This Is How It Begins

by Joan Dempsey

  “Come on, Ashley, let’s look around.”

  Ludka didn’t know if her increasingly suspicious imagination had conjured it, or if Sophie had in fact muttered “faggot” as they walked away. Ludka darted a glance at Will, who didn’t seem to have heard a thing.

  “You, young man, are provocateur.”

  Will grinned and shrugged.

  “So I’m told.”

  More than half an hour later, Sophie and Ashley were back at the Duda-Gracz. Ashley stood in front of the painting as Sophie pulled it away from the window and poked her head and shoulders around behind. From across the room Ludka threw out a hand as if she could stop her, but Sophie was being careful not to touch the painting’s surface. Ludka left them alone.

  Later that night, after staying up late with Tommy and Robert, Ludka had finally fallen into a restless sleep when the smoke detector began to shriek. She bolted upright just as Tommy charged into the room, shouting “Babcia! Dziadzio! Get up, we have to get out!”

  Izaac was already on his feet. Tommy rushed back out and pounded down the stairs. The hall light poured harshly into the bedroom. Ludka hastily pulled on her boots, a flush of adrenaline coursing into her limbs. Her silk long johns cooled outside of the covers, and she grabbed a wool shawl and tied it snugly around her neck. She clapped her hands over her ears. The deafening blasts were now screeching intermittently from all over the house.

  “Come on,” Izaac was shouting. “Come on!”

  Halfway down the stairs she smelled the smoke, and it was only then she understood that the house really was on fire. She wheeled around. She rushed back up the stairs and into the bedroom, Izaac shouting behind her. With astonishing speed, she pulled down the nested portraits. A rough edge of the hanging wire ripped across her left palm. She nearly collided with Izaac at the top of the stairs. He had begun to cough.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled.

  He shoved her in front of him, and she went as fast as she could, the portraits banging hard against her left leg. Light flooded the downstairs. Tommy was shouting something she couldn’t hear, waving them toward the back entrance hall. Robert, head turned away from the flames, eyes squinting against the smoke, directed a gushing fire extinguisher at the dining room window, at the Duda-Gracz. The curtains on either side of it were in flames, and as the foam slapped across the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, Ludka cried out and tried to rush forth, but Izaac grabbed her arm. He tugged at the paintings, shouting at her to let go. Ludka yanked them away, and that was when reality began to slip. She hefted the paintings to her chest and clutched them in both arms. She froze. In the room with them she saw a gray-green uniform, visor cap, jackboots, and a black German shepherd with butter-scotch eyebrows. Ludka whimpered and backed away with jerky steps. She began to cough. The dog strained at his leash, trying to get to … who was it? Tommy. No.

  “Tata!” she yelled. “Mama!”

  A gloved hand released the leash and the dog lunged. Ludka slammed her eyes shut, and that was when Izaac slapped her. Her eyes flew open, and even though Izaac’s face was inches from her own, his hair wild, sweat coursing down his ashen cheeks, she didn’t know him. She was having trouble breathing. Izaac tugged again.

  “For God’s sake, Ludka, let go!”

  Her eyes burned. Someone was shouting at her to get on the floor. Where was the dog? Something bumped the back of her knees, and she crumpled, but a strong hand guided her down. The paintings slammed onto the rug, face first. Her left hand smashed into the canvas. It surprised her to see blood. Had the dog bitten her? Where was Tata? Where was Mama? But there was … Izaac. Izaac was crawling toward the back entrance. He stopped and turned back, shouting at her to go faster. She dragged the paintings across the rug. The wire bit painfully into her wounded palm. She seized it with her other hand and awkwardly hauled the paintings underneath her, over to her right side. The wire caught on her hanging wool shawl but then tore free. Someone—her grandson, she thought with confusion—was shouting in her ear. He had a hand under her left arm and was trying to push her forward. She crawled as best she could, awkwardly lugging … what? The Chopin. She yanked the hooks from their eyes, then grappled again for the hanging wire and held on. At the back door, Izaac collapsed. Tommy dashed over to him. At the sight of Izaac slumped on the floor, Ludka’s mind snapped clear. The smoke roiled. Robert thrashed at the curtains. The alarm blared. With inhuman strength, Ludka rose to her feet, still gripping the Chopin. Mieroszewski’s thumbprints wavered through her watering eyes. Her own blood smeared the back of the canvas. In the split second before she called out to Izaac and Tommy, before she hastened toward them through the smoke, before she shouted to Robert to get himself to safety, Ludka tugged her shawl over her nose and mouth, cast up a prayer to the Black Madonna of Częstochowa, and let the painting go.

