by Kelly Rimmer
I know exactly the place she’s describing—there’s no way it can be anywhere but Babcia’s family home. Still, I’m too nervous to get my hopes up, so I interrupt her gently to ask, “Is this S´wie˛tojan´ska, 4?” I say. Predictably, I totally muddle the pronunciation on the street name—but not so much that Lia doesn’t understand it, because her gaze narrows.
“I don’t understand.” She scowls. “You already know where it is?”
“That house,” I say, but my voice comes out a little husky, so I pause to clear my throat, then I ask, “Why is the grave behind that house?”
“The house is abandoned—it has been since the war, not even the communists wanted it,” Lia tells me. “But he’s not buried there at the house, he’s buried on the hill behind it. I’m just directing you to the house because it’s much easier to get to the grave from that side than from the town side now. There are new houses all along the hill on this side so the path is blocked.”
“But that particular spot...? Why there at that hill?”
Lia passes me the paper and frowns.
“I have no idea. Now tell me—how did you know that address?”
“It was my grandmother’s childhood home,” I tell her, and her eyes widen. There’s an awkward pause while she ponders this, then Lia concedes, “Well, that’s quite a coincidence.”
“Surely that can’t be a coincidence,” I say incredulously.
“This entire area was overrun by Nazis. There are unfortunate souls buried in every conceivable place around here—my great-uncle is lucky he at least has a headstone. But I’ll be honest with you—I have no idea how he came to be buried there. My grandmother isn’t exactly keen to discuss the worst days of her life on a regular basis, you know? She won’t talk about the war, and we’ve given up asking her.”
I laugh weakly as I nod.
“I know exactly what that’s like.”
“That’s actually why I can’t let you talk to her,” Lia says softly. “She’s like a different woman on the days when we visit his grave. It costs her something to honor his memory, and I won’t ask more of her than that. But if it helps you, by all means, visit the grave.” She shrugs. “I just don’t think there’s anything more I can do to help you beyond this one thing, okay?”
“Thank you,” I say, then I throw myself at her and hug her. She stiffens, then returns the hug briefly and nods toward the door.
“Good luck.”
* * *
Half an hour later, Zofia and I stand at a clearing in the woods behind my grandmother’s childhood home, staring at the creepiest thing I have ever seen.
Tomasz Slaski. 1920 to 1942
His name is etched into the polished red granite of a tall headstone. The stone is clean; clearly lovingly maintained. A semifresh set of mixed flowers is dying on the grass in front of the stone, and it’s surrounded by clean candles, the wicks unlit now but black from prior use. There’s even a few LED lanterns in various shapes and sizes. Zofia bends and turns one of the lanterns on, and it lights up without delay.
I look back to the stone and stare at the name again. This time, I notice that below the name and dates, a medal has been attached to the headstone. The inscription on the medal is in Hebrew.
Zofia and I stare silently at the grave for a while, like it’s a puzzle we can solve if we just stare long enough, but it’s not long before I find I just can’t look at it any longer. I turn away, and exhale shakily.
“Poor Emilia,” Zofia murmurs. I glance back at her, and find she’s crouching close to the medal. She runs her finger over the characters very gently. “This is the medal awarded to the Righteous Among The Nations. It indicates that this Tomasz Slaski took great personal risk during the war to aid Jewish people. It means his name is listed on the Wall of Honor in the Garden of the Righteous in Jerusalem.” She pauses, then bows her head. “It is a big deal. Truly, a huge honor.”
“This is just awful,” I say, and I stand and frown. I’m feeling suddenly irritable, as if my skin has grown too tight, and I shiver because despite the sweltering day, there’s a chill running down my spine as I stare at a grave that I know is not my grandfather’s, despite the fact that grandfather’s name is on it. “It’s just so creepy, isn’t it?” My hand twitches against the phone in my hand, and I raise it to take a photo, but as soon as I do, I lower the phone in a rush. Zofia stands and offers me a questioning glance.
“I can’t show her,” I blurt. “It would...it will upset her so much!”
Zofia inclines her head in acknowledgment.
“But this is quite the mystery, no?”
“It’s Pa’s name and that’s the year he was born, but this obviously can’t be Pa.”
“No,” Zofia agrees softly, and she stands. “But Emilia Slaski doesn’t know that.”
“How could this happen?” I whisper. “Do you think this is what Babcia sent us for? To tell Pa’s sister the truth?”
There’s no way to answer that question, and I’m not surprised when Zofia remains silent. We stare at the grave for another few minutes in silence, then she asks me, “How did your grandparents get to the US?”
“I don’t even know. All I know is that Mom was born in January ’43 and they were already settled there by then.”
Zofia frowns.
“That can’t be right.”
I stand and look at her quizzically.
“No, I’m sure it is.”
“They must have left before the war.”
“I know they were here when the war began, that’s about all I do know, actually.”
“But...they left during the occupation?”
“They must have.”
“That’s...difficult to believe.” Zofia shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows knitted. “It was all but impossible to get out of Nazi-held territory.”
