by Kelly Rimmer
As I wait for the release of death, I look back on my life and I feel the one thing that has been missing for all of these decades. I am at peace, because I know that my Tomasz is waiting for me on the other side.
Soon, I will breathe my last and prove him right for all time.
We would always find our way back to one another.
Always.
CHAPTER 40
Alice
I wake up in my own bed to the sound of Wade’s cell phone ringing. He’s lying beside me, spooning me tight against his body, but as the call wakes him he rolls away to answer it.
“Hi, Julita,” he says gruffly, and my already-racing heart kicks it up a notch as he passes me the phone.
“You need to come, now,” Mom says stiffly. “It’s another stroke, a big one. They’ve moved her to palliative care. Throw some clothes on and come. Don’t waste a second. The doctor said we might not have long.”
I’m at the hospital by 6:15 a.m. The staff have turned the lights down low, but even so, it’s obvious that Babcia’s skin has taken on a gray pallor, and her breathing is shallow. I’m crying before I even reach the bedside. Dad approaches me, then pulls me into a tight embrace. He doesn’t speak, but at long last, that’s because there’s nothing left to say.
Babcia takes her very last breath right at 6:30 a.m. Mom is holding her right hand, and I’m holding her left. There’s no struggle at all—no tension in her features, no fight against its hold as death takes her away from us. She slips from life so peacefully that it’s hard to accept at first that she’s even gone. The doctor joins us and he calls her time of death quietly, reverently. Mom is calm as she washes Babcia’s hands and her face, and then we have one last moment with her all together.
Dad is, typically, more emotional about it all than Mom, who remains dry-eyed right up until the time comes to leave the hospital room. Then she turns back to the bed for one last glance, and she suddenly runs back to her mother’s body and begins to wail—an animalistic, out-of-control cry that startles me. I’m stunned by this, but Dad offers me a gentle smile and murmurs, “I told you I’d need that vodka.”
“Is she okay?”
“I knew this was coming, sweetheart. Your mother has a tough exterior, but her mother was her sun and her moon.”
When I hesitate, Dad nods toward the door.
“Go home, sweetie,” he murmurs, and he returns to the bedside. “Mom and I will need some time here, and you have your family to tend to.”
As I head home, I’m sad of course—but mostly I’m grateful. I’m grateful to Babcia for every moment I shared with her—everything she taught me about motherhood—every hug and every loving gesture and every damned meal she ever cooked me. And most of all, I’m grateful that she entrusted me to uncover a little of her story, because I can’t help but feel that in finding her past, I found a lost little piece of myself too.
I hesitate on my doorstep. I can hear activity inside, and I know they’ll all be awake. It belatedly occurs to me that I’m going to have to break the news to my family. I’m trying to remember—how exactly does one communicate death to a nonverbal autistic child? When Pa died last year, we had time to prepare—we talked to Eddie about it with his psychologist there to help us. I wish we could do the same this time, but I need to tell Callie and Wade now, and that can’t wait.
I step into the family room, and Eddie is on the beanbag, holding the dreidel before his face and twisting the handle slowly, train videos inevitably on the television in the background. His iPad is on his lap. I walk slowly to the seat beside him, and he looks up from the dreidel toward me. It occurs to me how my absence when he woke didn’t seem to faze him at all—and once upon a time, that very same scenario would have guaranteed a meltdown. Still, his green gaze is a little sad, a little concerned, and he clutches the dreidel against his chest and he looks down to his iPad, as if he’s scared somehow, but he doesn’t know what to say.
“Hi, baby,” I whisper.
Eddie sits up properly. He swipes to the AAC and hits the repeat button.
Babcia finished.
And then Eddie looks back toward me, calmly waiting for confirmation. A shiver runs down my spine, and I stare at him, trying to understand if he’s saying what I think he’s saying. I hear Wade at the door, and I glance up to see a bleary-eyed Callie still in her pajamas following behind him. I know they’re both probably desperate for news, but my attention magnetically returns to Eddie. He repeats the words again.
Babcia finished.
I start to cry at that, and I hear Callie’s rising hysteria from the door.
“What is he saying? Is he saying she’s dead? Mommy—it’s not true—tell me it’s not true! You just walked in the door and you haven’t said a word—Eddie couldn’t possibly know that!”
I look toward them, and my eyes lock with Wade’s. My throat is so tight I don’t think I could speak even if I tried, but I don’t need to carry our family through this tough moment, because Wade pulls Callie close and murmurs, “There’s a lot more to our boy than meets the eye, Callie.”
“But how could he possibly—”
“I don’t know, honey bear,” Wade interrupts her gently. “I don’t know how he knew, either. But he’s been saying that since he got out of bed at six-thirty, so apparently, he did know.”
“But he can’t...” She’s still protesting when a sob overtakes her, then I guess it sinks in. She covers her eyes with her hands, then blurts, “I’m going to miss her so much.”
Wade scoops her up into his arms and joins me on the couch. We huddle there as a teary trio for a minute, until Eddie stands. I smile sadly at him as he stands awkwardly in front of me. He doesn’t join the hug. Instead, he reaches his hand out and he rests it against my cheek.
