The Book of Lost Names(23)

I pull a dove-gray wool cardigan from the bottom drawer of my bureau. Does it get chilly in Berlin this time of year? I fold it carefully and place it in my suitcase. “There are many things I’ve never mentioned about my past, Ben.”

Ben, who’s fifty-two now, was born long after I packed away the remnants of the life I once knew. In the way that children often can’t conceive of their parents as independent beings with dreams and desires of their own, Ben has never really known me. He knew the pieces I chose to give to him, the body that nursed him, the voice that scolded him, the hands that soothed him. But there is so much more to me, pieces that had nothing to do with my role as his mother, pieces I never let him see.

“Fine,” Ben says, raking his hand through his hair, which is still thick and dark, unlike his father’s. Louis was nearly bald by his midforties, though he tried valiantly to cover the majority of his head with a combed swirl from the back. I never had the heart to tell him how silly it looked. “So let’s do this, Mom: Why don’t you just wait a few weeks, and I’ll go with you, all right? I’ll have to move a few things around, and it will be difficult, but if it’s that crucial to you…”

“I believe we’ve already established that you’re very busy and important,” I say mildly. In this, I know I have failed him. I love him more than anyone on earth, but time has shown me that I made a mistake in letting him learn his priorities from his father while I lost myself in books. Where was I when he needed to learn about courage and faith and bravery? He’s a good man—I know he is—but he cares too much about success and too little about the things we can find in our hearts, and that is never who I was.

“Mom, not this again.” His tone is weary. “I know you think that caring about my job is a fault, but I happen to enjoy my work. That’s not a sin.”

I ignore him as I fold a charcoal-gray dress into my suitcase, followed by a lilac one. They’re dresses that I bought years ago because they reminded me of the past, so it seems appropriate to bring them since that’s where I’m headed tonight. “Ben,” I say, “have I ever told you about my mother?”

Now he’s raking both hands through his hair, and I’m reminded of a mad scientist. “What does that have to do with anything?” When I don’t answer, he sighs, dropping his hands in apparent defeat. “No, Mom. Not really. I mean, I know she was French…”

“No, she was Polish. As was my father.”

He looks confused for a second. “Right. Of course. But they moved to France when they were young, right?”

I nod. “Yes, but that’s not what I mean. I’ve never really told you about her, have I? The way she used to dance in our kitchen when she thought no one was watching, the sound of her laugh? I haven’t told you about the color of her eyes—Ben, they were the deepest brown, like dark chocolate—or the way she always smelled like vanilla and roses.” I can feel him staring at me as I pause to draw a breath. “She used to fear being erased, like it was the worst fate in the world. And what have I done by not sharing her with you? I’ve been erasing her all these years, haven’t I? Do you even know her name?”

“Mom.” Ben’s voice is flat. “You’re scaring me. What’s all this talk about your mother?”

“It was Faiga. Her name was Faiga.” He clearly thinks I’m unraveling. I stare at him for a moment, and alongside the compassion and concern in his eyes, I also see distraction. He’s thinking about all the things he has to do, about what every minute here is costing him. And so I realize that the only choice is to be honest with him. Sort of. “Ben, dear, if it will make you feel better, I will change my trip.”

“Yes, Mom, that would be great. We can talk about this tonight, okay? And you can tell me all about why you suddenly need to go to a country you have no connection to.” His patronizing tone is back, which alleviates some of my guilt.

“Whatever you say, dear,” I say. I step closer and pull him in for a tight hug. He erases me, just like I erased my own mother, by giving himself permission to see me as something I’m not. He looks at me and sees someone incapable of taking care of herself. But that’s not who I am. “I love you, Ben,” I add as he heads for the door.

“Love you, too, Mom.” He flashes me a smile. “Don’t do anything crazy while I’m gone, all right?”

“Sure, dear,” I say. As soon as I close the door behind him, I reach for the phone and call the main number for Delta. Ten minutes later, I’m rebooked on the 3:11 flight today, leaving six hours earlier and arriving in Berlin at 10:50 tomorrow morning after a connection in New York. I didn’t exactly lie to Ben, I reassure myself. I am changing my flight, just like I said.

And as I learned long ago, the truth is in the nuances. I call a taxi and throw some toiletries into my bag while I wait for my future to begin.





Chapter Nine




July 1942

“You must do what this priest says,” Mamusia said after Eva had retrieved her from the bookstore and recapped the story of the church meeting in their shared room at the boardinghouse. “It’s for your father.” On the walk home, the midday sun had made the town shimmer, the barrel clay tile roofs glowing in the light like they were on fire.