The Things We Cannot Say(69)

“Okay, I’m going now,” I say, pointing toward the door. Babcia beams. Mom stares at me impassively. “I won’t be in tomorrow, I have to get things ready for the kids. But I’ll be home in six days, and I’ll try to keep in touch via phone and text messages.”

Mom is still giving me that expressionless stare. I sigh and kiss Babcia, and then I walk around her bed, and I bend to kiss Mom’s cheek too. At the last second, Mom catches my forearm in her hand, then she stands and kisses my cheek in return.

“Good luck,” she says stiffly. I thank her, but then bolt out the door before she can add the inevitable you’re going to need it and spoil the gentle buzz her farewell has given me. Once Eddie and I are in the car, I grit my teeth and dial Dad.

“Ally,” he greets me warmly. “How are things? How’s your grandmother?”

“Not good, Dad,” I admit. “Has Mom told you she can’t speak?”

“She did. And your mom seems to think the hospital is dropping the ball.”

“Yeah, I know...”

“But you think Mom is being a hard-ass, like she always is.”

I laugh weakly. I seriously love my Dad, especially the oh-so-chill retirement version of him.

“I kind of do. But, Dad—I actually think Mom needs you. I know she doesn’t want to ask you to come home, but I think you need to. Babcia has asked me to go to Poland, and I’m going to go, so Mom is going to be alone—”

“Just back up a bit there, love,” Dad says patiently. “What’s this about you going to Poland?”

“It’s complicated,” I mutter. “Babcia asked me to go and I’m still not sure why, but I’m going anyway.”

“Well, that’s unexpected. How fun for you.”

I laugh at the ease of Dad’s acceptance of my crazy quest.

“This is almost exactly the opposite of how the conversation with Mom went when I told her,” I tell him. “She’s stressed out of her mind—between her work and visiting Babcia at the hospital—I’m a bit worried how she’ll cope if anything happens with Babcia while I’m away. Can you come?”

“Of course I can,” Dad says, and he sighs heavily. “If she’d asked, I’d have come right home when Babcia got sick. You know that, right?”

“I do, Dad.” I sigh too. “I really do.”

“Well, when are you shifting gears from stay-at-home mom to international jet-setter?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” I say, then I swallow.

“I guess I won’t see you until you get back,” Dad says. “Do me a favor, Alice, and bring me back some vodka. Good stuff—as strong as possible. I think I’m going to need it to deal with your mom when Babcia finally goes.”

“I can’t even think about that yet,” I admit.

“Well, my darling daughter, I won the mother-in-law lottery when I met your mother, so I hate to say this—but Babcia is ninety-five years old. Sooner or later, we’re all going to have to let her go.”



CHAPTER 22

Alina


After a few weeks with Tomasz in our house, I started to entertain fantasies that things might go on that way indefinitely. I should have known it wouldn’t last forever. If anything about the war had been consistent, it was that things always got worse.

The morning everything changed, I’d just said goodbye to Tomasz, and Mama was about to shut the latch so he could sleep. I walked from the house into the fields, knowing she wasn’t far behind me, already thinking about the day’s tasks. Father had been in the town delivering the week’s produce, but I heard him shouting as he returned through the gates. He leaped from the cart and started running—something my Father never did because of his rheumatism.

“Alina!” he shouted, as he ran toward the doorway. “Run, Alina! For God’s sake, run!”

He disappeared inside and I sprinted to catch up to him.

“What is it?”

The table was shifted and the hatch had been reopened. Mama and Father were crouched beside it, whispering urgently to Tomasz.

“There is no time. Into the hatch. Now,” Mama said flatly.

“But what is—”

She grabbed my forearm and as she pushed me awkwardly beneath the table, I felt the tremors running through her whole body. That startled me into silence, so I climbed quickly down the ladder, and Tomasz took me into his arms. He pressed his forefinger over my lips and he led me to the mattress, then sat beside me. The cellar was thrown into darkness, then we heard the heavy thump of the hatch and the rug, and the dragging sound as the table was pulled into place.

I’d been into that tiny cellar every day for several weeks by then—but never with the latch closed—and even with the door open I’d still panicked every time. Now, my eyes began adjusting to the dim light, but my brain somehow could not adjust to the stuffiness of the air. Every time I drew in a breath, I was convinced it was my last.

Breathe in. Oh! I found some air!

Breathe out. That will be the last of me. Now I will suffocate.

Breathe in. Oh! There is a little more air after all.

I knew I wouldn’t stand two minutes in there, let alone two hours, so I had to ask Tomasz what was happening.

“Tomasz,” I started to say, but he pressed his hand over my mouth—hard, just as I had done for Emilia once upon a time. I peeled his fingers from my face but sat in silence with him, simmering in my frustration, my confusion and—soon enough—genuine anger.