The Lullaby of Polish Girls

by Dagmara Dominczyk

  Girls like you. Kamila’s face burns. Girls like us, her mother means: unlovable, ungainly. Girls who asked for second helpings and snuck in thirds. Girls who didn’t care for diets or restraint in any capacity. Girls with bad hair, bad skin, and bad thoughts.

  Kamila can’t remember about the hairspray, she can’t remember anything that preceded the news that Anna Baran had come to town.

  “Mamo, she was here. Anna was here! In Kielce! This weekend!”

  “Really? The Barans were here?”

  “No! Just her. It was like a super-secret trip or something. Her uncle smuggled her in from West Germany.”

  “I see.”

  “Point is, Mother, that I was at our stupid działka this weekend with Dad, picking strawberries and twiddling my thumbs when I could have been forging a lifelong friendship! Why did you make me go?”

  “Because you go every weekend, and you and your father have a great time in the country. Now, stop with the theatrics and put these in a pot.”

  Kamila takes the bowl of newly skinned potatoes over to the stove. God, she loves potatoes so much. She hopes her mother is making zalewajka. A bowl of the sour soup with juicy kiełbasa and a hard-boiled egg would do wonders for her mood right now.

  “Anyway, Mother, now Justyna Zator is all bragging about how Anna and her totally bonded and they’re best friends and they exchanged addresses so they can write to each other, but Justyna won’t show me Anna’s address! And I wanted to write her a letter saying how sorry I was that I missed her and that if she comes back next summer I want to be her friend too. And now it’s all ruined because you made me go to the stupid działka and because Justyna is a selfish pig!”

  Kamila collapses into a chair by the window and weeps. She can’t help it. The single most important event of the entire summer, and she missed it because she was too busy picking berries and weaving dumb garlands with her father. Once again, the brutality of the world takes Kamila’s breath away. She can’t go on if things like this continue.

  Zofia stands and walks over to her daughter. “Why are you getting so excited, Kamila? It’s very unattractive.” Kamila looks away and doesn’t say anything.

  After Jakub died, instead of clinging to the one child she had left, Zofia let Włodek do all the primary parenting. He read Kamila fairy tales at bedtime, and kissed her scrapes, and showed her how to make animal figurines from blocks of shapeless clay. Zofia wanted none of it and accepted the role of bad cop with open arms. The result was twofold: she had succeeded in keeping a safe distance should any tragedy befall Kamila and in return Kamila had grown to resent her.

  “Guess what, Modrzejewska? If you want to write Ania a letter, you’re more than welcome. I still get a Christmas card from the Barans every year. Why don’t you finish peeling these and I’ll go look for one in the credenza?”

  Kamila lifts her face off the table. Modrzejewska. The most famous Polish actress that ever lived. If only! If only Kamila had one ounce of the beauty and grace that Modrzejewska possessed. Before her mother has time to react, Kamila throws her chubby arms around Zofia’s waist and pulls her close, stuffing her face into the folds of Zofia’s apron. It would be nice if Zofia would put her hand on top of her daughter’s head, or stroke her hair, but Zofia doesn’t.

  Later that night, Kamila calls her father into her bedroom. She hands him the pages silently and he begins reading.

  Droga Aniu,

  I’m very sorry that I have to introduce myself in a letter. I wish I could have done it in person, but you see, my father and I were on our działka the weekend you visited and so I missed you. Don’t think I haven’t been kicking myself ever since! Everyone said that you were really nice and friendly and also, very pretty! If you are wondering how I got your address, don’t worry, it wasn’t from Justyna. She wouldn’t share it with me and I think you should know this because real friends share everything! This letter will be short because maybe you won’t want to write to me. You might be too busy with life in America or you may have too many pen pals already. But I thought I would give it a shot because I am very friendly too! I really can’t get over the fact that I didn’t meet you. Did you know that our moms went to school together and that we were born just six weeks apart? I thought that was really neat. I’m older!

  Oh, I almost forgot, my name is Kamila Marchewska. I live in klatka 63, just a few doors up from your babcia’s. Just like you, I am an only child (well, I did have a brother who drowned when he was three but I was five and don’t really remember him). My mom’s name is Zofia. That’s how I got your address, from my mom, because your mom still sends us holiday cards. And we were baptized on the same day, at St. Józef’s! So, you see, we’re already connected!

