The Lullaby of Polish Girls

by Dagmara Dominczyk

  “I can’t even go into what I’m feeling, Emil. I could have spent my teenage years running around town with some deserving guy, who would have wanted me. Who would have used me, or pined for me, or just … fucked me at the very least. You led me on.”

  “You let me,” Emil says, quietly. For a moment, Kamila wants to slap his face, but instead she gulps down the rest of her herbata.

  “You were everything to me, Kamila. You still are.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I’m not. Isn’t that clear? There wasn’t anything real about it, and a lot of that was my fault, I suppose.” Kamila pauses. She reaches for his hand and holds it briefly.

  “It’s going to be hard for you here, now that …”

  “I know. It’s already hard. Maybe Wojtek and I will pack our bags and go somewhere else. Warsaw, or London.”

  “Well, wherever you go, just don’t go ‘back in the closet,’ ” Kamila says in English.

  “Bek een da clazet?” Emil smiles, confused.

  “It’s an expression I picked up in America. It just means, don’t hide anymore.” Emil nods, grateful. Kamila smiles and finishes her tea.

  “Here’s the deal. I can’t stay here, Emil. But neither can you. You have a week to find someplace. I won’t throw you onto the street, but please, a week is not a long time, so you better get cracking. I don’t want to see you for a long time. I wish you well and I’ll call you soon so we can talk about the divorce.”

  “Divorce?”

  “Absolutely. What else can there be? Live your life, Emil. Obviously, you don’t need me anymore to do that.” Kamila picks up her fancy coat, dusts it once, and drapes it over her shoulders. She walks out the door but turns around, one last time. Emil stands up.

  “You look beautiful, Kamila,” he says, and she believes him.

  Justyna

  Kielce, Poland

  They say you fall in love with your child instantly. They say it’s a sudden-impact situation and that it happens moments after birth, right when they place the baby on your chest for the first time. They say that love bears down on you like a stone, till you can’t breathe. And it does.

  But Justyna doesn’t talk about this love. She tucks it away, beneath her bravado and fear. She talks about her son as if Damian was a stray she took in years ago. In public she yells at him, to shut up, to scram, go away and find something else to do. She smacks his rear in grocery stores, pulls on his earlobe to hurry him along, while older women purse their lips and scowl in her direction, as if they had never felt the same impatience. Other mothers, Justyna has found out, are the most judgmental of them all.

  Justyna didn’t fall in love with Damian moments after birth. Moments after birth she was dying for a cigarette, and left him simpering in his bassinet to sneak down to the lobby for a smoke. When Justyna returned, the nurse on duty was cradling her son and feeding him a two-ounce bottle of formula. “Smoking inhibits your milk flow,” the nurse warned. Justyna shrugged her shoulders, got back into bed. “Well, then, turns out it’s good for something. I’m a mother, proszę pani, not a cow.”

  She didn’t fall in love with him when they got home either. He was colicky and fussy and the last thing Justyna wanted to deal with, as her own mother lay sick and dying. The moment it happened, the moment she finally felt her heart surge, was when Damian was two and a half and landed in the hospital with a bad case of pneumonia. Justyna watched him as he struggled for breath, hooked up to IVs and heart monitors, all but lifeless for a day. Justyna felt like she too was fighting for her life. When his eyelids fluttered open, and his hand reached out as if searching for hers, she ran to his side, crushed Damian in a hug, and placed her ear against his rattling chest. That’s when it happened. That’s when she finally felt it.

  It took a brush with death for Justyna to realize her love for her son, and it took death itself to realize something else; life was fleeting and meaningless. Weeks after Paweł’s murder, Justyna yearned to take Damian aside and clue him in so that when he headed out into life’s open jaws, he would be equipped with a steely heart and a clear head. “Your father died because nothing matters,” she wanted to tell him. But even though Justyna was sure that in the long run her son would thank her for the heads-up, she had a niggling suspicion that she’d be robbing him of something. So she let him believe that life was fair and perhaps Daddy was coming back.

  On Christmas Eve morning Justyna and her sister wake up groggy but determined to rise to the occasion.

