The Things We Cannot Say(49)

“Well, this almost proves the point. I’m sure she told me at one point that Julita was from Pa’s side, so I guess that means Alina was from Mom’s side.”

“You’ve never told me this, Mom,” I laugh softly.

Mom frowns.

“But I must have told you—because you put your own spin on it with Pascale.”

I looked at her in disbelief.

“Mom, adjusting the name ‘Alina’ to ‘Alice’ is a stretch enough already. How on earth do you think Pascale relates to this?”

“Alina—Alice. Ally—Callie,” Mom says, then she pauses, and says incredulously, “Are you telling me that was an accident? What other reason could you possibly have for giving your daughter a name that shortens to almost exactly the same nickname as yours?”

“Mom, we named Callie after Blaise Pascal, just like Eddie is named for Thomas Edison—it was Wade’s dream to name his kids after famous scientists, and I just so happened to like those names. I didn’t even notice the nickname thing until you just pointed it out.”

“Huh,” Mom says, and we both laugh softly.

I sober quickly though, and I say, “Do you think Alina was Babcia’s mother?”

“I don’t even know. She just said it was a family name...” Mom frowns, then she looks at the iPad again. “Dziak isn’t familiar at all, though. Babcia’s maiden name was Wis′niewski.”

Next, Mom picks up the letter Babcia wrote me, and then she scans the older letter—the one we can’t quite read. Finally, I show her the tiny shoe, and recognition and surprise flicker across her face. “I forgot all about that shoe,” she murmurs. “I haven’t seen that thing in decades.” She picks it up and cradles it in her palm with utmost care.

“Was it yours?” I ask her. She shrugs.

“I have no idea. It was probably Pa’s most precious possession, other than his US medical board registration once that came. He kept this in a padded box in the top of his wardrobe, and when I was really young, he’d bring it out sometimes and just sit in his armchair to stare at it. Actually, I remember asking him over and over again what it was from, because he would always answer me with silly jokes... One time he told me it was a time machine, another he said it was portal to another world...things like that,” she laughs weakly, then sets the shoe back on the table. “Maybe he got sick of me asking because eventually he stopped bringing it out, at least when I was around. I know you’ve never understood this, Alina, because we tried to be open with you about everything we could right from when you were tiny. Sex, death, Santa Claus...you know how I liked to tell you the truth, as much as you could handle at every stage of your life.”

That approach had been uncomfortable at times—like the time I walked in on my parents at a very awkward moment, and the next morning they sat me down and talked to me in excruciating depth about love and sex and intimacy and why there was nothing shameful or embarrassing about the whole incident. Somewhat ironically, the single most embarrassing moment of my life was not so much seeing my parents’ naked bodies in flagrante, but the long postmortem the next day. That conversation aside, I’ve always appreciated their openness. There was never any time when I’d ask my mom about something and she’d shut the conversation down—that just wasn’t how she parented.

“Well, you know Pa and Babcia had a very different approach in life to all that,” Mom says now. “There were things we talked about when I was a kid, sure, but...there were also plenty of things that we did not talk about. My parents had a whole set of memories they just could not bear to face. Everything to do with the war was off-limits. Mama would talk about her childhood a lot, but Pa couldn’t even manage that.” Mom hesitates suddenly, then she sets the shoe down onto the tray table and she glances at Babcia’s sleeping form. “Maybe it’s a crazy theory, but sometimes, I wondered if Pa was actually Jewish.”

I look at her in surprise.

“But he always came to Mass with us at Christmas and Easter.”

“Yes, but the Catholic church was definitely Mama’s passion—Pa never once went without her. And even when he did go, he never took communion, and once they moved into the care home, I think Mama was taking him to a synagogue. I asked her about it a few times, even directly once, but she dismissed the question and just said they were spending some time with friends who happened to be Jewish. I mean—that retirement home has a great Jewish community, so that did make some sense. But...” She hesitates, then shrugs. “They left Poland bang in the middle of the Holocaust, and I do remember Mama telling me they were petrified when they arrived here and realized that America wasn’t the multicultural paradise they assumed it would be. Mind you, I have no idea what actually happened to them in Poland, but if Pa really was Jewish? Well, you don’t need to be a historian to know it would have been Hell on earth.”

I look down at Babcia, my chest constricting as, just for a moment, I try to picture my sweet, compassionate grandparents surviving in Nazi-occupied Poland. Pa was the kind of person you only meet a few times in a lifetime—whip-smart and determined, but also humble and generous to a fault. As for Babcia, she’s tough as nails, but she’s always been so optimistic and sometimes too quick to believe in the goodness of people.

I can’t even begin to understand the kind of resilience my grandparents must have possessed to survive that war, and remain gentle in spirit the way they did.