The Things We Cannot Say(85)

There’s a rusted and low chain-link fence around the yard, with a gate at the front. The lock on the gate seems a little redundant—it would be easy to jump the fence anyway, and I have a feeling that with a little pressure, the hinges would give way. Zofia approaches the gate, then looks back at me expectantly when I hesitate.

“Are we going to trespass...?”

“If trespassing bothers you, perhaps you’ve just come halfway across the globe for nothing,” she laughs. I still hesitate, and she waves her arm around expansively. “Look at the property, Alice. No one is living here. Most likely it’s abandoned and has been for decades—that’s not at all uncommon. More recent generations either can’t or won’t make a living from small plots like this one, so sometimes the land just wound up left behind. In this case, perhaps there was no one left here to take the property on after the war.”

“There are car tracks in the grass,” I point out, and Zofia shrugs.

“It’s not so recent.”

Beyond the gates, I can see what amounts to something of a rough driveway through the grass, leading past the house—but she’s right, the grass is bouncing back even along this path—it’s hardly in frequent use. Zofia jumps the fence and starts walking along the quasi path. I’m still nervous to trespass, but it doesn’t look like I have much choice.

“Are there snakes here?” I call after her, and her soft laughter at the question carries on the wind past me. I decide to take that as a no, and I climb carefully over the fence, then jog a little until I catch up to Zofia. I stare at the tiny house as we walk. The roof is made of corrugated concrete tiles, but it sags in places. The walls still look sturdy enough, but that roof looks like it could cave in the next time a leaf lands on it. I can see two wooden structures beside the house—a tiny outhouse behind, and what I assume is a barn in front of it. The barn roof has indeed caved in, along with one of the narrow walls.

The electricity poles on the road run right past this house, and I have a sneaking suspicion that outhouse might not connect to a sewer. I don’t have the best eye for the size of spaces, but Wade’s brother has a hobby farm in Vermont. That property is twenty acres—and this feels maybe half that size. And the house feels even smaller now that I’m close. Babcia and Pa’s house at Oviedo was at least ten times as big, maybe more. I know they lived elsewhere in America before that big house—Mom remembers living in some very ordinary places as a child while Pa’s medical certification was recognized, but even so, to Babcia, it must have been quite the culture shock to shift from this life to the one she landed in once she arrived in the US.

I step gingerly through the long grass until I can snap a photo that includes both the house and the barn, then send it back to Mom.

Please show Babcia. This is the first residential address on her list. We can’t find birth records for Babcia here in Trzebinia and the guide thought that might mean she was born elsewhere, but this looks exactly as she described her childhood home to me.
It’s 6:00 a.m. back home, so I know Mom will be on her way to the hospital before work but I expect it will still be some time before she replies. Zofia and I wander around the house separately. She heads toward the barn; I walk right up to one of the small windows at the side of the house to peer inside. It’s difficult to see through the tattered curtain and dust that clings to the pane of glass in the window, but from what I can see, it appears the building was split into several tiny rooms. As my eyes adjust to the darkness inside, I can see a living room of sorts—there’s a potbellied stove, sofa bed and small dining area. The table and one of the chairs are both off center, as if someone has stood up too roughly from dinner and failed to put it all back in place.

I wonder suddenly if this house has been abandoned since the war. If so, I’m looking through a window but seeing back in time almost eighty years. I have no idea how or why Babcia came to leave this place, but it’s unexpectedly eerie to think that I might be staring all the way back into that point of her life. Maybe she was sitting at that table when the moment came when her life changed forever, and maybe that journey she began that day ended all the way in America and with our family.

Just as I step away from the window, my mom calls.

“Hi,” I smile down the camera lens.

“Alice, hello,” Mom says. “I have one very excited grandmother here.”

She turns the phone to Babcia, who has tears pouring down her face, and is grinning at me like I’ve just discovered the holy grail.

“Jen dobry, Babcia,” I say, and she gives me a delighted smile and an awkward clap. I flip the camera and walk all around the house—showing her the fields, the decrepit barn and even the long-overgrown yard around the house. As I walk around, I shift my gaze from the fall of my steps to her reaction on the screen. I watch the dawning joy and sadness and longing on her face, and I know we’re at the right place.

I can’t help but imagine this scene playing out in a very different way if we’d made this trip together ten years ago. I’d have asked her a million or more questions. Maybe she’d have answered some.

“Alice,” Mom interrupts me, after a few minutes, and then it’s her face filling the screen again. “I need to get to chambers. Is that it, then? She seems...” Mom’s eyes flick from the camera, then back to me. She shrugs and smiles, and her sudden approval is quite dazzling. “You know? She suddenly seems incredibly happy.”