  Babcia Kazia brings a small tree with her that afternoon, and when she walks through the door, dragging the choinka by a rope, the kids cling to her stockinged calves, yipping their dziękuje, and covering her knees in sloppy kisses, like their grandmother is Święty Mikołaj himself. Justyna goes up to the attic, finds the small cardboard box labeled Bąbki, and brings it downstairs.

  Celina and Damian hang ornaments as Justyna and Elwira sit on the couch, watching them and smoking. Babcia Kazia keeps busy in the kitchen defrosting pierogi, red barszcz, and cabbage bigos and setting the table for Christmas Eve dinner. At three o’clock, Justyna comes to the table still dressed in her pink sweat pants and T-shirt. Babcia shares the opłatek she brought with the kids and Elwira, but Justyna refuses to take part, and for once Babcia doesn’t argue. Justyna eats a little of everything but doesn’t comment on the food. When Babcia Kazia starts clearing the table Justyna tells her, “Leave it. Just let them open their gifts.”

  Celina receives two Barbies—a stewardess and a pet shop owner—and a pink tutu that is too expensive but worth the look of jaw-dropping happiness on Cela’s face when she tears off the gift wrap. Damian gets a couple of Hot Wheels cars and a yellow digger. Elwira hands Justyna a Spice Girls CD and a bottle of cheap perfume. “Sorry,” Justyna mouths to her sister, because she has nothing to give her.

  When Justyna tucks Damian in later that night, he asks her if “Świety Mikołaj didn’t bring Ciocia Elwira anything because her boyfriend did something bad?” Justyna is blindsided by the question and scrambles for a diversion.

  “You know what? Tomorrow we can go to Puchatek and you can pick something else out for yourself. I like what Mikołaj brought you, but honestly I think you’re way too old now for that plastic digger. What the heck was he thinking, right?”

  Damian frowns. “Is it because he did something bad to Tata?” he asks again.

  Justyna answers quickly, confidently. “Listen, synu. Mikołaj didn’t bring Ciocia anything because silly Ciocia forgot to write him a letter. He can’t read minds, you know? Kinda shitty, right?” Justyna chuckles.

  Damian stares at his mother, his big blue eyes fixated on her, and when he finally speaks it is one word, exhaled like a sigh. “Oh.”

  The next morning, Justyna waits in the kitchen for Elwira to come downstairs. Her sister is prone to six A.M. cravings for ham and butter sandwiches, and, like clockwork, Elwira shuffles into the kitchen, in a dirty bathrobe. When she sees Justyna, she gasps, clutching her chest. “Fuck me! Jesus, are you trying to give me a heart attack?” She walks over to the counter and grabs the rye bread.

  “Did you tell Celina what Filip did?” Justyna speaks, quickly and to the point.

  “No. Of course I didn’t! What do you think, I’m crazy?”

  “So how come my son knows something is up? How come my son thinks that asswipe did ‘something bad’ to his father?”

  “I have no fucking idea! What are you talking about?”

  Justyna walks over to Elwira, snatches the bread from her and throws it on the floor. “Did you tell her?” Justyna’s hands grab Elwira’s chin and squeeze until Elwira starts to cry.

  “I swear, Justyna, I would never tell any kid that, let alone my own. But Celina is sleeping in my room now, and I call friends at night when I can’t sleep. I mean I’m quiet, and I make sure she’s out, but who knows? Oh fuck, maybe she overheard something, maybe …” Elwira’s voice collapses into a whisper. “Listen, Justyna, I can’t do it like you. I have to talk, you know
, it helps me process.”

  “Process? What’s there to process? Filip killed my husband. What can’t you process? And he’s still out there. It’s been twenty-nine fucking days and—” Justyna stops talking, barrels over to the phone, and quickly dials a number.

  “Tak, halo, may I please speak with Officer Kurka? You can tell him the widow Strawicz is calling. Yes, I’ll hold, I’ll hold, goddamnit.” She stares at Elwira, who is cowering by the fridge.

  “Yes? I understand it’s Boże Narodzenie today, I got it. How’s your Christmas been, proszę pani? You wanna know how mine is? Pretty fucking dismal, what with my husband dead. No one over there gives a fine crap about—Yes, I’ll hold, but I know he’s there and I have his mobile number so maybe I should just fucki—” And that’s when Justyna notices a large plastic bag on the floor, peeking out from the corner of the living room doorway. She drops the receiver to the table. Echoes of Halo? Halo? fade into the background as she makes her way toward the bag.

