by Bina Bernard
“You don’t remember them?”
“I can’t see them! Kaja, where are my glasses?”
Lena ran out to find the elderly woman. “Are you Kaja?’” she said when she found her in the kitchen.
“Yes. What does he want?’
“His glasses. He can’t see without his glasses.”
“He could be sitting on them. They are never very far away from him.”
Lena rushed back into the parlor. Mr. Turowski now had his glasses on and seemed to be studying the photographs.
“These could be my pictures. But my mind is not so good anymore.”
“Look very carefully. Is the woman familiar? Can you remember her name? Or the two little girls?”
“Such happy children. I took many pictures of children.”
“Did you take these pictures of these two little girls?”
“Maybe. Yes. Yes.”
“You do remember them!”
“Who?”
“These two little girls.”
“They were lovely little girls. I took pictures of lovely little girls.”
“Their names! What is their name?”
“I don’t know.”
Mr. Turowski seemed bewildered. Lena realized that while he might have actually taken these photographs, he was incapable of identifying the girls or the woman.
“Mr. Turowski, does the name Bieliński mean anything to you?”
Lena hoped hearing the name would jog his memory.
He shook his head. “I don’t think I know anybody by that name.”
“What about your records? You know, the names of people you photographed? Do you know where your records are? What about your old negatives?”
“I used to keep very good records. People would come and order more pictures. Long ago I had very good records. Now I have no records. You should ask my Zygmunt. My son, he knows where everything is.”
My God, he should have told me he had his father’s records! Why didn’t he? Lena wondered.
She thanked the old man and rushed out of his house. Lena ran to the tram stop and caught one about to pull away. For the entire trip back, she prayed that Zygmunt Turowski Jr. still had his father’s negatives and records.
The disappointed look on her face as she entered the store told Zygmunt what he had suspected.
“He couldn’t help you? I’m not surprised.” He seemed genuinely concerned.
“I think these are his pictures,” Lena said excitedly. “But he couldn’t remember the names. He said you had all his old records! Where are his old files? I must find them!” Lena was practically shouting.
As her voice grew louder, Zygmunt Turowski became less sympathetic.
“Listen, I’m getting ready to close,” he said. “I am not about to start rummaging in the basement for old files that I probably threw away years ago.”
Realizing her anger showed, Lena quickly softened her tone of voice. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to burden you with my problem. But these pictures are my only link to my family.”
Zygmunt became more receptive. “I would like to help you. On Monday, I will check out the basement. If I find anything still there from before the war, you could come back, and look through the stuff yourself. But I must warn you, a lot of what once was stored there got damaged when we had an electrical fire. I did throw most of it out.”
On the train back to Warsaw, despite Mr. Turowski’s warning, Lena remained hopeful. On my next trip to Krakow I will discover the information I need to find my family. That mere possibility was enough. Lena was grateful to Stefan. “Thank you, thank you, Tata, for getting me this far.” As she drifted off to sleep, she thought, Even if my parents are not alive, at least I want to know my real name.
In her Warsaw apartment on Sunday morning, Lena woke up early, before Stefan returned from his friend’s house. She decided to visit Ryszard at the cemetery by herself. Lena wished she could discuss everything that had happened with him, but she was willing to settle for a one-sided conversation.
As she approached the gravesite, Lena saw a bouquet of fresh flowers in a ceramic vase resting against his tombstone, and she knew that Pola, Ryszard’s mother, had paid him a visit. I guess I’m not your only visitor, Lena thought, as she knelt and crossed herself. It saddened her that she and Ryszard’s parents had grown even further apart since his death. Roman always seemed glad to see her, but Pola maintained a coldness that Lena could not penetrate.
Lena sat down on the stone bench at the foot of Ryszard’s grave and looked around to make sure she was alone before she started talking. “I didn’t bring you flowers,” she said apologetically, then added, “but I have lots to tell you.” Her soliloquy was mainly about her trip to Krakow. Lena ended her one-sided conversation puzzled. When should I tell our son about Stefan’s letter? She wished Ryszard could advise her. Talked out, Lena sat silently on the bench for a time, hoping for a sign that he heard her. Alas, there was none.