  30

  Revelations II

  Ludka still couldn’t open her eyes. For what felt like half a century she’d repeatedly wakened, then fallen directly back into a fretful sleep. Each time she woke, she failed to pry open her eyes. This time, though, she came fully awake. When she lifted her hands to her face, she discovered a bandage wrapped around her left hand and a nasal cannula pushed into her nose. Her throat felt raw, her chest hurt when she inhaled, and every joint and muscle ached, especially her wrists and knees. Her eyelids were crusted with gummy crud, which she picked and rubbed away. At last she could see, through painful tearing eyes. Izaac, also on oxygen, the plastic tubing running from his nose over his ears and to the next bed, watched her from a visitor’s chair pulled close to her bed, his bloodshot eyes rheumy. His old cardigan covered a hospital johnny and a white blanket covered his legs. Ludka’s eyes widened as she began to remember the fire. Her neck and shoulders tensed as she tried in vain to sit up. Izaac quickly reached for her hand. His voice was hoarse.

  “Everyone’s fine, kochanie, relax. The fire is out. It’s okay. Everything’s okay!”

  Ludka slumped into the pillow, her heart thumping fast in her ears. At least the dim lighting was easy on her eyes. She groaned.

  “I know,” said Izaac. He tenderly squeezed her right hand in both of his. “It feels worse than it is—the doctor says we’re both just a little banged up, but otherwise fine. Our bloodwork came back squeaky clean, so no harm done. Here, let me raise the head of the bed.”

  He pushed a button on the gurney and raised Ludka to a near-sitting position. Just leaning forward while he arranged the pillow behind her took Herculean effort. She had only vague memories of being treated in the ER. Izaac gave her a cup of water, which cooled and soothed her throat.

  “Again …” Ludka coughed lightly. “Again we survived.”

  Izaac smiled weakly.

  “Thank god for Robert and Tommy. Robert put out the fire before the truck arrived. I guess you passed out shortly after I did. The paramedics got there moments later, or so Tommy tells me. Robert raced home—they were convinced their own house had been hit, too, which it hadn’t, thank god. I sent Tommy home a little later. He’s convinced it was arson, that it’s all his fault.”

  Frank, smelling like smoke, stepped through the open door into the room. His unkempt coppery hair lay plastered to his forehead, the sweat now dried. He still wore his khaki-colored turnout gear; the neon yellow reflective bands flashed too brightly in the dim room. He took off the heavy jacket and lowered it to the floor, pulled off the protective throat tab, and plucked his navy T-shirt away from his skin to let in some air.

  “Glad you’re awake, Matka.” He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?”

  Frank’s muscular presence filled the room with a solid, capable energy that Ludka could hardly imagine she herself had ever possessed, and a sudden gratitude and overwhelming love for her handsome, competent son infused her; she didn’t trust herself to speak, so she brushed off his question with a flap of her hand, which brought a wry smile to his lips.

  “Listen, I wanted to let you know you don’t have to wor
ry about a thing. Robert acted fast, so the smoke damage is minimal. You’ll be able to reenter the premises … sorry, still on duty, I guess. You’ll be able to go home as soon as they release you, which will probably be tomorrow morning at the latest. I arranged to get a cleaning team in there. The only thing I told them not to touch is the paintings. I assumed you’d want to handle those yourself. I left them all exactly where they were, except the one we found on the living room floor, which I guess sustained some damage. You should get in touch with your insurance company right away.”

  Ludka nodded absently, her brow furrowed. A painting on the floor? She pressed the palm of her bandaged hand and remembered the wire, the blood, and all that ridiculous dragging. What in heaven’s name had she been thinking? But Frank had said one painting only? She had an irrational thought of Stanley dressed like a firefighter, creeping into the smoky house.

  “Damage?” she said.

  “That’s what I was told. I didn’t see it.”

  Ludka slowly exhaled, as weak and weary as she’d ever been. She lay propped against the thin pillow, astonished by this tempting new feeling welling up inside her, this growing inclination toward resignation. The Chopin would be there, or it wouldn’t. She pressed her fingers over her lips.

  “I prayed to her, Frank,” she said. “Did you see her? The Black Madonna of Częstochowa?”

