This Is How It Begins

by Joan Dempsey

  Frank began to laugh.

  “Good for them! That’s the way to go: sneak off and get it done, don’t breathe a word to anyone.”

  He raised his glass.

  “Jesus, Frank, don’t you think they should have told us? Marta knows, I’m sure of it.”

  “No way does Marta know. She would have told you. You didn’t talk to her about it?”

  Lolek drank down the rest of his Scotch. His face began to feel warm.

  “I’ve hardly seen her. I thought she was keeping it from me.”

  “She wouldn’t do that.”

  “And how would you know that exactly?”

  Frank stared into his empty glass, then waggled it.

  “Got any more?”

  Lolek gestured with his own glass to a cabinet on the far side of the conference table, and Frank helped himself. Lolek could see why Marta might be attracted to Frank, why any woman would. Nearly eight years had passed since Frank’s wife died, and Lolek had given up on encouraging him to try dating. Thinking now about Marta and Frank together made him feel surprisingly more tired than disturbed. He found himself wondering, almost idly, as if it had nothing to do with him, if he and Marta might divorce.

  “How do things look for next week’s Education Committee hearing on that bill?” said Frank.

  “Hard to tell since we don’t know what Warren Meck and his pastor have planned, but I do know Aggie has pulled out all the stops, so no matter what happens with the actual bill, we’re going to get a lot of important news coverage. This bill would never fly if the Education Committee wasn’t mostly composed of members in districts that seem to have been infiltrated by the likes of Meck. There’s a reason the statute doesn’t already define sound moral character—to give that power to the board of education is asking for trouble.”

  “But isn’t that dangerous for them, too? Couldn’t a liberal board define it in a way that excludes them?”

  “Yes, indeed, but they seem to have successfully stacked the current board with friends, and they’ve clearly planted their flag in Massachusetts. Apparently the church at the old Regent is one of eight or nine branches throughout the state! They’ve moved in their supporters from all over the place. They expect to stay, and grow. They’ve targeted us, Frank. We never saw them coming.”

  “What do you need me to do? When is it, a week from today?”

  “A week from Wednesday, March eighteenth. Nine o’clock in A-1. I didn’t even think about you being there. It’s not really your area.”

  “Of course I’m going to be there. Aggie must have written out some talking points. Let me have a copy. I’ll testify.”

  Lolek took a drink and squinted at Frank over the top of his glass.

  “You don’t need to do that, Frank. We have plenty of people lined up.”

  “You don’t want me there?”

  “I just don’t know why you would be.”

  “Because it’s family, Lolek.”

  “My family, Frank. Not yours.”

  Frank lowered his head, then lifted it fast. His expression wasn’t angry as Lolek might have expected, but pitying. Anger Lolek would have welcomed, because then they might have had it out, but pity was something else entirely; pity gave Frank the upper hand. Lolek shifted in his chair, trying to stretch out his hip. Frank quietly set his empty glass on the conference table, then pulled on and methodically buttoned his coat. He fastened the top button of his shirt and cinched his tie.

  “Don’t be like that, Frank, come on. It’s just that—I don’t know, this business with Tommy is getting to me. And then to find out he got married? What kind of kid gets married without telling his father?”

  Frank picked up his hat. He fingered the metal fire department emblem affixed above the brim.

  “Are you really asking?”

  Was he asking? Didn’t he already know? Lolek swallowed the last of his Scotch.

  Frank carefully put on his hat. He palmed the back of it into place, then tugged down on the brim. At the door he stopped walking but didn’t turn around.

  “Call your wife, Lolek. She misses you. We all do.”

  Frank walked out.

  “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m right here! Didn’t we just have a nice drink?”

  The door to the outer office opened, then closed.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  Lolek cocked his arm and disappointed himself when he didn’t throw the glass. It felt heavy in his hand. What bothered him was not that Frank had prompted his outburst, or demanded he call Marta, or looked on him with pity. What bothered him wasn’t even that Frank had turned his back and walked out. What bothered Lolek was how he had allowed himself to get things so damned wrong with Tommy, how for years—years—he had successfully soldiered forth in the fight for equality without ever noticing that his vulnerable son was standing on the front lines. Carefully, Lolek set down the trembling glass. He rubbed a hand hard across his brow. He straightened his back.

