by Kelly Rimmer
“What are you suggesting?”
“Maybe the business is still owned by the family. Maybe Emilia became a doctor too, or maybe one of her children owns it now.” Zofia fishes her phone out of her pocket and a quick Google search later, we have a list of the GPs at the clinic. “Agnieszka Truchen is one of the owners. That’s got to be Lia’s mother, or at least a relative...”
We find a few dated and grainy pictures of Agnieszka online, but no social media, and all of her listed contact details point back to the clinic. Zofia is on her phone replicating my search, but I’m staring down at the photos on my own screen. As grainy as those images are, I think I can see a similarity to myself. I turn my phone back to Zofia.
“Do you think she looks like me?” I ask her.
“It’s hard to tell because the photos are so poor. But yes, it looks like there’s a resemblance there. Did you see her at the clinic today?”
“No, there were a few doctors coming out to get patients, but I would have noticed her.”
“We could call and ask to speak to her,” Zofia suggests, then she looks at her watch. “It’s not quite five o’clock...”
“They’ll recognize my accent...” I say weakly. Zofia grins.
“They won’t recognize mine.”
She finds the phone number on the clinic website, then she dials. I hear her speaking in Polish, but the call ends quickly and her shoulders slump.
“Agnieszka still owns the clinic, but other doctors do the patient care,” she sighs. “She retired a few years ago.”
“Of course she did,” I mutter, but then I brighten again. “What about Emilia herself? We could search for her on the phone directory?”
“Well, she had at least one child, so she’s almost definitely married, and given her age, I’d say there’s virtually no chance she’d have kept her surname,” Zofia says apologetically. We search anyway—but unsurprisingly, my eighty-seven-year-old great-aunt doesn’t seem to have a Facebook page. After that, we order a second mixed platter of local vodkas, and things get a bit silly.
“Well, if Lia won’t tell us where Emilia is, maybe we could get a private detective to track her down...”
“We could take out full page ads in the newspapers asking Emilia to contact us...”
“We could break into the medical clinic and see if we can find Agnieszka’s address...”
“Maybe I can cancel my return flight and wait in hiding outside the clinic until Agnieszka shows up for a visit and hope she’s more helpful...or at least helpful enough to not call the police...”
“Maybe we could steal some of Lia’s fingernail clippings and get a DNA test done...”
“Or we could offer a million-dollar reward for anyone who solves the mystery!”
At that, Zofia looks at me.
“Do you have a million dollars?” she asks hopefully.
I pause, then slump.
“I’m a stay-at-home mom, so no, not really.”
“Ah. That one sounded promising for a second there.”
We’re laughing a little too loudly when the waiter approaches with the bill, so we go for a walk to clear our heads, then share a delicious meal at yet another restaurant on the square. We chat about everything but my mission while we eat—I tell Zofia about my kids and the difficulties of leaving them. I even skim over the difficulties of leaving Wade alone with them, and the surprising realization I’m starting to form that just maybe, I’ve been holding on to Eddie a little too tightly. Zofia tells me about her work and some of the heartbreaking and hopeful family history searches she’s been involved with. I’m totally engrossed in the chat and enjoying the distraction from the awful dead end my search for Babcia has arrived at. Time gets away from us, so I gasp when I see the clock on the wall.
“I better get back and call my family,” I say, but despite the silliness of the evening, I’m definitely feeling better than I was. “Thanks for tonight though, Zofia.”
“It’s no trouble at all. I’ll walk you back to the hotel and we’ll start again in the morning.” She smiles at me gently. “Don’t lose heart, Alice. We’ll think of something.”
* * *
I call back to Wade without texting first, because it’s now 10:31 p.m. Krakow time and that means 5:31 p.m. Florida time, and I know they’ll all be home. Callie answers the phone on the first ring, and she’s crying.
“Mommy,” she croaks.
“Baby!” I gasp. “What happened?”
“Daddy forgot to get me from French club and they were closing up and they called him but he didn’t answer and Mrs. Bernard got cranky and I couldn’t remember Grandma’s phone number and I didn’t know what to do,” she says, and then her eyes fill with tears again. A fresh tear slips from her eye and her voice is small as she whispers, “Mommy, can you come home now?”