This family of mine is messy and it’s different, but in this moment of grief and sadness, we feel closer to a whole unit than we have in as long as I can remember. Life has a way of shattering our expectations, of leaving our hopes in pieces without explanation. But when there’s love in a family, the fragments left behind from our shattered dreams can always be pulled together again, even if the end result is a mosaic.
This family is a work in progress, but even today in our grief, I’m blessed by a growing certainty that we’re moving ever closer to figuring out how the pieces can fit together in a way that works for all of us.
EPILOGUE
I never thought I’d get to return to that hill above Trzebinia, so it feels surreal to be here today—especially with the motley procession I’m walking in.
Eddie is at the front, where he often walks these days. He’s staring down at his iPad, and Wade is close behind him. Eddie is a Google Maps master now, and he navigated us all the way from Krakow, leading us to the point on the map we set up last week when we were preparing for this trip.
Callie is walking behind me, with Father Belachacz from Trzebinia and Rabbi Zoldak, who has joined us from Krakow. Beside them, Mom and Dad walk slowly. Collectively, that part of our little group is discussing the economic boom Poland has been undergoing since it joined the EU. Earlier, I heard the priest ask Callie if she was really only ten years old.
“Well, yes,” she said quietly. “But I do have an IQ in the 150s. It gives me a distinct advantage.”
I’m in the middle of the pack walking alone. I’m breathing it all in again and thinking about how everything looks different here on this second visit, now that I’m here to fulfil Babcia’s last request. The grass is even greener, the poppies in the overgrown fields that much more vibrant.
I’m carrying close to my chest the little wooden box that brought us here today. Within it, Babcia and Pa’s ashes rest, along with that tiny leather baby’s shoe.
Today, the dodgy gates are open, and there are several other cars already here, which surprises me. As we near the clearing, I see that Emilia is surrounded b
y Agnieszka, Lia and a group of other adults. Some are holding flowers; some have lanterns or candles. Emilia is in her wheelchair, and I approach her and kiss her cheeks.
“So many people,” I murmur to Agnieszka.
“It’s just my brothers and sisters, and a few of their kids,” Agnieszka explains. “I hope you don’t mind—Mama said that Alina needed to be honored by our whole family, since not one of us would have ever been born without her.” As my eyes fill with tears, Agnieszka winks at me. “You’re just lucky we didn’t bring the grandkids or great-grandkids—that would have doubled the group.”
I throw my arms around Emilia’s neck at that, and she whispers some soothing Polish words into my ear. Then I turn and I see the plaque that Emilia arranged in readiness for this day. Beneath the engraving that lists Tomasz Slaski’s name, several other names have been added:
Alina Slaski 1923–2019
Saul Weiss
Eva Weiss
Tikva Weiss
Now and without any instruction, Eddie settles himself automatically away from the crowd, perching on the flat boulder at the edge of the clearing as if he’s done this a million times before. He loads one of the train videos Wade saved for him before we left home, but before I can ask him to, he turns the sound all the way down, then looks at me and he smiles proudly.
I’m not sure my husband explained to our son what was expected of him, but that kid has been an angel today. It’s funny how, now that Wade and Eddie have finally bonded, there’s a whole new avenue from Eddie’s world to ours—and that’s certainly been helpful for our son. He’s going to school three days a week now—and on Thursday mornings, Wade goes to work late because he helps with the science lesson in Eddie’s class.
Wade and I still approach our relationship with our son very differently, and there is inevitably a tension in that. Wade will always want to push Eddie out of his comfort zone, and I’ll always want to provide him security and structure—but in the push-and-pull of our very different approaches, we’re achieving some kind of delicate balance. I benefit from that, but so does Wade, and most of all, so does Eddie.
Callie takes my hand as everyone automatically shifts into place around the grave site. Without any preamble, the priest begins the short, respectful service we planned.
Father Belachacz was initially confused when I called him a few weeks ago to ask his help today, and fair enough, because the whole story took some explaining. At first I just said that we needed a service for the ashes of my devoutly Catholic grandmother and everything we had of my Jewish grandfather and his other family. Once Father Belachacz got his head around it, he said he’d be honored to help us celebrate their lives and he’d figure something out. When we arrived here today, he introduced us to Rabbi Zoldak, who had come all the way from Krakow to assist.
I can’t think of anything more perfect or fitting for these people than a multifaith memorial service.
Now Father Belachacz invites Rabbi Zoldak to come forward, and he speaks to us all for a few minutes in English—about grief and love and the incredible power of sacrifice. I’m emotional as all of this is happening, but that swells to all new heights when Rabbi Zoldak begins to chant El Malei Rachamim. As the Hebrew words rise around us in that place, a tsunami of grief and gratitude hits me, and I can’t help but sob. I cry for the grandfather I so adored, and I wonder how he would feel to know that one day, we brought him to rest with Eva and Tikva and Alina and Tomasz, in a time when his faith could be celebrated in safety and with respect. Then I imagine Tomasz Slaski, a man I never had the privilege to know—but I don’t need to have known him to know that he would have approved of every aspect of this service and this arrangement, and there’s no question that my Babcia would have too.
