the phone, bringing it too close.
Eddie looks blissfully happy—his big green eyes are positively brimming with joy. Eddie looks as if he’s just been given some kind of deliriously magical gift. Eddie looks as if my call is icing on an already pretty exceptional cake. As I digest all this, I suddenly recognize the brick wall behind him.
“Hello, baby,” I say softly. “Daddy has taken you to the train station, huh?”
“Hello, Alice,” Wade says, from offscreen. “Yes, we figured there was not much point watching Pascale at ballet so we went for a walk. Once we got onto the block near the station Eddie went on autopilot and all but dragged me in here, so I’m guessing you do this too sometimes.”
I would never take Eddie for a spontaneous walk like that. I’d never risk it. What if we ran into a situation where he had a meltdown? What if he ran off? I plan my outings with Eddie like teachers plan their excursions—I schedule things, I put them onto his visual timetable, I consider the risks, I make contingency plans.
But that also means I don’t ever get to see that same, surprised joy on Eddie’s face that Wade has managed to achieve right now. There are no surprises in Eddie’s life with me. I’m utterly bewildered by the jealousy I feel.
“We go there on Friday morning if he stays at school all day on Thursday, and we park at the same place for ballet, so I guess he knows the way...” I say, my voice trailing off. I fall silent then, watching as Eddie’s gaze leaves the phone screen to focus on something in front of him. I suspect from the ever-growing excitement in his eyes that he’s looking at an approaching train. “What’s the plan tonight?” I ask Wade.
“Soup is the plan tonight,” he says. He’s still offscreen, but there’s no mistaking the edge of bitterness in his tone. “Is that why you called? To check?”
“I called because I had a really emotional and confusing day, and I just wanted to hear your voice,” I say. It’s astounding how I genuinely wanted to connect with him on this call, but less than sixty seconds into it he makes a comment like that and in an instant, I feel defensive, and the bitterness that leaps into my tone instantly matches the level in his. No wonder we’re in such a mess. I feel like we’re on either side of a very long footbridge and we’re both afraid to set out onto it. Each time one of us steps forward, the other steps back in case the bridge can’t take our weight. I can’t fight with him tonight—I just don’t have the emotional reserves. I take a deep breath, and say evenly, “But now isn’t really the time for that chat, I guess. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Eddie’s face disappears from the screen, and in his place, I see Wade. There are heavy bags beneath his eyes and for the first time in living memory, he hasn’t shaved on a workday.
“Don’t hang up, Ally,” he murmurs. “I have to say something—and brace yourself, this is going to be shocking.”
I can tell he’s about to make a joke, and I laugh a little in anticipation.
“I’m braced,” I joke in return. “Go ahead.”
“Two kids? Significantly more difficult to manage than three hundred lab rats. This is no holiday. And I’m really sorry about before—and I’m sorry about the soup,” he sighs heavily, then says wryly, “Let it be known that I’m sorry about pretty much everything at this point.”
“I’m sorry too,” I whisper, and then I touch the screen with my forefinger, feeling again that soul-deep pang of longing. I stare right into his eyes on the screen and my voice is rough with emotion as I choke, “I really miss you, Wade.”
“I miss you too.” I hear the rumbling of the coming train, and then I see the rush of wind mess with Wade’s hair. I want to ask him about the new Go-Gurt labels, and to see Eddie again—to see that Eddie really is okay. But this clearly isn’t the time to talk, because Wade has to shout into the phone as the train draws near. “Let’s talk properly tomorrow, when I’m not at a train station?”
I laugh and nod, then kiss my finger and press it to the camera.
“I love you,” I whisper. He reads my lips, and I see him echo it back to me.
CHAPTER 33
Alina
As we walked back to my family home, Saul tried hard to convince us to leave him behind, but he was too exhausted to make a convincing argument. He eventually gave up on Tomasz, and when he instead tried to convince me, I found myself in the god-awful position of taking Tomasz’s side.
“It makes sense for you to join me on the journey,” I forced myself to say. “Tomasz is needed here.”
It would take at least six hours for the plaster cast to dry, and Tomasz wanted it close to set before we boarded the truck. The original plan would have had us back to my family home with plenty of time for the cast to cure—but now we arrived back at the farmhouse just as the clock struck 3:00 a.m. I’d be boarding the truck with the cast still well and truly soft.
“You will have to be so careful,” Tomasz whispered, shaking his head as he wound the bandage onto my forearm. I had been staring up at the floorboards of my childhood home—trying to convince myself that this really was going to be my very last time there—unable to bear to watch as he wound the plaster around the canister onto my wrist. “Be absolutely sure not to bump it until it dries—it simply has to look realistic or someone might become suspicious that there’s something valuable in there. And do not let this cast get wet. Even once it’s cured—the film must stay dry.”
“Farther toward the wrist, Tomasz,” Saul said. His voice was suddenly strong, as if he hadn’t just lost his whole world a few hours earlier. Tomasz adjusted the placement of the soft bandage that would line the cast, shifting it a little farther from my elbow.
“Better?”
“Yes. You are very short on supplies—better to do a short cast and make it thick, to hide the bulk of the canister. Remember you’re not actually needing to stabilize the movement of her arm in this case, however if this were a real fracture...well, this would be inadequate. However, in our circumstances, if anyone even knows to question the length of it, Alina can say the fracture was right above the wrist and her physician did the best he could with what he had.” I looked down at Saul. He was sitting on the floor against one of the walls of the cellar. His arms were around his legs, his knees drawn up to his body, and he stared up at us on the makeshift bed with flat eyes and a deathly pale face. He met my gaze and his tone softened a little as he suggested, “If someone asks how you got the injury, say you fell and had stretched your hand out before you—the wrist bore the impact. Say the bone was reset by a field surgeon, and it was agonizing—white-hot, searing pain. With such detail, the story is at least realistic.”
When I looked back to Tomasz, he gave a pointed nod toward Saul, and I swallowed. Because clearly the medical knowledge was second nature to Saul, spilling out of him even at this point when his mind was full of grief and pain. I could see why Tomasz thought t
hat was important—but it only underlined the decision we’d already made—that Tomasz would stay, and Saul would go. Brilliant surgeon or not—the man was currently sitting on the floor of the cellar, intermittently weeping, and every now and then there were periods when he’d fall completely silent to rock back and forth like a child, holding that tiny leather shoe against his cheek.
The most responsibility I’d ever experienced before was when I had to find Emilia a temporary home—it had been overwhelming and terrifying—and this dwarfed that by miles. Not only was I now a reluctant courier of Henry’s photographs, but I would also be dragging along behind me a man who had just suffered unimaginable tragedy and trauma. Instead of following Tomasz, I’d have to lead the way. Tomasz leaned all the way over my arm now, assuming quite an awkward posture and momentarily blocking my view of the cast he was constructing. Unthinkingly, I reached up to touch the thick locks of his hair. He desperately needed a haircut, and it was almost irrational how much I wished we had the time for me to do that for him once more. Such a small thing, but it would have been so lovely to nurture him in that way, as if that could remind him while we were apart how deeply I cared for him. When he sat up, he smiled at me, sadly.
“It’s going to be fine, you know. You are going to be fine.”
“And you’ll find me,” I said, not for the first time. In fact, I’d been repeating this almost the entire walk back from the Golaszewski farm—checking then double-and triple-checking that I still understood the plan. “You’ll get this sorted here, and you’ll make the same journey—you’ll meet us at Buzuluk.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“And if the camp won’t accept that your passport belongs to Saul?”
“Then you will find a way to make them accept him.”
“And if they catch us before we get to the Soviet border. What do I do then?”