“Oh, honey bear...” I whisper. The buzz from the vodka is fading rapidly. “But he got you eventually, right?”
“No.” She scowls. “Mrs. Bernard drove me to Daddy’s work and left me at reception. And the receptionist had to go find him because he was in a meeting.”
“So where was Eddie in all of this time?” I ask slowly. “Not at school, surely?”
“Oh no,” she says, but before I can breathe a sigh of relief, she adds, “He was with Daddy because he got sent home from school today because he had a meltdown in class and he threw a chair at Mr. Bailey. And Eddie had five accidents in his pants today but don’t worry, I put his dirty clothes into the washing machine already.”
“Why are you doing that instead of Daddy?” I ask, although it’s difficult to speak, because I am so enraged I can barely focus enough to ask the question.
“Daddy’s in his office on Skype back to his office. He had to finish his meeting,” Callie says. She turns the phone camera around, to show me two open cans of soup waiting on the bench. “Don’t worry, Mommy—I’m making Eddie dinner now.”
“No, Callie, no—” I gasp. “No, you don’t know how to use the cooktop, sweetheart—you’ll burn yourself.”
“I’m microwaving it,” she says defensively, and just then I hear the ding of the microwave. Callie is plenty old and mature enough to use the microwave or the stove—if she knew how, but I’ve never shown her, because frankly she’s never had to know. I do almost all of the cooking in our house. It’s never even occurred to me that perhaps I should be sharing those duties—not for my own sake, but for theirs.
“How long did you cook it for, sweetheart?” I ask, my heart pounding in my throat.
“I guessed. I thought ten minutes would be enough,” she says innocently, and I grasp the phone a little harder when I see her standing and walking toward the microwave. It sits high on a shelf so Eddie can’t reach it. To get that boiling hot soup out, she’ll have to reach up over her head.
“Don’t touch that!” I say frantically, and Callie frowns into the camera.
“But why?”
“It’s going to be very hot, honey bear. Just...no.” I draw in a deep breath and try to stay calm. “Darling, just do me one little favor, okay?”
“Okay, Mommy?”
“I want you to go into Daddy’s office, and interrupt his meeting, and—”
“But he said not to—”
“Callie, just listen to me,” I say urgently. “Walk up to Daddy’s office and tell him Mommy is on the phone and it’s an emergency.”
“Okay,” Callie says, then she sighs. “I just don’t want to get in trouble, Mom.”
“If anyone is getting ‘in trouble,’” I say fiercely. “It’s Daddy.”
She’s a child of the millennium, that’s for sure—Callie automatically walks to Wade’s office upstairs with the camera frontward so I can see where she’s going, then she opens the door to his office to show me Wade sitting at his big desktop computer. I recognize the lab technician who�
�s on the huge monitor, and I also recognize that the scratch pad they are sharing between screens is full of mathematical formulas. I can tell Wade is engrossed, because when Callie walks into the room, he doesn’t even look away from the screen.
“Not now, Eddie—” he says, without turning to see which kid it is.
“Daddy,” Callie says hesitantly. “Mommy wants to talk to you.”
I see Wade’s shoulders lock. He reluctantly farewells his lab rat, and I notice the slight pause before he turns to face the phone. Now that he’s facing me, guilt is written all over his face. Callie flips the camera lens around and passes him the phone. He looks down at the screen, surveys my expression, then sighs and says softly, “Callie, can you give Mommy and me a few minutes?”
“Don’t you dare touch that microwave, Callie Michaels!” I call frantically, and confusion filters over Wade’s face.
“But the soup is ready—” Callie protests, and Wade’s eyes widen.
“Callie, go downstairs, do not touch the microwave. Read a book or something till I finish talking to Mommy,” Wade says, and once the door closes, he raises the camera and stares right into my eyes. “Alice, please don’t overreact.”
“Eddie threw a chair and got sent home from school? You forgot to pick Callie up? Callie is washing Eddie’s soiled pants and trying to feed him while you tinker with formulas with Jon? I am so furious right now I do not even know where to start—”
“Eddie had a bad night, and then he had a bad day. It would have happened even if you were here—there’s nothing I could have done to prevent it.”