“All I know is that they came on a boat from England. I have no idea how they got from here to England.”
Zofia exhales, then she looks at the headstone again.
“I’m just thinking aloud here but—do you think Emilia might have assumed her brother died, but he was actually on his way to America? She must have been very young when this happened. Perhaps she or someone else even mistook another body for his? Because if this guy died in 1942, and Tomasz fled from Poland in 1942...”
“That might be the only explanation,” I say. My throat feels tight with tears that I will probably shed later, because while I don’t understand this at all—the only thing I know for sure is that this is utterly tragic for Emilia Slaski. “This is a really strange place for a grave, right?”
“Perhaps this was just where he died,” Zofia suggests.
“Behind my grandmother’s house?”
“Plenty of people hid in patches of woods during the war.”
“And was it my grandfather who was the hero saving Jews? Or this other guy?”
I glance back at the headstone one last time, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember Pa so well—I just can’t imagine him letting his sister think he was dead for all of those years. It’s much easier to imagine him taking heroic measures to help his countrymen, because he was one of the most giving men I’ve ever met.
“Zofia?” I ask quietly.
“Yes?”
“Do you have any idea how we can untangle this without Emilia’s input? Or whether or not we should even tell her, even if we do happen to get access to her?”
Zofia gives me a sad smile.
“I hate to say this, Alice...but I think the only way forward here is via Lia Truchen.”
* * *
I leave Zofia in the car again when I step into the clinic for a fourth time. I feel like I made better progress this morning, and maybe there were even a few moments there where Lia and I really connected. I find that she’s serving a patient when I enter the room, but her companion sees me, a
nd he elbows her gently, then points to me. There’s visible frustration in Lia’s gaze as she stares at me, but then she fixes a smile to her face, finishes serving her patient and leads the way back to the meeting room.
“Lia...” I take a deep breath, then blurt, “I saw the grave. It’s definitely my grandfather’s name and year of birth, but it can’t be him because he only died last year. It seems to me that the only way we’re ever going to understand this is if you or even I could talk to Emilia—”
“Listen, Alice,” Lia says flatly. “I feel for you. I really do. I’ve done everything I can to help you—what you’re asking for now is simply impossible.”
“Maybe you could just mention Alina—”
“Every month we take her to visit that grave,” Lia says abruptly. “On the very last Sunday of every month she goes to Mass in her very best clothes, then she stops for flowers at the market, and then us grandkids have a roster and we all take turns driving her up there. And do you know why we each take turns?” When I shake my head, Lia’s gaze grows sharp. “Because Alice, nearly eighty years after he died, my beautiful, brave grandmother still cries sometimes when she sees his grave and it’s heartbreaking. Do you even understand what you are asking of me?”
“Imagine if Emilia was on her deathbed, and she sent you to America, and you were in my position,” I plead with her.
“We have one upset elderly lady at the moment, yes?” Lia says. “If we do as you ask, we will have two upset elderly ladies, and what do we achieve? Nothing. Most likely, my grandmother will be as bewildered by all this as you and I are, and if she never replied to your grandmother’s letters, there is almost certainly a reason for that. Please, please stop bothering me here—this is my workplace.”
I’m about to leave. I’m about to walk out the door and concede defeat. I walk all the way out to the waiting room, and I head toward the door, and then I think about driving away from this place and living the rest of my life without knowing why Babcia sent me here.
It’s too late for Babcia to tell me her story. It’s too late for me to understand all of the moments big and small that led to the family I have in America now. It’s probably even too late for me to explain to Babcia just how important she’s been to me, and how deep the love I have for her is.
But it’s not too late for me to plant my feet hard against this carpet and to give this bewildering mystery absolutely everything I have. Lia is my only link to Emilia—my only link to “understanding Tomasz.”
Sometimes you have to smash the damn door down.
I can’t walk away. I just can’t give up this easily. I sit heavily in a visitor’s chair by the door and raise my gaze to Lia. She’s staring at me incredulously.
“You absolutely cannot stay here,” she calls, paying no heed to the confused patients who sit in chairs all around me.
“I’m not going anywhere until you agree to talk to her for me.” I shrug. It’s uncomfortable for me to be this difficult. I mean, once upon a time... Well, this was kind of the life I thought I’d lead. In my idealistic youth, I really thought I’d be the sort of journalist who uncovered deeply buried truths, a woman who made a way to tell the stories that need to be told.
“Fine,” Lia says, and she sits back at her desk, slides her phone headset back on, and for the next little while, she does a pretty good job of ignoring me. Zofia texts me after a while.
Are you okay in there?? It’s been an hour and I’m getting worried.
I glance up at Lia and catch her staring at me. She avoids my gaze, and I hope that’s a sign that I’m wearing her down.
Lia refused to help, so I’m basically holding a sit-in until she changes her mind.
Zofia replies with a shocked emoji, and then a little while later:
Let me know if you need anything. I’m just waiting at the cafe across the road. And...good luck!
Another hour passes, and then another. None of the magazines on the coffee table beside me are in English, but I thumb through them all anyway, trying to look as if I’m not at all fussed about our current standoff.