Back in the apartment, Lena was still debating whether to tell her son about her father’s letter, as Stefan walked in carrying his overnight bag.
“Did you have fun?” she asked.
“I guess,” he said, and started for his room.
“I went to see Dad at the cemetery this morning.”
“You should have waited. I would have gone with you.” Stefan sounded disappointed.
Lena tugged at her son’s free arm as he walked by. “Sit down, Stef. I want to talk to you.”
She decided it was time to tell him what she already knew. She didn’t want to keep her search a secret. After all it was his family, too.
“Anything wrong?” he asked, and dropped his bag.
“No. Something is right.”
Lena laced her fingers with his, and started talking.
“What are you saying, Mom?” Stefan jerked his hand away and became agitated. “You didn’t have to go to Krakow to find out about your family! You and me! Uncle Rudi and Grandma Helga. Papa Roman and Grandma Pola! That’s our fam . . .” Stefan stopped mid-sentence as he remembered the heated exchange he’d witnessed between his mother and Grandma Pola outside the church before his father’s funeral.
“You don’t have to find out who you are,” he said, his voice less strident now.
As Lena tried to embrace her son, he stepped out of her grasp and kept talking.
“It’s not like you just found out you were adopted. You always knew it. Why does it matter now? Grandpa told me many times he felt like you were his real daughter. He loved you.” Stefan was close to tears.
“And I loved him. But Grandpa wanted me to know who my people were. That’s why he left me these pictures and wrote the letter. I guess I can’t expect you to understand. You’re only twelve.”
“I’m almost thirteen,” Stefan shot back.
“I know you feel grown up. But there’s much you can’t understand. Growing up, I never felt like I belonged in Sandomierz. I want to know where I was born and to whom. Maybe then I’ll find out where I belong.”
“You belong here with me. You’re my mother!” Stefan shouted, his whole body shaking.
Lena reached out to hug him. This time he let her. Once he calmed down, she decided to tell him the rest. “Grandpa thought my family sent me to the nuns to keep me safe, because they were Jews. You remember studying about the Holocaust in school? How the Germans sent Jews to concentration camps?”
Stefan pulled away. “No! Your parents can’t be Jews!” he shouted. “You don’t look anything like Marek’s mother. She’s a Jewess.”
“Grandpa thought they were, and that was why they sent me to the nuns. That would mean that I am Jewish by blood and . . .”
“No! No! No!” Stefan wouldn’t let her finish. “It doesn’t matter if your parents were Jews! You’re not Jewish anymore. I don’t want any more changes!” he yelled, and ran out of the apartment.
Oh, my God. What have I done? How could I have been so thoughtless? I told him too much, too soon! Bein
g reunited with her family was paramount for Lena. Their being Jewish was of little importance. She was annoyed with herself for not knowing that what she considered good news would upset her son. She should have realized that for a twelve-year-old boy in Poland there was no upside having a mother with Jewish blood, even if she had been confirmed and had lived her life as a Catholic.
He’ll come back once he’s calmed down. Then we’ll talk, she tried to reassure herself. I’ll bake his favorite chocolate babka. Lena checked her cupboard. Happily, she found all the ingredients. No shopping on Sunday.
Both Ryszard and Lena had considered themselves apolitical. While the anti-Jewish propaganda had been swirling around her while she was growing up, it had no direct impact on Lena’s life. The rabid anti-Jewish campaign which had erupted in Poland in 1967 after the Six Day War was not something she even thought about until Ryszard mentioned the firings at the University of people with Jewish ancestry. Lena recalled reading newspaper articles about the thousands of Jews suspected of being Zionists who left Poland in 1968. Now, she felt guilty for her own insensitivity to the plight of the Jews in Poland.
Lena was distraught. The sun was beginning to set. Stefan had not returned. She had been calling his friends most of the afternoon, but no one had seen him. The beautiful chocolate babka she’d made for him had cooled and was waiting to be eaten. By nine o’clock, when she was ready to phone the police, there was a knock on the door. Relieved, she thought, he must have forgotten his keys again. Lena flung open the door and said, “Stef, you had me really worried!”
