The Things We Cannot Say(48)

“One day, I will take you away from here,” he whispered, “One day, we will go someplace safe—someplace peaceful. One day, when you’re my wife, we will have the nicest house in the nicest street and the cutest children in the town and everyone will say, ‘Look at Tomasz and Alina, childhood sweethearts, now growing old together.’ You’re going to be one of those women who ages well. I can see it now—even when you’re an old babcia you’ll be breathtaking and I won’t be able to keep my eyes or my hands off you.”

“You’ve always been such a dreamer,” I sighed, but I was happily distracted. I was relieved to see a glimpse of the old Tomasz, relieved that this lighter side of my love had survived whatever had kept him away from me for so long. In those disjointed nights at my window, I’d caught glimpses of a man who wore guilt and sadness like a mask. It was every bit as much a relief to see this sweeter side of him reemerge as it was to hold him close to me.

“So, how did you convince your parents?” he asked me.

“I told them I wanted to retreat to pray the rosary,” I told him, and I lifted the beads from my pocket to show him. He burst out laughing.

“And your parents actually believed that you were taking meditative prayer walks in the woods?” he asked me incredulously. I giggled as I nodded, and he kissed my hair again.

“You need to trust me,” I scolded him gently. “I can keep your secrets, Tomasz.”

“I have no doubt about that,” he said quietly. “But I have a responsibility to keep you safe—above everything else. It’s risky enough for us to meet just now.”

“Have you joined the resistance?” I asked him. The Polish underground army had been chipping away at the Nazis for some time—more of an irritant to the occupying forces than a matched opponent—but Truda occasionally brought whispers of a secret newspaper and supplies shipments delayed or destroyed by organized attacks. I was scared for Tomasz—but I was also proud to think he might be involved in those efforts. I had a feeling our liberation was only a matter of time if heroes like Tomasz Slaski were on the job.

“I am fighting back the only way I know how,” he whispered. “Do you trust me?”

I pulled away to look up at him a little incredulously.

“How can you even ask me that. Do you trust me?”

“With my life, Alina,” he said.

The intensity in his gaze was breathtaking, but I wasn’t distracted this time. I gave him a pointed look and said, “Then you must tell me everything.”

“I will,” he promised. “I will tell you every excruciating detail, just as soon as I can. But today...let’s sit somewhere here and pretend it’s an ordinary day and the world isn’t going to Hell around us.”

I sighed and let him take me away with chatter about this glorious postwar life we were going to share once all of the ugliness and the fighting died down. I gave him the bread, and he pocketed it, but promised to eat at least half himself. I wanted to believe him, but somehow, I knew that his “friends” in the resistance would benefit from the spoils of Mama’s generosity much more than Tomasz himself would.

We kissed goodbye, and although it wasn’t even 9:00 a.m., we said good-night because he wouldn’t risk a visit to me at the window anymore. I ran back down the field to the farmhouse, and I was surprised to find Mama weeding right at the edge of the woods—much closer to Tomasz’s hiding spot than I’d anticipated. She was close enough that if we’d spoken at normal volume, she’d likely have heard us, so I was suddenly very glad that we’d kept our voices at a whisper. When she saw me approaching, Mama asked me wryly, “Has your soul been comforted?”

“Oh yes, Mama,” I called back, and I threw myself into my chores that day with gusto.



CHAPTER 14

Alice


When Mom arrives from the chambers that afternoon, Babcia is resting peacefully.

“How has she been?” Mom asks me.

“So, it turns out she can understand at least some Polish spoken words,” I tell her. “How much Polish do you remember?”

“None, unfortunately,” Mom says. “I spoke some when I was a kid, but when Pa was studying to recertify as a doctor here he had to learn English very quickly, and Babcia was trying to pick it up at the same time. They banned Polish in our house when I was maybe four or five so that we’d all have to use English at home, and I haven’t used my Polish since.”

I show her the AAC message history and Babcia’s notes on the iPad, and she pauses and runs her finger over one line.

“Alina,” she reads, frowning. “Hmm...”

“Do you know her?”

“No, but...” Mom’s brows knit, then she looks at me thoughtfully. “Remember? She wanted me to name you Alina.”

I look at her blankly.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Sure you did.”

“I definitely didn’t, Mom.”

Mom suddenly looks a little wistful.

“She said it was a family name. I grew up with an unusual name, at least unusual for here, and I didn’t want that for you. Your father suggested we use an American variation and ‘Alice’ was as close as we could get.”

“Why did she call you ‘Julita’ if Alina is the family name?”