  “Aggie?”

  But of course she had gone. A hiss of steam escaped from the ancient radiator near her desk in the outer office. And then silence.

  29

  The Art Tour

  When Will knocked on Ludka’s office door to see if he could catch a ride to her house for the art tour, Ludka had been sitting at her desk for nearly fifteen minutes, staring at her sketch of Oskar and Aaron, that first boy they’d rescued. Director Mandelbaum had seemed relieved she’d wanted only the one sketch, and had made arrangements to ship it to her office, where it had been waiting when she first got back to work, three days ago now. The other thing that had been waiting was a brown paper package from Stanley. The department’s assistant said he had dropped it off and asked that it be locked in her office, “a surprise for when she returns.” So, Ludka had thought, the weasel had been in town all along.

  On their last full day in Warsaw, Ludka and Izaac had gone with Oskar to the Galeria Zapiecek to see his work, and Oskar had taken her aside.

  “You can fire that private investigator. Stanley will return your Mieroszewski.”

  When she peered at him inquisitively, he lowered his head. In a flat and tired voice, he said, “I threatened him, Polly. I know things about Stanley I should have reported to the police a long time ago; it seems I’m rather good at deluding myself.”

  He had looked at her then with such sorrow and such disdain for himself that she hadn’t dared press him for details.

  Now she tucked the Chopin—packaged with surprising care by Stanley—inside the canvas tote bag she used when she had to bring home more papers than could fit in her satchel. Izaac would not question her about the bag’s contents, and the art tour gave her exactly the chaos she needed to return it unnoticed to the bedroom.

  She called to Will to come in and remembered too late to put away the sketch. Will saw it at once.

  “That looks like the guy who’s been coming to our class.”

  Ludka said nothing and carefully placed the drawing in the gray archival box she’d brought in for safe storage. Will, cheeks flushed, shoved his hands in the pockets of his pea coat. He glanced at her, then lowered his head.

  “I know you’re Apolonia.”

  She drew back in her chair.

  “I’m sorry, Professor. I was just curious. I saw the video from last week. From Warsaw.”

  Ludka sighed and gave a small nod. She reopened the archival box and turned it around so Will could see.

  “This is Stanley’s grandfather. An old … friend. Together we were in war.”

  “Is that one of the Jewish kids you rescued? They say you saved almost as many as Oskar Schindler.”

  “About that I do not know.”

  “But they know! You should be recognized by Yad Vashem. You’re one of the Righteous Among the Nations. I’ll nominate you myself!”

  Ludka looked at him sharply.

  “Who is it who knows?”

  “The Institute. In Warsaw. New blog post.”

  He
took his cell phone from his pocket, tapped its screen a few times, then turned it around and held it out to her. Ludka stared beyond it at her sketch. Oskar must have gone to them again, told them about the role they’d played in Żegota. She splayed her fingers on the desk and pressed hard, anchoring herself. Will hesitantly pulled back his phone and asked if she was okay.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Ludka took a deep breath. She spoke quietly.

  “You lock the door, young man.”

  Will glanced in confusion at the open door.

  “Against the remembering, I mean. You lock the door.”

  She fitted the lid on the archival box and laid it aside on her desk.

  “But this says you did so much good for so many kids. Why wouldn’t you want to remember that?”

  When she and Oskar had found Aaron, he was in shock, kneeling on the stone street, holding his slaughtered father’s hand. Nearby, his bloodied mother and sister lay twisted. Aaron had been half a block away, waiting on line for bread.

  “Because neighbors would kill you for doing this good. You have no choice but to learn to forget. Forgetting means you survive.”

  Abruptly, Ludka stood, her heart banging. She fished in her bag and popped a peppermint into her mouth.

  “No more of this now. We must go. Please hand me my cape.”

  Will did as he was asked.