She was surprised to see her mother-in-law.
“Don’t worry,” Pola said.
“He’s fine.”
Where is he?”
“At our house. With Roman.”
“Why didn’t you call to tell me he was with you?”
“I’m sorry. I should have,” Pola said. “I’m very sorry!”
“Did he tell you why he was upset?” Lena asked.
“It’s why I’m here,” Pola said, and put her arms around her daughter-in-law.
Lena was taken aback by her mother-in-law’s sudden warmth.
As the two were walking into the living room, Lena decided to tell her mother-in-law the whole story. Before she got a word out, Pola asked, “Remember how upset I was when you insisted on having a church wedding?”
Lena nodded, confused. That was years ago. Why is she bringing that up now?
“I should have explained then,” Pola said. “I should have told Ryszard. But Roman convinced me there was no point.”
Lena remained on the edge of the sofa. She turned her head from left to right, as if she were watching a tennis match, as Pola nervously paced back and forth.
Puzzled, Lena wasn’t sure what her mother-in-law was trying to tell her.
When she heard Pola say, “I couldn’t tell my own son that I was Jewish!” Lena jumped up.
“What? What did you say?” she yelled. She grabbed Pola with both hands to keep her still.
“I couldn’t tell my own son I was Jewish,” she repeated.
Shocked into silence, Lena forced Pola onto the sofa. With the two of them sitting side by side, Pola continued with her story.
Pola Malińska, née Friedman, grew up in Lublin in a secular Jewish family. She was the youngest of four children, the only daughter. Her father, Jakub, a jeweler by trade, liked to joke that he was a devout Socialist by religion. He and his best friend, Karol Maliński, were both active in local politics. When Karol, a Catholic, fell in love with a Jewish girl, Jakub encouraged their relationship. Rebekah Neuman and Karol Maliński were married in a civil ceremony and had one child, a son. They named him Roman.
Roman and Pola had played together as children. So it was no surprise when they started dating. After she graduated from the Gymnasium, instead of going on to the university Pola worked for her father in his jewelry store. Designing rings with semi-precious gems was her specialty. In 1935, just before her twenty-fourth birthday, Pola and Roman were married in a civil ceremony. Both families saw their union as a blessing. And for a time it was. With Hitler on the march things changed.
“My father expected bad things to happen,” Pola said. “With a heavy heart he watched the news. In September ’38 when Great Britain, France, and Italy signed the agreement with Hitler that allowed Germany to annex the Sudetenland, he thought that was just the beginning. So before the Germans marched into Poland, which is what he expected to happen, he sent my brothers to Russia. Being a Socialist, he trusted the Soviets. They had not signed the pact with Hitler until ’39. My brothers died at the siege of Leningrad, fighting the Germans.” Pola dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, but kept on with her story. “My father had a different plan for me, Roman, and Ryszard, who was just a toddler. He wanted us to relocate to Warsaw where nobody knew us. I didn’t want to leave my family, but my father insisted. It wasn’t forever, he assured me. Luckily Karol had a friend in Warsaw who arranged for Roman to get a job working for a printing company, and another friend helped us find a place to live. My father suspected that things would be bad for Jews, even those who were not religious. He arranged to have my papers and Ryszard’s altered to list our religion as Catholic, same as Roman’s. That was our passport to safety.”
Listening to Pola, Lena wondered if her own family story was similar to hers.
“From the time I left Lublin, I stopped being Jewish,” Pola said.
Why didn’t she go back to being Jewish after the war? Lena wondered. Her unasked question was soon answered.
“I promised myself as I watched the Warsaw Ghetto burn that if the Germans were defeated and we survived the war, I would proudly go back to being Jewish. Absurd isn’t it? Adolf Hitler’s determination to rid the world of Jews made me feel Jewish.” Pola laughed nervously. “It was hard to forget that in ’41 a Catholic mob murdered all the Jews in Jedwabne. And nobody objected! Still, after the war, we considered going back to Lublin, even though we knew our family was gone.” Pola’s voice was almost a whisper. “They died when the Germans liquidated the Lublin Ghetto—even Karol. Somebody had reported Rebekah was a Jew, and she was forced into the Ghetto. Although he was born a Catholic, Karol insisted on going with her.”
