The Things We Cannot Say(11)

“A Polish man is a Polish man,” I whispered numbly, repeating the words automatically before I refocused on my friend. “But Justyna, are you sure? Are we really about to go to war?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Justyna told me, flashing me a confident smile. “Everyone is saying that the Nazis have barely any ammunition and the Polish army will defeat them quickly. Father is quite certain it will all be over within a few weeks.”

From there though, I saw everything differently—for the first time, I understood the recently frenetic activity of my parents and brothers, and I finally understood their bewildering insistence on preserving perfectly good food before it was even necessary to do so. Even as my father drove the cart back toward our house, I realized the unusually busy roads were not a sign of townsfolk making the most of the warm weather—rather, people were shifting. Everyone was operating in a different mode—everyone was rushing somewhere. Some were heading into Warsaw or to Krakow, as if a larger city would provide them shelter. Some were preparing their homes for relatives who were coming from Warsaw or Krakow, because plenty of city folk had decided the country would offer a refuge. No one seemed to know what to do, but it was not in our national nature to stay still and await catastrophe, so instead—people kept active. Through enlightened eyes, it seemed to me that the people of my town were scurrying like ants before a storm.

“Is it true? About an invasion?”

“You don’t need to worry about that,” Father said gruffly. “When you need to worry, Mama and I will let you know.”

I sat down that evening and I wrote a very different letter to Tomasz than the one I’d been planning. In the entire page of text, I simply pleaded with him to come home.

Don’t try to be brave, Tomasz. Don’t wait for danger. Just come home and be safe.
I’m not really sure now why I ever thought that “home” would be a safe place for any of us given our proximity to the border, but in any case, Tomasz did not come home. In fact, things disintegrated so rapidly that if he sent me a reply to that letter, it never arrived. It felt like the life I’d known disappeared overnight.

On September 1, 1939, I was roused from the depths of sleep by the sound of my bedroom window rattling in its frame. I didn’t recognize the sound of approaching planes at first. I didn’t even realize we were in danger until I heard my father shouting from the room beside me.

“Wake up! We must get to the barn,” Father shouted, his voice thick with sleep.

“What is happening?” I called, as I threw my covers back and slipped from my bed. I had just opened my bedroom door when the first of many explosions sounded in the distance, and the windows rattled again, this time violently. It was dark in our tiny home, but when Mama threw the front door open, moonlight flooded in and I saw my brothers running toward her. I knew I needed to run but my feet wouldn’t move—perhaps I was still half-asleep, or perhaps it was because the moment felt so much like a terrible nightmare that I couldn’t convince my body to act. Filipe got as far as the front door when he noticed me, and he crossed the small living room to take my hand.

“What is happening?” I asked, as he dragged me toward the barn.

“The Nazis are dropping bombs from planes,” Filipe told me grimly. “We are ready and we have a plan, Alina. Just do as Father says and we will be fine.”

He pushed me into the barn after Stanislaw, Father and Mama, and as soon as we were inside, Father pulled the heavy door closed behind us. Blood thundered around my body at the sudden darkness—but then I heard the creak of hinges as the latch in the floor was opened.

“Not the cellar,” I protested. “Please, Mama...”

Filipe’s arm descended on my shoulders and he pushed me toward the opening, then Mama grabbed my wrist and tugged me downward. Her fingers bit into the skin of my arm, and I pulled away frantically, trying to step back.

“No,” I protested. “Mama, Filipe, you know I can’t go down there—”

“Alina,” Filipe said urgently. “What is scarier? The darkness or a bomb falling on your head?”

I let them drag me down into the suffocating blackness. As I sank into the cramped space, the sound of my heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud. I scrambled across the dirt floor to find a corner, and then I wrapped my arms around my knees. When the next round of echoing booms began to sound, I shrieked involuntarily with each one. Soon enough, I was in a fetal position against the dirt floor, my hands over my ears. A particularly loud explosion rocked the whole cellar, and as dust rained down on us, I found myself sobbing in fear.

“Was that our house?” I choked, in a moment of silence.

“No,” Father said, his tone gently scolding. “We will know it if the house goes. It is Trzebinia, they are probably taking out the rail line...maybe the industrial buildings. There is no reason for them to destroy our homes. We are likely safe, but we will hide in here until it stops, just to be sure.”

Filipe and Stanislaw shifted to sit on either side of me, and then the cellar was again filled with a stifling silence as we all waited for the next explosion. Instead, we were surprised by a more welcome sound.

“Hello?” a distant, muffled voice called. “Mama? Father?”

Mama cried out in delight and opened the hatch, then climbed up to help my sister, Truda, and her husband, Mateusz, into the cellar. To my immense relief, Father turned an oil lamp on to help them see their way. Once we were all safely inside the cellar again, Mama and Truda embraced.