  Frank nodded somberly and ran a hand roughly through his hair. She was, in fact, the first thing he had seen when he arrived at the house. As he had approached the painting, he’d experienced a long episode of déjà vu and upon emerging from it remembered the arson at Saint Hedwig’s, how his mother had told him that the Black Madonna had saved the church, exactly as the legend had prophesied. Now he thought he should get a reproduction for himself, hang it in his home.

  “Listen, I’m afraid Tommy was right. That fire was set, and none too subtly. Someone cut right through the screen and opened the window—the guy who replaced that glass must have left it unlocked. It appears they put a lighter or a match to the curtains. The Black Madonna fared the worst, I’m afraid, since it was right at the point of origin. The fire investigator already came in and got what he needed. I asked him to report to Shelly. Whoever did it never entered the house, but they did leave fingerprints on the windowsill, inside and out. Could be just the work guy, they’ll check that out.”

  Ludka had been listening, first with a nagging sense of suspicion and then, as more of the evening came back into focus, with abrupt and chilling clarity.

  “It was not the work guy. It was girls from my class. They go to the Regent—the Redeemer church. One of them was snooping around behind Duda-Gracz during the art tour.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Frank.

  Ludka raised her eyebrows and nodded.

  “They heard Tommy say he was spending the night with us.”

  “Mój Boże!” said Izaac.

  Frank crouched down and retrieved his cell phone from one of his jacket pockets.

  “Shelly,” he said, “I’ve got a lead. Matka, what are their names?”

  Ludka could not remember Ashley’s last name but gave him Sophie’s. Frank explained the situation to Shelly. He tugged again at his T-shirt and smiled at his parents with bright eyes.

  “I know,” he said into the phone. “This could be important. If Matka’s right, those girls could be our ticket!”

  He finished the call and retrieved his heavy turnout jacket from the floor.

  “Shelly’s on it,” he said. “Now we just have to get a good crowd at the public hearing on Wednesday, help Lolek defeat that bill. Wouldn’t it be great if we caught the people responsible for all this by then?”

  Frank quickly ran a hand through his hair, grinning like a boy. Ludka flashed on a memory of that same grin, when ten-year-old Frank watched as the mallard he’d freed from a six-pack ring slapped her way across the wetland and took flight. Now he buttoned his jacket almost sheepishly, took a breath, straightened his spine, and put on his professional face.

  “Listen, I want you both to be aware of something. You might find yourself reacting strangely now that the fire is out and the danger has passed. It’s not uncommon at all to experience intense or unpredictable emotions, flashbacks to the incident itself, sensitivity to loud noises or smoky smells. All of this is normal. If, in a month from now, you’re still experiencing any of these symptoms, let me know; longevity might indicate posttraumatic stress disorder, and for that it’s good to get some help.”

  Ludka, thinking about Dr. Jaines, refrained from catching Izaac’s eye, so she wouldn’t laugh inappropriately.

  “Thank you, Frank,” said Izaac. “We’re no strangers to PTSD.”

  “Of course,” said Frank. “I should have thought—”

  “Nonsense,” said Ludka. “You are right to warn us.”

  Frank retrieved his protective throat tab from the floor and held it in both hands.

  “Okay, I have to go. I want to check in on Tommy and Robert. Is there anything you need from the house? No? You’re sure? If you change your mind, give Lolek or Marta a call. They’re coming in a little later—Lolek’s on his way from Boston. Want this door closed?”

  Izaac nodded. When Frank had gone, the two of them simultaneously exhaled. Izaac rearranged the blanket over his legs, took her hand again, and leaned his head against the back of the chair.

  “I’m going to that public hearing at the State House on Wednesday.”

  “If you are better only, Izaac.”

  “No. No matter what, I am going. The fire might be out …” His voice trailed off.

  “But danger has not passed.”

  Izaac rolled his head back and forth against the chair.

  “I’d say it’s just begun.”

  At the art tour, Sophie had been wearing a pale blue cardigan, and with rising fury Ludka thought of it now—its innocent girlish simplicity, the shiny gold cross. Had Sophie known precisely why she was unlocking that window? Had she meant to kill them all, or had someone duped her into thinking a scare would advance whatever misguided mission the church was peddling?

  “Mój Boże, kochanie, let go!”

  Izaac wrenched his hand from hers.

  “Already I was thinking of Sophie, whether she is real student or imposter.”

  Izaac raised his thorny eyebrows.

  “Before last night I would have said you were being ridiculous. Now …”

  Ludka mined her memory for the kinds of details she might work into a sketch: the lift of Sophie’s shoulder as she pushed behind the painting; the folds of Ashley’s chubby back; the way the Duda-Gracz continued to sway long after they’d moved on.

