The Things We Cannot Say(101)

“Surely that can’t be a coincidence,” I say incredulously.

“This entire area was overrun by Nazis. There are unfortunate souls buried in every conceivable place around here—my great-uncle is lucky he at least has a headstone. But I’ll be honest with you—I have no idea how he came to be buried there. My grandmother isn’t exactly keen to discuss the worst days of her life on a regular basis, you know? She won’t talk about the war, and we’ve given up asking her.”

I laugh weakly as I nod.

“I know exactly what that’s like.”

“That’s actually why I can’t let you talk to her,” Lia says softly. “She’s like a different woman on the days when we visit his grave. It costs her something to honor his memory, and I won’t ask more of her than that. But if it helps you, by all means, visit the grave.” She shrugs. “I just don’t think there’s anything more I can do to help you beyond this one thing, okay?”

“Thank you,” I say, then I throw myself at her and hug her. She stiffens, then returns the hug briefly and nods toward the door.

“Good luck.”

Half an hour later, Zofia and I stand at a clearing in the woods behind my grandmother’s childhood home, staring at the creepiest thing I have ever seen.

Tomasz Slaski. 1920 to 1942

His name is etched into the polished red granite of a tall headstone. The stone is clean; clearly lovingly maintained. A semifresh set of mixed flowers is dying on the grass in front of the stone, and it’s surrounded by clean candles, the wicks unlit now but black from prior use. There’s even a few LED lanterns in various shapes and sizes. Zofia bends and turns one of the lanterns on, and it lights up without delay.

I look back to the stone and stare at the name again. This time, I notice that below the name and dates, a medal has been attached to the headstone. The inscription on the medal is in Hebrew.

Zofia and I stare silently at the grave for a while, like it’s a puzzle we can solve if we just stare long enough, but it’s not long before I find I just can’t look at it any longer. I turn away, and exhale shakily.

“Poor Emilia,” Zofia murmurs. I glance back at her, and find she’s crouching close to the medal. She runs her finger over the characters very gently. “This is the medal awarded to the Righteous Among The Nations. It indicates that this Tomasz Slaski took great personal risk during the war to aid Jewish people. It means his name is listed on the Wall of Honor in the Garden of the Righteous in Jerusalem.” She pauses, then bows her head. “It is a big deal. Truly, a huge honor.”

“This is just awful,” I say, and I stand and frown. I’m feeling suddenly irritable, as if my skin has grown too tight, and I shiver because despite the sweltering day, there’s a chill running down my spine as I stare at a grave that I know is not my grandfather’s, despite the fact that grandfather’s name is on it. “It’s just so creepy, isn’t it?” My hand twitches against the phone in my hand, and I raise it to take a photo, but as soon as I do, I lower the phone in a rush. Zofia stands and offers me a questioning glance.

“I can’t show her,” I blurt. “It would...it will upset her so much!”

Zofia inclines her head in acknowledgment.

“But this is quite the mystery, no?”

“It’s Pa’s name and that’s the year he was born, but this obviously can’t be Pa.”

“No,” Zofia agrees softly, and she stands. “But Emilia Slaski doesn’t know that.”

“How could this happen?” I whisper. “Do you think this is what Babcia sent us for? To tell Pa’s sister the truth?”

There’s no way to answer that question, and I’m not surprised when Zofia remains silent. We stare at the grave for another few minutes in silence, then she asks me, “How did your grandparents get to the US?”

“I don’t even know. All I know is that Mom was born in January ’43 and they were already settled there by then.”

Zofia frowns.

“That can’t be right.”

I stand and look at her quizzically.

“No, I’m sure it is.”

“They must have left before the war.”

“I know they were here when the war began, that’s about all I do know, actually.”

“But...they left during the occupation?”

“They must have.”

“That’s...difficult to believe.” Zofia shakes her head slowly, her eyebrows knitted. “It was all but impossible to get out of Nazi-held territory.”

“All I know is that they came on a boat from England. I have no idea how they got from here to England.”

Zofia exhales, then she looks at the headstone again.

“I’m just thinking aloud here but—do you think Emilia might have assumed her brother died, but he was actually on his way to America? She must have been very young when this happened. Perhaps she or someone else even mistook another body for his? Because if this guy died in 1942, and Tomasz fled from Poland in 1942...”

“That might be the only explanation,” I say. My throat feels tight with tears that I will probably shed later, because while I don’t understand this at all—the only thing I know for sure is that this is utterly tragic for Emilia Slaski. “This is a really strange place for a grave, right?”