The Things We Cannot Say(119)

“Did you explain that she will be able to understand their Polish, but can’t speak back to them?” I say, pulling gently away from Emilia’s hands to glance at her. Zofia nods.

“I explained that. Emilia said she’d hop on a plane and go to America now if doctors weren’t all idiots, including her daughter. She’s not allowed to travel because of her health,” Zofia murmurs softly. I flash Emilia a smile, because that sounds exactly like something my grandmother would say, then I withdraw my mobile phone from my pocket.

“Are you going to FaceTime her?” Lia asks me, and I nod. She seems desperate to please now—a complete 180 degree turn from yesterday at the clinic. “Then let me get the big MacBook. Her eyesight isn’t the best. The bigger screen will help Babcia see.”

At first, I think she’s talking about my Babcia—but then I realize she’s talking about her own—and of course that makes sense, but it’s also kind of shocking after a lifetime of being the only person I know who has a grandmother called “Babcia” instead of “Grandma” or even “Nanna.” I place a quick voice call back to Mom. She’s at her chambers, but she agrees to go to Babcia immediately.

“Who is this we’re speaking to?” Mom asks me, somewhat suspiciously.

“We got through to the mysterious Emilia Slaski,” I tell her. “Pa’s sister.”

“I thought you said it was a dead end,” Mom says.

“It was,” I say. “The dead end opened up again.”

“Are you sure it’s the right person?”

I laugh weakly as I stare at Emilia.

“You’ll understand when you see her.”

While we wait for Mom to drive to the hospital, Emilia touches up her lipstick—her hand shaking as she raises it to her lips, but stilling as she uses it, and then she orders Agnieszka and Lia into the kitchen, where they prepare tea and a light supper for Zofia and I.

And the whole time, between ordering her family around in a matriarchal way I know all too well from my own Babcia and preening herself for a decades overdue reunion, Emilia stares at me. At one point, she reaches out and touches my forearm, then recalls her hand and shakes her head, as if she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing.

“She doesn’t seem upset to find out her brother was alive for all of that time,” I whisper to Zofia, who winces and says, “She doesn’t believe he was. Hopefully this call will straighten things out.”

Then the text comes from Mom.

I’m with Babcia now. She’s very alert today and I think she understands what’s happening. I’ll answer when the FaceTime call comes in, so go ahead whenever you’re ready.
“Ready?” I ask Lia, who speaks to Emilia in Polish. I pass the laptop to Lia, and we hear the familiar sound of the call connecting. Lia lines the camera up on the lap-table so that her great-grandmother’s face fills the screen. When the call collects, Emilia gives a gasp of recognition and delight, and then on a slight delay, a mirrored gasp travels over the line from Florida.

“Alina! Duz˙a siostra!” Emilia cries, and she reaches for the laptop and holds the screen between her palms. Her eyes fill with tears, and I shift so that I can see the screen. Babcia is propped up in bed, the stark white of the hospital pillow behind her, but she leans toward the camera on the iPad. There’s no mistaking the unadulterated joy on her face.

“She called her ‘big sister,’” Zofia whispers to me.

Emilia starts to speak in Polish but she’s speaking incredibly quickly. I look to Lia in alarm.

“I’m not sure my babcia is going to be able to keep up with her,” I whisper. Lia says a few hesitant words to Emilia, who rolls her eyes and says something to Babcia. Babcia rolls her eyes too, then gives an exasperated nod.

Zofia stifles a giggle.

“Emilia just told your grandmother that the young people assume they are stupid because they are old, and asked her if she can understand.”

Emilia speaks again, with much less force behind the words now—her tone is so gentle she could have been speaking to a sick child. Even so, the words flow in a steady and determined stream, and I wait for her to pause so I can ask Zofia for a translation, but no pause comes. After a while, I realize that I’m the only person in the room here in Krakow who isn’t struggling to hold back tears.

“Zofia?” I whisper urgently. Zofia shuffles to sit on the armrest of my chair, so she can whisper in my ear.

“So—firstly, Emilia’s adoptive parents were Alina’s sister and her husband—Truda and Mateusz. She says Alina saved her life, then found her a loving family that gave her a better life than she could have hoped for. She tells Alina that Truda and Mateusz survived the war and lived to a happy, fulfilled old age. Now Emilia is thanking her, and oh, that’s lovely...she’s exceedingly grateful to your grandmother, and she’s thanking the Blessed Mother for this chance to say thank you. It’s just beautiful.”

There’s more Polish now, but this time, Emilia is directing it at Lia and Agnieszka and Zofia.

“Okay,” Zofia says, softly. “Now she says that Tomasz had been working with the Zegota Council...” At my blank look, she explains, “The Polish government in exile set up a group to assist Jewish people during the occupation. Tomasz had been helping several groups in hiding, including a young doctor and his family... Emilia thinks the doctor’s name was Saul.”