  I am in the eighth grade coming this fall. I can’t believe the summer is almost over. It makes me want to shout with despair. No more gorgeous sunsets or bonfires, and the Tęcza Pool will be closing. My grandmother died in January and I’ve finally gotten over it, because everything is better in the summer. But that too is over now, and I am dreading the school year. Anyway, if the rumors are true and you really are coming next year for the whole vacation, then that is so wonderful and I will wait for you and cross off the days in my calendar till your arrival! I think we are going to be better friends than you and Justyna because she can be really mean and she’s also a liar. But you don’t have to tell her I said that. Proszę cię write back!

  Kamila Mariana Marchewska

  Włodek folds the letter in half and delicately sets it back on his daughter’s nightstand. Kamila lies on the fold-out sofa in her pink nightgown with embroidered purple roses, and a collar that’s buttoned all the way up. She looks like she is eight years old again, her face shining with anticipation.

  “Well? Come on, Tatusiu, tell me what you think! And be honest.”

  “Tatusiu? You haven’t called me that in ages, córeczko.” Włodek smiles and Kamila rolls her eyes.

  “It’s a very good letter, Kamilka. But don’t you think you come off a tad too eager?”

  Kamila shoots up to a sitting position. “But I am eager! I can’t wait to meet her!”

  “Well, you sound like you somehow did meet her. You reveal things that normally one wouldn’t say to a stranger.”

  “Like what? That I told her how rotten Justyna can be? Well, I’m only being honest. Believe me, Tato, it will save Ania a lot of heartache once she knows that Justyna is two-faced. Anyway, you always said that in the face of adversity, honesty is the best policy.”

  “Tak, Kamila, I did say that.” Włodek stands up now and slowly walks over to his daughter’s bookcase. His eyes peruse the shelves as he continues. “But the thing about your brother? Maybe we could, well, not include it, just yet. Some things are better left for when one has developed a strong, trustworthy friendship. Do you understand what I mean?”

  “Everyone knows what happened to Jakub! Only you and Mama think it’s like a big secret or something. Anyway, who cares? It happened so many years ago!”

  “My daughter, when someone you love is taken from you—because Jakub didn’t just die, like Babcia did—it doesn’t matter how many years pass; your heart will always be broken.”

  “Isn’t it enough that we visit his grave like a gajillion times a year? It’s so pointless. Sorry, Tato, but it’s true. Anyway, I’m gonna send the letter just like I wrote it. I think it’s perfect.”

  Włodek turns his back to Kamila and squeezes his eyes shut. Her father’s carried the guilt for her brother’s death for years now. It was dumb for Włodek to take a catnap while three-year-old Jakub waded in the lake, but it happened, and it happened a long time ago. Kamila sighs in frustration as her father slumps his shoulders.

  “Fine, Kamila. Just don’t show it to your mother.”

  “Uh, don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on it. I’m not retarded!”

  Her father nods his head and Kamila instantly feels sorry for him. He’s so schlumpy, always so keen on doing whatever is asked of him, an
d Zofia has no trouble asking. She suspects he hates Zofia too.

  Kamila races out of bed and reaches Włodek just as he’s about to leave the room. She gives him a hug, and he gratefully returns it.

  “Cheer up, Tatusiu.” Kamila grins. “We’re still going fishing on Thursday, right?”

  Włodek nods his head and combs back Kamila’s hair with his hands.

  “Leave it, Tato. Just leave it alone.”

  Before she turns out the lights, Kamila spends a half hour plaiting her hair into two dozen cornrows; when she’s done her head looks reticular, unbecoming, but it’s the only way to tame the godawful kink in her hair. She climbs under the covers and wonders how many days it takes for a letter to sail across the Atlantic.

  Justyna

  Kielce, Poland

  On the other side of the wersalka, Justyna feels her sister’s body shift again.

  “Stop that right now.”

  “What? I can’t sleep!” Elwira whispers in the dark.