Lena wanted to say something comforting, but no words came.
“I didn’t go back to being Jewish because Poland was not safe for Jews after the war. Those who returned from camps or from hiding, were not welcomed back by their former neighbors. After forty-two Jews, including a baby, were murdered in Kielce on July 4, 1946, and there was no outcry from the Catholic Church, I knew I couldn’t live safely in Poland as a Jew.”
Lena heard a mixture of anger and resignation in Pola’s voice.
“So we stayed in Warsaw and continued our charade. It was best for Ryszard, we told ourselves. But my secret burned a hole in my soul. We considered emigrating to Israel after Ryszard died. With all the anti-Jewish feeling starting up again in ’68. But it was too late for us. I couldn’t leave Stefan . . . or not visit Ryszard’s grave.
Pola took a deep breath. She wanted to explain her coldness to Lena.
“It gnawed at me that Ryszard had fallen in love with a practicing Catholic. That you and he were married by a priest. And that my only grandchild was being raised as a Catholic. I had betrayed the vow I made to the Jews I watched die in the Warsaw Ghetto. I couldn’t tell my son the truth. All I could do was freeze you out, Lena. I’m so sorry,” Pola said.
“I’m sorry, too,” Lena heard herself say.
Pola grabbed her daughter-in-law’s hand. “Being Jewish in a country that doesn’t like Jews is difficult. It’s safer to be a Jew in private. But I don’t have to keep my secret from you. You and I can help each other be who we were supposed to be.”
Lena was overwhelmed. So much to take in. But now that she understood better who her mother-in-law was, she could empathize and embrace the woman she thought had rejected her all these years. Lena welcomed a chance to repair their fr
ayed relationship.
At the clinic, even while she was examining a patient, Lena listened for the phone and quickly rushed to answer whenever it rang, always hoping it was Zygmunt Turowski on the line with some good news. By Wednesday her spirits were visibly dampened. I’ll give him until the end of the week. Then I’ll call.
Thursday afternoon, when she no longer expected his call, it came.
“I couldn’t start looking until yesterday. But I have good news for . . .”
“You found the records!” Lena interrupted. “Thank God!” She instinctively crossed herself.
“It’s too early to thank God. But if you are still willing to come back and look for yourself, there’s a big pile of junk in boxes in the basement that might have what you’re looking for.”
“Oh yes! Yes! I’ll be there on Saturday. I’ll take the first train in the morning.”
Zygmunt ushered Lena down the steep steps to the basement. A lone, naked light bulb illuminated the corner where cardboard boxes filled with his father’s files were haphazardly stored. Some were blackened and smelled of smoke, others had water stains. Knowing what could be inside, Lena stared at the heap some might categorize as garbage and saw a potential gold mine.
With a gentlemanly flourish, Zygmunt wiped off a wooden stool. “You can sit on this. I hope it’s okay,” he said apologetically.
“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I brought a flashlight, in case you had no electricity down here.”
“Don’t worry about keeping things in order. You are the only person who cares about what’s here. We were planning to throw it all out,” he said as he left her to her task.
“So glad you didn’t,” she said under her breath.
Full of anticipation, Lena reached for the nearest box.
After an hour, Zygmunt came down offering her tea and a biscuit.
“No, thank you,” she said, and shook her head. “I can’t stop. I’ve hardly made a dent!” Lena pointed to the mound of boxes she still had to go through before he closed the shop for the day.
When she’d gone through more than half of the cartons, Lena opened a box with a series of negatives and some photos stamped “PROOF” that looked eerily familiar to her. Examining the negatives carefully, Lena found the one from which Mr. Turowski had developed the picture of the two little girls. Stunned, she swallowed hard and opened the yellow envelope that was attached to the side of the carton. Inside, a receipt named Hershel Stein as the person who had ordered the pictures. On another scrap of paper in the same envelope a Krakow address was jotted down in pencil.