  —

  At home, Ludka introduced Will to Izaac, who was in the kitchen wearing an apron. There was still a half hour to go before the rest of the class arrived, and Will happily set about taking trays from the pass-through to put out on the table. Ludka went upstairs, ostensibly to change but really to secure the Chopin. Anticipating this moment had tethered her to reality this past week; without it she might have disappeared into a fog of disorientation that had nothing to do with jet lag. Having been in Warsaw, home had taken on an oddly surreal quality, as if experiencing it for the first time even while it felt utterly familiar. She had never foreseen, either, that finding Oskar would ultimately feel like a loss, but after sixty-four years of searching, sixty-four years of hope and despair and more hope, she felt not only the relieved happiness she’d experienced in Warsaw—and there had been happiness, this was true—but also a stark void that the living Oskar could never fill. Knowing now how he had aged and where he lived and what had transpired in the intervening years, having the ability to clearly picture him in his cinched trousers at work in his studio or walking the newly familiar streets of Warsaw, and hearing him speak in an English nearly devoid of accent had stripped her of all she had imagined about him for all that time. In her bedroom now, as she carefully unwrapped the Chopin, she could not remember even one of the many rooms she had imagined him in over the years; all she could see was the cluttered studio, the disturbing self-portrait, and the woman across the way shaking out her rugs.

  The Chopin was unchanged. Ludka sat on the edge of the bed, laid the portrait gently in her lap, and, despite a rising clamor from downstairs that announced someone’s early arrival, allowed herself a moment before she had to fit the hooks into their respective eyes. She had expected to feel elation at this moment, along with the familiar sense of calm security, but instead she felt slightly ridiculous, and bone tired. She forced herself to scrutinize the painting’s condition, then tried to see the portrait through fresh eyes, as if for the first time, to see it as the valuable masterpiece it was. After a moment she realized with alarm that she was stroking the dent with her bare fingers. She jerked back as if burned. Carefully she reached beneath the frame for the hooks, maneuvered her way into standing, and restored the Chopin to its hiding place. She took off her shawl, a nod to her excuse about needing to change her clothes, then felt too exposed. She pulled on a silk scarf.

  When she got downstairs, Izaac called out from the kitchen.

  “Look who’s here, kochanie!”

  Tommy, grinning, emerged from the kitchen. Ludka threw up both hands with delight.

  “Miss me, Babcia?”

  He gave her a kiss on both cheeks.

  “I thought this year you would sit out!” she said. “Already you have too much going on.”

  “What would the art tour be without me and my hors d’oeuvres? It’s tradition! Robert’s on his way, too. We’ll spend the night as usual, hear about your trip. Come on, try these.”

  He took her by the arm and hustled her into the kitchen. Atop the stove, lined up in rows on a baking tray, small puff pastries steamed. Tommy lifted one onto a napkin and blew on it as if about to feed a small child. Ludka lightly smacked his hand and took it from him. The whole thing fit easily into her mouth.

  “Perfection!” she said.

  She reached for another, and it was his turn to swat her. She laughed and lifted a hand to his chin. He let her inspect him. His eye was clear, the yellowness of the bruise nearly unnoticeable, the scar on his cheek faint.

  “The Steri-Strip came off yesterday. Looks pretty good, don’t you think?”

  He put a hand to his ribs.

  “This is the only thing that still hurts, and only when I laugh too hard, or cough.”

  Ludka patted his cheek and smiled. The phone rang. Izaac answered. After a moment he sighed, hung up, and made a notation on the log. The muscles flexed in Tommy’s jaw. He lowered his head and spoke to Will through the pass-through.

  “Hey, you want the exclusive upstairs tour before the masses get here?”

  “That’d be great,” said Will.

  When they had gone, Izaac spoke quietly to Ludka.

  “Shelly called. He’s suggesting twenty-four-hour surveillance on both our houses. Tommy and Robert had a brick, too, poor lads. And more graffiti. We’re not the only ones being targeted, either. Tommy just told me that the other two teachers who were fired have been vandalized.”