  “Then try not rubbing yourself with the pillow.” Elwira freezes and then twists her torso ever so slightly, adjusting things. “Shut up, Justyna! I’m tossing around because I can’t sleep. I’m still thinking about Ania Baran and I’m—”

  “And you’re rubbing yourself while you think about her? What, are you a lezbijka, you little perv?” Justyna’s laugh is hoarse and mean.

  “You’re a lezbijka! You’re the one with the webbed toes!”

  “Fuck off!!” Justyna hisses into the dark. The slight deformity on her right foot is an Achilles’ heel of sorts, the one obvious smudge on an otherwise flawless canvas. Her short, chestnut brown hair frames her face perfectly, and her nose is petite, which, in a Slavic country, is mighty currency. Her eyes flash like sapphires, her body is slim but ample in all the right places, and she has a beauty mark above her lip that she blackens with an eyeliner, because that’s what movie stars do.

  “One more word, and I’m telling Mama that you diddle yourself every night.” Elwira shuts her mouth immediately.

  “Anyway, who cares about Anka Baran? She’s back in America and we’ll probably never see her again.” Justyna crawls out of the bed. Her hands slide under the mattress and she pulls out a soft pack of unfiltered Zefiry. She tiptoes over to the window and lights up.

  “Mama and Tato will smell that, you know. Talk about disgusting. They know you do it.”

  “And obviously they don’t give a shit ’cause I haven’t heard a peep from either of them on the subject. Besides, they’d be hypocrites if they did say something and I’d fucking call them on it too. Anyway, I’m out. You won’t have to suffer any longer.” Elwira bolts up in bed. For a nine-year-old, she’s tiny, stunted even, but Justyna knows that people consider her the prettier sister. It doesn’t bother Justyna because she thinks that Elwira’s pixie-like features and her short stature won’t look so cute when she’s sixteen.

  “Where are you going?” Elwira demands.

  “Dzieciaku, what do you care? You can go back to your pillow and dream a little dream. I got better things to do.”

  And with that Justyna reaches for her miniskirt, grabs her sandals, cracks their bedroom door open, and vanishes.

  In the living room, Justyna’s mother, Teresa, and her father, Bogdan, are lying on the orange pullout wersalka, watching TV. She sees her mother’s legs entwined with her father’s. They’re always touching each other, always smooching, pulling each other in for a quick embrace. Justyna thinks it’s mildly gross, but doesn’t really care. When she clicks the bedroom door shut behind her, her mother glances up and, for a minute, they lock eyes. Teresa obviously knows what Justyna is up to, but she won’t come storming into the hallway now. Later there will be a fuck-filled tirade about curfews, but Justyna’s mother never follows up on her threats.

  The July night is unusually crisp. She should have grabbed a sweater but the walk to the Relaks is a short one. It’s only nine-thirty and, already, most of Szydłówek is dark. The streetlights are shutting off, one after another, like dominoes.

  Across Klonowa Street, the benches lining the walkway to the Relaks are occupied by older men from the neighborhood. The Relaks Café has become a clandestine meeting place for local drunks and for young men who aspire to be the next generation of local drunks. But they don’t get their liquor from the overpriced establishment; they merely use the area as a gathering ground, bringing their own bottles of bathtub-brewed moonshine and sour, cheap wines.

  Back in the sixties and seventies, the bar was busy all summer long. Families and tourists flooded the place on weekends, lounging on blankets, renting kayaks, and taking strolls uphill to the Relaks for cold beer and French fries that were served in cone-shaped napkins with tiny plastic forks. But that was back when the reservoir water was clean and you could actually swim in it. Now, people claim that the zalew is full of sewage and corpses from a cemetery on the other side of the bay that flooded a few years ago.

  As she makes her way closer to the bar, she can see Norbert “Lolek” Siwa and Mariusz Kowalski sitting on some benches, their cigarette tips glowing like fireflies. As she walks by them, Lolek calls out to her, “Hey, Zator, I didn’t know this was slut turf!” Justyna casually gives him the finger. “It’s not, Lolek. I heard it’s pig country, so I thought I’d venture and see for myself. Guess it’s true, chrum chrum.”