  “What? What is it?” Elwira’s voice whispers.

  Justyna stops at the foot of the plastic bag and wills herself to peek around the bend. The door leads straight into the kitchen. Why hadn’t she noticed it sooner? Her dog, Rambo, is lying motionless, a bloody shoelace round his neck, securing the plastic bag over his head. She stoops down, shaking. She wants to untie the bag but can’t bring herself to do it.

  “What the fuck is that?” Elwira starts creeping toward Justyna, who holds out her hand.

  “Don’t!” Justyna blurts out, and Elwira immediately shrinks back.

  There are no locks on the windows in the house. The balcony doors on the second floor don’t close all the way, and no one’s bothered to repair them.

  “Run upstairs and check on the kids. Right now.”

  Elwira scrambles upstairs, crying. Silently, Justyna strokes Rambo’s torso, her hands hold his paws. She knows she shouldn’t touch the victim, shouldn’t fuck with the fingerprints, but she can’t help it because Rambo was her mother’s dog and now he’s gone, just like Teresa’s gone, just like Paweł is. One by one, everyone is dropping like flies.

  In a daze, she walks back to the kitchen, and she picks up the telephone. The line is dead so she redials the police station. “Yes, halo. Tell Officer Kurka that the person who murdered my husband came back last night, while we were all sleeping—and that includes two kids, miss. Our dog has been butchered and left with a plastic bag tied around his neck. Tell Kurka that I will personally drive myself and my family to his house tonight, right now, and we will stay there, camped out on his fucking wersalka, until the police stop jacking off and start doing their job. Do you understand what I am saying? Have you been writing this down? I fucking hope so.”

  Elwira comes running into the kitchen as soon as Justyna hangs up.

  “They’re fine. O Boże, Justyna. What is it?”

  Elwira is sobbing, the fear in her eyes is astounding. Justyna lights a cigarette and points toward the dog.

  “He was here. And he left us a gift.”

  Elwira shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “Let’s call Tata. Please. We’ll tell him he has to come back. I can’t be here alone anymore. I’m scared.”

  “Don’t be pathetic, Elwira. It’s embarrassing.” Justyna stares at the remains of the dog. Someone will have to move him, bury him. It would be a job for Paweł, just the kind of thing he was good at, taking care of stuff that no one else wanted to do, like changing lightbulbs or cleaning up the trash bins.

  “I want you to go upstairs and pack bags for Cela and Damian. I’m calling a cab, and you are taking them to Babcia’s and you are not to leave there till I tell you to. Don’t tell Babcia what happened, tell her we had a fight.”

  “What about you?” Elwira asks.

  “I’m staying.”

  “No! Justyna, please, proszę cię! Oh my God, why would he come back? Do you think he knows I talked to the police?”

  “He’s fucking crazy. That’s all.”

  “But you don’t come back to the scene of the crime unless you wanna get caught, right?”

  “I don’t fucking know, Elwira! Maybe he’s trapped, or it’s cold as fuck out there, or he just couldn’t help himself, so he came back. I’m not a fucking criminal psychologist! Point is, he was here.”

  “So, does that mean he’ll come back again?”

  “I don’t know. But next time, I’ll be ready for him.”

  “Stop it! Who do you think you are, for fuck’s sake, Kojak? He snuck in here during the night and killed our fucking dog. You’re coming with us. We’ll call the police and they can stake out this house and wait for him.”

  “And what? They’ll cuff him and haul him off in a van and we’ll live happily ever after? The police give fuck all about what happened to Paweł, and what happened to our dog, and what is going to happen to you and me. You’re scared and I don’t blame you. I swear I don’t blame you but I’m not scared.”

  “Yes, you are. Don’t fucking lie to me.”

  “I’m not. I’m not scared. I’m not anything. There is nothing left in me, nothing left to even properly take care of my son. Do you understand that?” Justyna sits at the table and reaches for her pack of cigarettes. She offers Elwira one.

  “So, what? You’re gonna stay here and wait for him and have it out?” Elwira smokes the L&M, taking quick puffs one right after another.