But on the inside?
I’m melting down like Eddie on his worst day. My thoughts are an absolute muddle—I’m second-guessing this insane course of action I’ve set myself on, and frankly, pretty much every single decision I’ve made in the last week since I decided to actually come here. Doctors come and collect patients, and every single time, they stare at me. Patients come in, stare at me, go in for a consult, then come out, stare at me some more, then leave.
I feel like I’m on a stage, and the show is something like Watch Alice Michaels Lose her Dignity in a Foreign Country!
Lia approaches me around lunchtime, and for a moment or two, I think I’ve won. Before I can celebrate, she sits heavily in the chair beside me, and she drops her head into her hands.
“You just can’t stay there,” she says desperately. “You seem like a reasonable person so I’m going to beg you to reconsider this. I have work to do, Alice—patients are asking questions and I can’t let this go on. You won’t change my mind.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you do,” I say simply, and then I raise my chin, hoping I look like Babcia, or even Callie, when they are being overtly stubborn. Lia’s gaze narrows and she sits up again, straightening her spine.
“Right, you’ve left me no choice. I’ve been patient. I’ve asked you nicely, several times, and now I’m warning you. This is a workplace, and if you won’t respect my request for you to leave, I have no choice but to call the police and have you removed.”
Okay, I didn’t expect that. I frown at her.
“Lia...please...”
“Five minutes, Alice. Then I’m calling the police.”
I hear Mom cheering me on inside my brain. Sometimes you have to smash the damn door down, Alice. I lean back in my chair and cross my arms over my chest.
“A much easier way to get rid of me would be to agree to speak to your grandmother.”
Lia growls and stomps back behind her desk. She’s conferring a lot with her colleague, and a few minutes tick down while I busy myself praying with all of my might that the police threat was an empty one. I see her pick up the phone, but I pretend I don’t notice—because maybe she’s bluffing, and obviously I’m getting to her, so maybe if I just hang in here a little longer—
The doors swing open a few minutes later, and two policemen enter the room. They approach the counter, and Lia, wearing a scowl, points to me. The officers approach me.
“You’ve been asked to leave,” the older of the two says abruptly. “We’ll give you one last chance to do it voluntarily. After that, we’ll be carrying you out—and you’ll go straight to our car and then our station so we can charge you with trespassing.”
I’m sure they hear my petrified gulp as I rise to my feet and nod.
“I’m going,” I squeak.
“And madam?” The other officer says, as I pick up my bag, preparing to sprint to the door.
“Yes?”
“If we see you here again, we will arrest you.”
I shoot one last, pleading look toward Lia, who’s watching me with her hands crossed over her chest, and then I bolt out the door and back to Zofia’s car. Once I’m inside, I collapse into the chair and try to catch my breath.
“Did you just get arrested?” Zofia gasps.
“Almost,” I groan, and I cover my hands with my eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.”
Zofia starts the car, and drives away at what can only be described as breakneck-but-legal speed. We’re almost back to the highway when she starts to laugh, and eventually, I join in.
“You’re either really, really determined to do this for your grandmother or you’re completely crazy. I can’t really tell which at this point.”
“Me, either,” I admit, the laughter deflating. “But it was all for
nothing.”
“We can come back tomorrow?” Zofia offers.
“And do what?” I ask. “Take a free ride to the police station?”
“Well, how would you like to spend tomorrow? Do you have any other ideas? Did she give you anything else to go on?”
“No,” I admit, and look back to my phone to start flicking through the photos I took of Babcia’s notes and her AAC screen. I read each entry aloud.
“Trzebinia. Well, we came here.”
“Yes.”
“Ul. S´wie˛tojan´ska 4.”
“Her childhood home.”
“Yes. Ul. Polerechka9B.”
“A beautifully renovated historic home in a gorgeous, sweet chestnut–lined laneway. We have no idea why it was important.”
I sigh heavily.
“Ul. Dworczyk 38.”
“The medical clinic where Aleksy Slaski worked.”
“Emilia Skalski.”
“Your great-aunt.”
“Alina Dziak. My grandmother’s real name.”
“Yes.”
“Saul Eva Tikva Weiss.”
“We have literally no idea.”
“Prosze˛ zrozum. Tomasz.”
“Your pronunciation is beyond appalling, but yes, she asks us to please understand Tomasz.”
“Which we have no idea how to do.”
“And that’s everything?”
“The only other thing she said was Babcia fire Tomasz,” I say, then I groan in frustration. “But I know we think that just means love, which is sweet, but it really...”
“Doesn’t help us much. Look, there’s a saying in my family, Alice, and I think it applies perfectly to today.” I glance at her, and she grins. “Everything looks better after some vodka.”
* * *
We try several varieties of local vodka at a restaurant on the square back in Krakow, and try to brainstorm other ways we can approach this mystery.
“Okay, let’s think about Lia,” Zofia murmurs. “Lia’s a receptionist, right?”
“Seems to be.”
“But her great-grandfather once owned the building. Coincidence, or is there still a family connection?”