  Kowalski cracks up and Justyna is pleased. Lolek is a neighborhood wiseass, who has a violent temper if you cross him on a bad night. He’s a recent high-school dropout but he looks way older than seventeen. Lolek walks like a rooster, his fiery red hair is always slicked back into an outdated bouffant, and he never shaves his sparse orangey mustache. He is always borrowing money for beer and porno magazines, but he never pays it back. Last summer he brought a Russian prostitute to Kowalski’s eighteenth birthday party and had her wank off the entire group, at a discount price. Lolek is a legend. And Kowalski, his sidekick, is the object of many girls’ affections, even though he is as short as he is good-looking. In the land of guys in their twenties who are already losing their teeth, Kowalski, with his wide smile and pressed jeans, is a catch.

  Justyna strides right up to them and grabs a wine bottle from under their bench. Without missing a beat, she takes an impressive swig, hands the bottle to Kowalski, and says, “Cheap shit,” before sauntering past them. She can still hear them howling as she rounds the corner.

  Sebastian Tefilski is waiting for her, just where he said he’d be. He is sitting on top of the hill that leads down to the water, listening to headphones. She sits down beside him and leans in.

  “Depeche Mode? Is this the tape you gave me last year?” Justyna asks. Sebastian takes off his headphones and continues staring out in front of him.

  “So?”

  “So there’s new stuff out now. It’s called keeping up with the times, Tefilski. You should try it.” Justyna smiles lazily but Sebastian is impatient, thrusting his hand out.

  “Jezus Maria, what’s your problem? You should be glad I’m here. I could be at home sleeping right now, you know. Instead I’m playing postman.”

  “Just give it to me.”

  Justyna huffs and digs into her skirt pocket. She produces a piece of white paper, folded into a small, neat square. Sebastian grabs it, the excited smile on his face almost embarrassing. Did she ever make him that happy, Justyna wonders. But just like that Sebastian’s smile fades. He stands up slowly and starts tearing the note into fragments, which drop to the ground like confetti. Justyna stands up next to him.

  “Not good?”

  Sebastian’s silence fills the air, and for a moment Justyna actually feels bad. But, no—Anna had it coming, they both did. When Justyna told Anna about her and Tefilski, to both brag and warn, it was as if Anna didn’t hear the subtext, as if Justyna’s leftovers were fine by her. The Amerykanka just did not give a shit about other people’s history, that much was clear. She was pathetically transparent, almost inhaling Sebastian when the two of them hugged goodb
ye. Justyna caught their whispered somethings, the looks they shared. Justyna wasn’t dumb.

  Sebastian Tefilski and Justyna Zator went back, way back to First Holy Communion. They were eight and assigned to walk down the church aisle side by side, one of thirteen pairs. They made their way down toward the altar just like in practice, doing a slow, methodical two-step, trying not to laugh. At one point, when she had just about had it with her itchy stockings, Justyna furtively scratched her crack and Sebastian caught her and smiled and she stuck her tongue out at him, before sticking her tongue out for the sanctified wafer. And from that day forward, Sebastian and Justyna were forever in and out of love.

  Anka Baran was not just usurping an old boyfriend; she was after the first boy that ever truly loved Justyna, so what did a few forged sentences matter? Still, she wouldn’t mind becoming friends with the foreigner, if only to satisfy her curiosity. So she’s already planning future shopping trips with Anna to the Puchatek mall, and sleepovers. They will be friends—because aside from the occasional romp with nutty Kamila Marchewska, Justyna doesn’t really hang out with girls. Anna Baran would fill the gap nicely.

  Sebastian recites from memory, his voice robotic, dazed. “ ‘Dear Sebastian, I have a boyfriend in America. It’s pretty serious. I guess I felt bad for you and didn’t know how to tell you but please, don’t bother waiting for me. Have a good summer. Your friend, Anna Baran.’ ”

  Justyna smirks. “ ‘I felt bad for you’? Ewww. Who does she think she is? Right?” She tugs on his arm. “Right?”

  Sebastian looks into Justyna’s face, and the shame he’s feeling is too deep to hide.

  “You know what, Tefilski? Fuck her. And don’t even think about writing to her, unless you want to come off like a sniveling beggar.” She moves closer. “You’re better than her anyway. She wouldn’t know what to do with you even if she wanted you.” Their noses are almost touching now and Sebastian doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t move away.