  “If I’m next, so be it. I don’t care. But I want to look that psycho in the face, I want to—”

  “You’re sick. You’re in denial. You just went insane at the thought of Damian knowing what happened to his father so don’t tell me you don’t care. Please, Justyna, fucking on my knees, I beg you, just come with us!”

  Justyna looks down at the kitchen table. Every morning before school she’d come down and her mother would be sitting at the head of this table, filing her nails and smoking a Marlboro. Eggs or eggs, ptaszyno? Every morning, the same, calling Justyna her birdie, scrambling half a dozen jajka in gobs of butter, serving it up on rye bread. Every fucking morning. Eggs or eggs?

  “Remember the summer we all went to the Croatian sea, na wczasy? The first day we went to the beach, the waves were so high. Mama dared us to jump in the water. And you stood by the shore, crying. You wanted to jump, but you just couldn’t do it.”

  Elwira speaks softly. “I remember how you dove in and went under. You swallowed a ton of water, and we thought you had died, and then Mama told you you were stupid for actually jumping in, that she’d just been kidding.”

  “The thing is, I don’t think she was kidding. I still believe that she wanted me to jump in. And I’m jumping in now, Elwira. And I don’t expect you to join me. I don’t want you to. But I have to do it.”

  Elwira walks up the stairs. In a few minutes, Justyna hears the kids waking, hears Elwira gathering their things. They’ll be fine, thinks Justyna, and she dials the number for a taxi.

  Anna

  Kielce, Poland

  After another three-year absence, Anna arrived in Poland that August with zero fanfare. Her cousins Hubert and Renata had made lives for themselves in Dublin and Naples, respectively, and her aunts only came by once in a while. Babcia had been happy to see her again. “You look like a woman now, Anna,” she said, wiping away tears. Babcia, on the other hand, looked old. She’d apparently given up on her dentures, and the sight of her toothless mouth threw Anna. “Why, Babciu?” Anna asked, and Babcia just grinned wider. “Oh, córciu! They click and clack and it doesn’t feel natural. Besides, I’m not afraid of growing old.” For the first time ever, Babcia Helenka’s apartment seemed huge and empty.

  Besides Babcia, nobody seems to care that Anna is here. Nobody has called since her return a week ago. Kamila is in Warsaw with Emil, spending the summer at some seventeenth-century villa. “We’ll try to come back before you leave, Aniusia. It’s been ages, hasn’t it, darling?” Kamila had sounded so cosmopolitan and grown up on the phone. When Anna called Justyna, she said she was busy with
kid stuff. “He’ll shit anywhere in the house: the carpet, on the balcony, in our fucking cactus planter, but not in the goddamn toilet!” But she promised to see Anna before the summer was over.

  “I’m only here for two weeks this time, Justynka.” The whole conversation made Anna’s heart sink.

  Szydłówek is a ghost town. In the mornings, Anna gets up late, eats a parówka dipped in mustard for breakfast, and goes jogging around the zalew. In the afternoons, she sits on the curb by the church, watching traffic. She saw Kowalski once, from a few blocks away, recognized him by the silk shirt he had on, the one he used to wear in 1995. Anna had to stop herself from calling out his name. She’d wanted to apologize for their last exchange, for the way she had spoken to him on the train. But instead she looked away and prayed he wouldn’t notice her.

  When it rains—and it’s been raining the whole week—Anna spends her days on her grandmother’s balcony, staring past St. Józef’s steeple, hoping someone will see her sitting there and spread the news that she is back, but no one does. When the rain lets up, Anna goes on walks, mining information from the neighbors. When she ran into Pani Nowacka by the trzepak a few days ago Anna called out to her.

  “Pani Nowacka! Where is everyone?”

  “Oh, you know, probably in the skwerek, getting drunk. All your old pals, they’re criminals now, stealing in broad daylight. You had better tell your babcia to hide your dollars, that’s all I’m saying.” But Pani Nowacka had continued, gleefully informing her that Lolek had just been released from prison, after serving time for aggravated assault. “That’s what his father says anyway, but there’s another rumor floating around.…” Anna had given Pani Nowacka a hasty wave goodbye and hopped onto the rug beater. She didn’t want to hear any more.