“Are you kidding me right now, Wade?” I scoff. “Of course you could have prevented it. If you had any clue about how to relate to him you’d have known this morning he was having a bad day and you could have stayed home with him to ride it out like I would have done.”
“We’ve hit a major snag with this plastics project, Alice. I couldn’t just stay home with him. My team needs me too. I’m trying to juggle a million things this week so you can be there—”
“When I called, Callie was just about to get the soup out of the microwave. Soup she’d been cooking in there for ten minutes.”
“Shit...” Wade groans, then runs his free hand through his hair. “Well, why doesn’t she know how to use it?”
That hits a sore spot. She should know how to use it—I’m just in the habit of doing every damned thing myself around that house.
“She has two parents, Wade,” I say defensively. “You could have taught her just as easily as I could have.”
He sighs heavily, then he mutters, “Honestly, Alice—today has just been Hell. The very last thing I need tonight—”
“Callie is ten years old,” I say flatly. “Yes, she’s gifted—but she’s still ten. You can’t expect her to pick up the slack because you happen to be busy at work.” I groan and rub my eyes with my hand. “I knew I shouldn’t have left you guys.”
“It’s one bad day, Alice,” Wade snaps. “I’m allowed to have one bad day.”
“But I knew this would happen,” I say. I sound bitchy. I sound like my mother, actually, and I hate that—but I am just so angry I can’t stop myself. “I knew you’d let me down—”
“I have never let you down,” Wade says, and now he’s furious too.
“Eddie is seven, Wade,” I say blithely. “You tell me one damned time in all of his life when you haven’t let me down.”
It’s the vodka talking. It’s the disappointment speaking. My trip has come to nothing, and I’m going to have to admit to Callie and Babcia and even Wade that I’ve failed. Regardless, I’ve said something I can’t take back—something that’s just way too far over the line of what’s acceptable. Over the screen, I watch as Wade’s eyes widen with shock and a deep kind of hurt that I’ve rarely seen him display. I’m still angry—that doesn’t mean I’m not wishing hard that I could pull those words back in. But I can’t, and so we both just stare into the lenses of our cameras in stiff, uncomfortable silence. It’s Wade’s turn to battle to get control of his temper, but in his case, he wins the battle, and he speaks calmly and evenly.
“I’m going to go downstairs,” he says. “I’m going to go check on Edison and apologize to Pascale. I’m going to salvage the soup. I’m going to take over the laundry. Then I’m going to start the night routine and try to get ready for the school day tomorrow.” He draws in a deep breath, then adds, “What I’m not going to do is to get into a screaming match with you over FaceTime. I don’t think it’s a great idea for you to talk to Eddie tonight, either. He’s pretty fragile today and I think it would make things worse.”
I hang up on Wade without a farewell, then I bury my face in my pillow, and I give myself over to sobs—but only then does it occur to me that I’ve yet to call Mom to check in on Babcia. So I drink some water, then I make a cup of coffee and I watch TV for a while until I feel like my voice might be back to normal and my emotions have cooled.
I place a voice call to Mom, because I don’t want her to see my face. She answers on the first ring.
“I can’t talk for long, Alice.”
“What’s happening?”
“Babcia had some kind of turn a few hours ago and she’s been moved to the ICU,” Mom says. I hear the frustration in her voice as she mutters, “I’m waiting for the neurologist but he’s been next door with another patient for half a damned hour. But the nurse said it was another minor stroke. She said it’s not uncommon in someone her age but that it’s a concern that it keeps happening...”
“Is Babcia okay?”
“She’s not okay, Alice,” Mom says abruptly. “I think it’s time we accepted that her days of being okay have passed.”
I know her time with us is winding down. Why else would I be in Poland on this wild-goose chase? But hearing Mom say those words makes me want to weep.
“Can you text me when you know what’s happening?” I croak.
“Alice—” I can hear the apology in Mom’s voice, but knowing Mom as I do, there’s a good chance it’s going to be followed up by some kind of sharpness anyway and I just can’t deal with that tonight.