The priest invites me to come forward. I drop my knees to rest against the soft grasses, then I gently rest the box inside the hole in the earth one of Emilia’s sons prepared for us. The priest crouches beside me and scoops up a handful of soil, then sprinkles it atop. He repeats this three more times as he says softly, “In the Name of God, the merciful Father, we commit the bodies of Alina and Saul to the peace of the grave, and along with them, the memories of Saul’s beloved Eva and Tikva.”
Wade takes the hand trowel from my backpack and finishes covering over the box. Later, Emilia’s son is going to arrange for this patch to be concreted over, so that we can all rest assured they will never be disturbed.
Then we stand, and it’s finished. There’s moments of quiet chatter, but then the crowd begins to disperse—returning to Emilia’s apartment in Krakow where she is hosting a luncheon for us all. My parents start to wander back toward the van, with Callie in tow, and Wade glances at me.
“You okay?” he asks gently.
“I’m good, actually but...” I clear my throat. “I could do with a moment?”
“I’ll take Eddie,” Wade offers. But then we both look over to him, and he’s settled on that long, flat rock, completely relaxed as he stares at his iPad.
“He’s fine.” I smile, then I kiss Wade’s cheek. “We’ll be back at the van in a few minutes.”
As Wade walks away, I stare at the plaque and the headstone and I think about the journey of the last ten months. Taking this trip for Babcia opened up the world to me, in ways I’m only just starting to understand now. I started writing down the things I learned on my trip for Callie and Eddie to read when they are older, and the project has taken on a life of its own—I think perhaps I might have inadvertently started writing a book.
I always thought my family needed 100 percent of my energy—but I’m learning that I can give them the full focus of my love and take the time to nurture other things that matter to me too. I’m even busier these days, but the curious thing is that I feel much less exhausted.
“Thank you, Babcia,” I whisper, as a gentle breeze stirs the branches above me. “Thank you for trusting me to find out the answers for you. I had forgotten I knew how to do that.”
Eddie sits up abruptly from his slump, and stares up into the trees around us, searching for something. As I watch him, a strange shudder passes through me.
“Eddie,” he echoes. “Eddie darling, do you want something to eat?”
The shudder ripples down along my body again, and then as surely as if her arms have closed around me, I feel Babcia with us in that clearing, and I feel her peace and her love and her gratitude. I close my eyes and I breathe it in, and for the very last time, I whisper, “Goodbye, Babcia.”
Eddie stands and he walks across the clearing to slip his hand into mine. I glance down at him through my tears and find he’s patiently staring up at me.
Emilia and our distant cousins will be waiting for us back in Krakow, and then over the next two weeks, Wade and Callie and Eddie and I are going to explore this country together. It’s not easy for us to be here, so far out of our routine, out of our comfort zone—but we’re making it work for every single one of us, because it’s important, and because this was always the dream. There will be challenges, there will be disappointments, there will be failures and arguments and mishaps, but that’s not preventing us from trying anymore.
Our family life is never going to be easy, but that can’t stop any one of us from reaching for our dreams. It cost our ancestors too damned much for us to have this life—the best thing we can do to honor them is to live it to its fullest.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincerest thanks to my aunt, Lola Beavis, who traveled with me to Poland to help with translation and to patiently assist with my research for this book. Thanks to Barbore Misztiel for her hospitality and, in particular, for taking me to visit my grandmother’s childhood home. Thank you to Renata Kopczewska for guide services and research assistance, and to Katarzyna M. for Polish grammar/translation advice.
I’m forever indebted to Ashleigh Finch, who offered invaluable expertise an
d insight into autism spectrum disorder while I was planning this book. I only hope I’ve written Eddie and his family in a way that does justice to her generosity and courage in sharing her knowledge and experiences.
And finally, thanks to the staff at the Auschwitz-Birkenau Memorial and Museum, the Warsaw Uprising Museum and the incredible POLIN Museum of the History of Polish Jews. They are unique heroes—storytellers tasked with keeping alive the memory of what should never be forgotten.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Most of my books have started as a whisper of an idea that I have to strain to listen for. In the case of this story, the idea floated past me at my mother’s family Christmas party one December a decade or so ago.
I was standing in a crowd of cousins and uncles and aunts, gorging myself on traditional Polish food, as is our tradition at that party each year. It suddenly struck me that our now-large family had once been just a single Polish Catholic couple—my maternal grandparents. Displaced by war, they made a home almost ten thousand miles from the world they’d always known, in a country that was often less than welcoming to refugees. But seventy years later, more than fifty of their direct descendants know only that new country as home. Whether we are conscious of it or not, our grandparents’ decisions made in wartime changed our lives.
I knew enough about my grandparents’ story and the war to surmise that the paths that led them across the world to a new life would not have been easy...although I knew very little of the specifics of that journey. My grandparents both died in the 1980s, and the sad reality is that much of their story died with them. Like many of their generation, they had little time to reflect or grieve even once the war ended. Their focus was on the future, and the physical, emotional and psychological wounds of war were soon trapped beneath the surface of the new life they were forging. The lessons they learned along the way were often lost to time.