The Things We Cannot Say(30)

It wasn’t the only time the soldiers came to our gate—spot checks for our papers and random visits to unnerve us soon became a way of life. Those moments were always terrifying, but never again did I feel so exposed, because that was the last time a soldier came to our gate and found me working alone in a field. Mama was always near me after that day, with our identity papers nestled safely in the pockets of her undergarments. That day was also the very last time a soldier visited to find me wearing my own clothes, and the last time anyone ever came to our gate and found me with my long hair down around my shoulders.

That fall day, a young Nazi soldier had taken my innocence without ever coming within a hundred feet of me.

On Sunday, Truda and Mateusz would walk Emilia up the hill on the town side, and then down the hill to our house to join us for lunch. We’d see them coming down from the hill—Emilia was inevitably hand in hand with my sister, a scrap of paper or a little bunch of wildflowers held tightly in her other hand. Mateusz always walked close behind them, and I understood that this was a protective gesture, but I also knew it was ultimately a pointless one. If a soldier wished to do any of us harm, there was nothing to be done about it, not even for my tall, strong brother-in-law.

Emilia had adjusted quickly to life with her new family, and Truda and Mateusz clearly adored Emilia in return. That little girl loved two things in life most—talking at a million miles an hour, and flowers of every kind. In preparation for that weekly visit, she’d collect a little posy from the park at the end of their street, or she’d draw Mama and I flowers of some sort with some crayons that Truda had procured for her. Most weeks, the flowers were brightly colored, clumsy and cartoonish and the end result was generally a cheery piece of artwork that warmed my heart to see. Other weeks, she drew with heavy strokes and used only a black crayon. It didn’t matter what she drew—I always reacted with surprise and delight to her gift, and in return, I’d be rewarded with her smile. Most Sundays, Emilia’s radiant smile was the highlight of my week.

Every week, she’d hand me her little gift, then ask me breathlessly if I’d heard news about Tomasz. Every week, I’d pretend I was still sure he was fine, and it was only a matter of time before he came home.

“Of course he is. He’s alive and he’s well and he’s doing everything he can to get back to us.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“He promised me, silly. And Tomasz would never lie to me.”

“Thank you, big sister,” she’d sigh, and she’d hug me tightly.

Life on the farm was hard, but for the most part in the first few years, it was quiet. Mama’s theory seemed correct—we kept our heads down and we worked hard, and other than those sporadic spot checks, the occupation raged on around us. We were starved of food and missing our boys, but life was almost tolerable.

On Sunday, I was always reminded that life in the town was not nearly so simple. At those Sunday lunches, Truda and Mateusz were stoic, but Emilia was still far too young to hide her trauma. It would spill out of her without prelude or warning, randomly disturbing sentences that none of us really knew how to react to.

“And then the Jews were fixing the building but the soldier said ‘filthy Jew’ and he hit the old man in the face with the shovel and...”

“Enough of that talk at lunch, Emilia.” Truda always spoke to her with the prefect blend of firm and soft. Emilia would glance around the table, clear her throat and then go back to eating her food in silence. Another week, we were having a quiet conversation about the chickens when Emilia looked at me and said without preamble, “The woman was dead in the pond at the park, Alina. She was floating with her face in the water and her skin was all puffy and the water turned pink.”

“Emilia!” Truda winced, but she was flustered. “I told you—I told you not to look at that—I told you—”

Emilia looked between us all, her brow creasing.

“Have some more lunch, child,” Mama said hastily, and she scooped Emilia’s plate up to slide an extra potato pancake onto it. “Don’t think about such things.”

After lunch, the adults would sip at watered-down coffee, and I’d often take Emilia to sit on the steps beside the barn so that she could talk freely for a few minutes. I hated that this sweet, innocent child was surrounded by death and ugliness, but I could also see that she needed to talk about those things, even if the rest of our family couldn’t bear to hear it.

“I like Truda and Mateusz, but I miss Tomasz and my father,” she told me one Sunday.

“I miss them too.”

“I don’t like the mean soldiers in our town. And I don’t like dead people everywhere. And I don’t like it when the guns shoot in the night and I don’t know if the bullet is coming for me.”

“I know.”

“Everything scares me too much and I want it to stop now,” she said.

“Me too.”

“No one ever wants to talk about it. Everyone is so angry with me when I talk about it. Why do they want to pretend it’s not happening? Why can’t we talk about it?”

“It’s just our way, Emilia.” I smiled at her sadly, then pulled her close for a hug. “Sometimes, talking about things makes them seem more real. Do you understand that?”

Emilia sighed heavily as she nodded.