“I have to go,” I say unevenly. “Just text me, okay?”
And for the second time today, I hang up on someone I love.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still sobbing when a text comes from Mom.
The good news is it was a small bleed today and there’s no new damage, but Babcia’s condition is no longer considered stable. Dr. Chang is finally organizing that translator for me. She wants to talk to Babcia about whether she’s ready to sign a Do Not
Resuscitate order.
Then a few minutes later, when I’m trying to craft a reply, another text arrives.
By the way, your father arrived a few minutes ago. I don’t suppose you had anything to do with that? Perhaps he’s not the only one who should think about coming home early.
“I am thinking about it, Mom,” I whisper to my empty hotel room. “In fact, that’s pretty much all I can think about.”
CHAPTER 35
Alina
I thought I’d be terrified while the rest of the truck was loaded. It was surely the most dangerous moment in a series of dangerous moments. But listening to the laughter and jokes of the Nazi soldiers loading the truck made me furious instead of terrified. I knew we must be at Auschwitz, and that meant my parents were possibly nearby.
Were these the men who took my parents? Were these the men who killed Saul’s family?
I was suddenly, overwhelmingly incensed. I had been worn down by the years of occupation—so much so that I’d almost forgotten how to be outraged. But listening to the carefree tinkle of that laughter, a furious, murderous rage surged through me—especially when it occurred to me then that Saul was right behind me, hearing that very same soundtrack, probably wondering the very same things. I reached up beh
ind myself and squeezed Saul’s shoulder, hard. After a moment, he set his shaking hand over mine.
Sometime later, we heard the door to the cabin close, and the engine started again.
Time lost all meaning after that. For the most part Saul and I sat in total silence, moving only when numbness or necessity commanded. The suitcase contained preserves jars full of water—and once each was empty, they were awkwardly repurposed for our waste. I’d packed the last of our rations biscuits and some jam, along with the very last of Mama’s bread—a veritable bounty by Saul’s standards if it only had to last us for a few days. I waited for hunger, but instead, I had to force myself to eat every now and again, and when Saul ignored my offers of food and water, I had to awkwardly shuffle until I could lift the jars and the bread to his mouth. He was a walking skeleton. I knew he simply could not afford to go too long without sustenance, and so, I fed him like a baby.
I was endlessly aware of the fear and the suffocation and grief for my parents and longing for Tomasz and the itch of the cast and of the sting of splinters that came upon any part of my skin that happened to rest against the wooden crate—it was as if the entire world had paused except for my suffering. Sometimes the truck would slow or stop and I’d hear voices and I’d be completely resigned to what felt like an inevitability. This was so surely the end. We’d been discovered, we were done for, death had arrived, I had failed. But despite the sheer terror, each and every time the truck then started up again and we’d amble on, until the next stop and the next scare.
When the noise of the truck was loud enough, I’d try to strike up a whispered conversation with Saul—anything to ease the boredom, anything to distract myself from the way my mind raced with all of the horrible possibilities of what lay ahead of us. Sometimes he answered me in grunts, but mostly, he didn’t answer me at all.
I got the impression that he was sleeping a lot, or perhaps that he’d lost himself altogether in the memories of that night—in the first tender stages of a lifetime of grief, amplified by the terror of our current situation and the sensory deprivation of the entirely dark cavity we were trapped in. Eventually, I accepted that he didn’t want to talk, or perhaps he was exhausted to the point that he simply couldn’t. Sometimes, he’d cry very quietly, and at first, I hated that, but I soon realized there was something even worse, because other times he’d fall silent and I’d feel a suffocating anxiety that he’d died and I was trapped in what amounted to my coffin, still breathing beside an emaciated corpse. I’d hold my own breath for a moment so I could concentrate on feeling the movement of his chest behind me, just to be sure he was breathing, but sometimes it took me hours to work up the courage to do so, because I knew the reality of my situation. Even if Saul had died, I was stuck in that cavity with him until we stopped, and there was nothing at all I could do about it. By then, the smell in the cavity of the truck was so thick I felt like I could taste our sweat and waste in the air—a different kind of death, a living prison of our life.