  A week ago Ludka could have dismissed her rising apprehension, but now what flooded her mind was a conflation of slogans: Żydzi Wszy and God Hates Faggots.

  “I can’t stop thinking about all those people in red,” said Izaac.

  “It’s that pastor behind all of this, Izaac. And that Meck. Where did these people come from?”

  “Warren Meck wouldn’t incite violence, kochanie, I’m pretty sure. You didn’t see how shaken he was at the studio that day. He sounded like you, actually, not understanding how they could call themselves Christian.”

  “What did you tell Shelly?”

  “I told him by all means, we want the protection. He’s sending someone over tomorrow to meet with us.”

  Ludka jumped when the doorbell rang. The students were beginning to arrive.

  As he did for every art tour, Izaac had emptied the coat closet of paintings. Because they didn’t have enough wall space, he had years ago added picture rails to the windows and French doors in the dining and living rooms, as well as in the study. Ludka had found a set of brass hooks and chains from the Victorian era that they used to hang the paintings. The effect downstairs, then, was as of a gallery; the setting sun provided a backdrop for those specially hung pieces. When all the students had arrived, Ludka stepped up onto the hearth and called them to attention. They filled the living and dining rooms, most of them with mouths full and drinks in hand.

  “Your assignment,” Ludka said, to groans, “is to choose the piece of art that stirs in you many questions. The answers you must find yourself and share with me in an informal paper.”

  “When is it due?” asked Sophie.

  “It is due when you are done. Before semester’s end, of course, but this one is for your fun alone. Do not fuss about presentation, I am interested only in your thoughts and observations. Now look around, upstairs and down, eat and drink, and if you need anything do not tell me, tell Izaac in kitchen.”

  The students laughed, and Ludka stepped down off the hearth. In the kitchen doorway, Will began talking with Tommy and Robert. As Ludka drew nearer to them, her heart gave a little start when Tommy fed one of his puff pastries to Wi
ll, who briefly closed his lips on Tommy’s fingers.

  “We’re spending the night,” said Tommy provocatively.

  The three of them laughed, and Ludka, struck anew by her naiveté, averted both her gaze and her thoughts. Sophie and Ashley had overheard, too; they wrinkled their noses as if they’d smelled something foul, and turned away. Ludka wasn’t surprised to see them gravitate to the Jerzy Duda-Gracz in the dining room. Izaac had hung the oil painting in front of the newly repaired dining room window, the one that had been victim to the brick. The large square oil painting depicted Pope John Paul II at the feet of a portrait of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa. Behind both, a sepia-toned city in ruins, a steeple the only thing undamaged. Ludka hurried over to hear what Sophie and Ashley were saying. When she got there, they fell silent, and Ludka thought of them in class that day—the distasteful way Sophie had said “homosexuals,” and the way Ashley had then sidled up to Sophie. Ludka wondered if they’d been at the rally, wearing red, if they were capable of throwing bricks. Ludka rearranged her scarf to better cover the back of her neck.

  “Please, I am curious to know what you are thinking. This is Polish Motif: All Hers. Jerzy Duda-Gracz.”

  Ashley glanced sheepishly at Sophie, and Sophie’s hand strayed to her gold cross.

  “We were just saying,” said Sophie, “that it’s weird the way the Pope is sort of lying down. Disrespectful, like. And why is the baby Jesus black? And Mary. The whole thing is kind of weird and spooky.”

  “These are perhaps the questions you must answer then, yes? If you would like to work together, you may.”

  “Well, that’s not fair,” said Will jauntily, appearing at Ludka’s side. To Sophie and Ashley, he said, “I suppose you’re thinking this is blasphemous?”

  “It might be,” said Sophie. “That’s what we have to find out.”

  “Of course Jesus was dark,” said Will. “He was a Jew from the Middle East. Wait, you’re surprised? You think Jesus really is some handsome white hippie born in Texas? Seriously, what do they teach you at that church?”

  Will’s tone was jovial, but Sophie narrowed her eyes. Her nostrils flared.