The Things We Cannot Say(93)

“Actually, that’s not possible,” the young woman interrupts Zofia, and she gives us a polite but apologetic smile.

“Why do you say that?” Zofia frowns.

“Well, Aleksy Slaski was my great-grandfather, and my grandmother was his only child.”

At first, I’m not sure whether I should be disappointed or confused, but I quickly settle on confused, and so I decide to clarify.

“Was your grandmother Emilia?”

The woman’s eyes widen, then she concedes carefully, “Yes, she is...?”

“Well,” I say, and my heart starts racing as I realize we’ve stumbled upon a link to someone who’s actually on Babcia’s list. And the receptionist said is, not was, so... Emilia is alive! “That’s fantastic—I was really hoping we could track her down—”

“Perhaps we should have a chat in private,” the woman murmurs. She rises and motions toward a hallway. “Please, follow me.”

She closes the door behind us as we step into a small meeting room. The woman is still offering that same polite smile, but she’s crossed her arms over her chest and her gaze has narrowed just a little.

“What exactly is it you want from Emilia?” she asks me directly. “Is it money?”

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t want anything from her, just to connect with her. Tomasz Slaski was her brother, and he was my grandfather.”

Now, the hint of suspicion in the woman’s gaze becomes more pronounced.

“I’m really sorry, that’s not possible.”

I give her a confused smile and start to counter with, “It’s definitely—”

“I don’t know where you are getting your information from, but Tomasz Slaski died in 1942,” she interrupts me gently. I share a confused glance with Zofia. “I’m quite certain about this. I visit his grave with my grandmother sometimes.”

“But...” Memories rise to the forefront of my mind. I think about my grandfather’s gentle hugs and the way his rare bursts of laughter could light up a room. He was more alive than just about anyone I know, purely because of the way he threw his arms around life, as if he was constantly searching for an opportunity to make a difference or to give love. But this young woman doesn’t know that, and she’s looking at me with overt sympathy now.

“Tomasz is not an uncommon name in Poland, nor is Slaski. I think you have the wrong family.”

“But your great-grandmother was Julita, yes?” Zofia prompts.

“Yes, but...”

“I’m not sure what the confusion is, but I know we have our facts straight,” Zofia says. “I did the family history research myself. Aleksy and Julita Slaski were definitely the parents of Tomasz Slaski, born in 1920, and he is Alice’s grandfather.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” the woman says, and she’s just a little defensive now, “but I’m not mistaken, either—not about this.”

I’m getting a little desperate here, so I try a different tack.

“What’s your name?”

“I am Lia Truchen.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Lia,” I say quietly, hoping to get the conversation back onto a warm footing and disperse this odd tension that’s starting to rise. “The thing is...my grandmother is ninety-five now and she’s quite unwell. She left Poland during the war and wasn’t ever able to return. My mother thinks that my grandmother used to send letters to Emilia, maybe even hundreds of letters over the years, trying to get back in touch once the war was ended. We’re not sure exactly what she wanted, but it seemed to be very important to her.”

“Emilia is also very old, and she’s also quite unwell,” Lia says quietly. “I’m sure you understand why I don’t want to upset her. If she didn’t reply to your grandmother’s letters, there must be a reason.”

Lia is trying very hard not to be rude—if anything, her gaze is pleading with me for understanding. And I do understand her wanting to protect her grandmother—probably better than most, but that doesn’t mean I can let this go.

“Perhaps they could just talk on the phone—”

“Emilia is very frail...” Lia says, a little firmer now.

“Maybe...” I feel this moment slipping away from me, so I fumble to get Lia back on side. “I don’t want to upset your grandmother, either—that would be terrible. But perhaps if you could tell her about my grandmother, perhaps she might be interested—”

“Who is your grandmother?”

“My grandmother is Hanna Slaski—” I say automatically.

But Zofia says at the same time, “She was Alina Dziak before her marriage.”

“Alina or Hanna?” Lia looks at us, her suspicion no longer hidden at all.

“It’s complicated,” I sigh, then I briefly explain the morning’s events. “But the point is, Emilia might know her as Hanna or Alina. But she’s definitely Slaski. The surname we’re sure of, because she took it when she married my Pa.”

“Well, she’d be Alina Slaksa if she’d married a Polish man,” Lia points out. I look at Zofia in confusion, and she nods.

“Well, yes. It is Polish convention to change some suffixes to denote gender—a female would generally be ‘Slaksa’ rather than ‘Slaski.’ But I see this all the time with American clients—the convention generally does not persist after immigration.”