  “I, too, will go to this hearing, Izaac. There are a few things I’d like to say.”

  Izaac smiled, then closed his eyes. They sat quietly then, listening to the gentle murmur of oxygen and the muffled beeps and conversation from the nurses’ station. After a moment, Izaac sighed. He bent forward, chest to his knees, and before Ludka had time to be alarmed, he straightened up and, to her astonishment, lifted the Chopin onto his lap. Her mouth fell open. Izaac held up a stern hand, and Ludka touched her throat.

  “Tommy brought it in. He seemed to think you might need it. Now before you say a word, I have something to show you.”

  He fumbled in his cardigan pocket, carelessly bumping the painting, and withdrew a closed fist. He weighed whatever he was concealing, as if he might change his mind, and then with a sigh gave it over to Ludka. The metal disc—an antique watch case—felt cold and too heavy in her palm, even before she saw the engraved name: Rosenberg. She drew in a quick breath, and the oxygen hissed.

  “Open it,” said Izaac.

  With shaking hands, she thumbed open the clasp. Inside the cracked leather interior lay a pitted silver pocket watch, its face yellowed, the time incorrect. Engraved on the back was Izaac’s father’s name: Abram Tomasz Rosenberg. Ludka’s heart paused for a long, long moment, then resumed with a gallop.

&n
bsp; “So you see, kochanie,” said Izaac, giving the Chopin a little shake, “you are not the only one.”

  Ludka could hear the hooks tapping against the back of the Chopin’s frame. Was that a new dent, just above Chopin’s right shoulder? She reached out a beckoning hand, but Izaac didn’t notice. He let the painting fall back into his lap. Ludka hadn’t the energy to protest. She shut the silent watch in its case, reverently stroked the silver, then laid it on the bed. Izaac took it.

  “My father habitually carried this in his coat pocket. On the day you smuggled me from the ghetto, I stole it. So stupid—I must have thought I could use it as a bribe if I got caught. I’m surprised you didn’t hear the ticking, even from under all that soiled laundry. Even half-sedated, it’s all I could hear. I haven’t wound it since.”

  Ludka’s mouth went dry. A vein bulged in the center of Izaac’s forehead. He absentmindedly flipped open and snapped closed the case, as if it were an old habit. Ludka worked her tongue around in her mouth, but it didn’t much help.

  “And all this time you have—” Her voice broke.

  “Carried it. Yes, Lukda, I have carried it. All these years. Like you.”

  He sounded as weary as she felt. She swallowed, wincing at her sore throat. He placed the Chopin on the bed. He held closed his cardigan.

  Ludka caught a whiff of smoke and became aware that she was clasping the Chopin to her chest, face out so her arms pressed fully against the front of the canvas. She quickly loosened her hold. Seeing it upside down disconcerted her. Had the paint always held so many cracks? They assailed Chopin’s young face like an eruption of spidery veins. She closed her eyes against the memory of dragging it across the living room floor. Soon she would arrange to have it sent to the National Gallery of Warsaw. No, not soon. Monday. She laid it carefully on the bed, where it rested against her knee like a discarded sketch pad. She and Izaac both jumped when someone yanked open the door, apologized quickly, and closed it again. Izaac laughed nervously, but to Ludka his laughter came as if from inside a wardrobe on the other side of the room, where she knew Izaac was now hiding, even as she also saw him sitting beside her. As if viewing a movie, she watched, strangely devoid of emotion, as two Waffen-SS soldiers and a German shepherd burst into the kitchen of her Piwna apartment. She saw herself standing like a mannequin next to her similarly still parents, her hand clutching a fistful of sketches she’d failed to hide in time. The soldier with the dog circled the room, while the other jabbed a pistol at them, shouting something in German only her father, whose hands were up in a posture of surrender, could understand. The one word she could decipher was Żegota; someone had betrayed them. She backed slowly away until she hit the kitchen wall, slid down it until she was sitting, and dropped the sketches, which skidded across the floor. The dog, tail tucked between his legs, kept glancing up with worried eyes at the soldier holding his leash, as if the dog was there against his will. For a moment, in the part of her mind that sat in the hospital, Ludka felt sorry for the dog, and hoped he would not obey the order she now understood would come next. But the dog did obey, and when the soldier unclasped the leash, Ludka knew what the dog would do, and he did. But before he clamped down a second time, and locked his jaws in the fatal bite, Ludka found herself fully back in the hospital, Izaac’s face inches from her own. This time she remembered everything.