A simple conclusion, one that sums up the entirety of what had happened—to the original plan, to me, to him. To us.
He waits, perhaps believing his recognition of the change is all it will take to prompt me into revealing why it occurred. Maybe this is my opportunity to salvage the last of our remaining moments. But to do so requires an impossible play. I clear my throat.
“I’m doing a terrible job of packing. If you’ll excuse me, I should finish.” I rummage through the dresser drawers, pretending to sort the pieces.
The silence is oppressive. Part of me wishes Mateusz would say what he’s come to say, but another part would rather dwell in this instant forever than move forward to the next.
“I wouldn’t have given you that letter if I’d known what it contained.”
Though I’d been waiting for those words, they stir something within me, pushing me toward the familiar brink. Shoving the dresser drawer closed, I turn to face him.
“That wasn’t your decision. The letter was mine.”
“You had this planned all along, didn’t you? Why did you involve me?”
“I trusted you, and I needed help.”
“And I trusted you, but you lied to me. For years.”
He waits, probably expecting me to admit or deny it, but I don’t. There’s no need to confirm a truth he already knows. Maybe he’s hoping for some sign of remorse.
When I don’t react, he steps closer, rigid with tension. “You said you were worried. You never said you were going to confront Fritzsch. I helped you find him, I gave you his letter because I thought it would give you peace of mind, but instead it could’ve gotten you killed. Don’t you realize that?”
“I had to do it.”
“Why? What lie are you going to tell me this time?”
The sharpness in his tone inflames my fury more. “You can’t understand.”
Mateusz shakes his head and backs toward the door, as if he sees no purpose in disputing me. “Well, Maria, you found Fritzsch. You got what you wanted.”
That’s all it takes to prompt the memories. I see my family’s bodies, Father Kolbe’s arm humbly extended and awaiting injection, the whip dripping my blood, the chessboard in the roll-call square, Fritzsch’s vicious smile, and I hear his jeers, feel every bit of terror and fury and agony he’s inflicted upon me, then I hear the shriek, the one that always takes me aback when I realize it’s my own.
“What I wanted? Do you think this is what I wanted? Everyone I loved was murdered because of him! This was because of him.”
I turn and allow my robe to fall and display my back, from shoulders to hips. The crack of the whip rings in my ears while my gasping cries mark the sting of each laceration, eins, zwei, drei—
Mateusz’s sharp intake of breath lifts me from the scorching, dusty ground in the roll-call square and brings me back to standing half-naked in this cold bedroom. I cover myself and face him again. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
“I won’t make excuses because I don’t have any, but don’t ask me to explain myself. I can’t. Not even to Irena or Hania.”
My voice quivers; the twinge creeps into my head. Rage and pain have become as much a part of me as these scars.
I retreat to the window and wait for Mateusz to say that my words aren’t good enough, to demand an explanation because I owe him that much, given the extent of my deception. I crave his fury, crave something to push me into hating him as much as he surely hates me. But, when he speaks, his voice holds no fury, no hatred.
“Maybe you can’t explain yourself today, maybe not tomorrow. But someday, the words will come, and when they do, we’ll listen.”
The windowsill is firm and unrelenting against my grip, the glass pane smooth and cold when I press my forehead against it. The sobs descend upon me in a fierce, sudden onslaught; though I don’t loosen my hold on the windowsill, I sink to my knees. His hands find my shoulders and coax me to my feet. I should turn away, but instead I surrender to his embrace.
We stand at opposite ends of a chasm, one that will never go away. It can’t, not when the past few years of our lives have been so vastly different. But, despite my inability to help him understand, I think the gap has narrowed.
“All I wanted was for you to find peace,” he murmurs when I lift my head and wipe the moisture from my cheeks.
“I’m closer to it. And if I could do all of this again, there’s one thing I would’ve done much differently, Maciek.” I swallow the sudden quaver in my voice and raise my eyes to his. “I never would have done what I did to you.”
Mateusz’s finger traces my cheek beneath my eye, the same one that was discolored and bruised after our first meeting, then along my temple, where a pistol barrel once pressed so firmly that it left a mark. From his pocket he produces a worn, tattered piece of paper, but when he unfolds it I recognize the handwriting. Mine. It’s the first letter I wrote to him, and he quotes the line before my closing.
“All is forgiven.”
I shake my head, feeling the strange need to fight him as I fight forgiveness every time it’s offered to me, but I’ve learned that this is one game I never win. If I’m going to lose with dignity, I should accept defeat now. So I do.
Mateusz rotates me and guides my robe down until it’s fallen around my waist, and I close my eyes while he takes in the mangled mass of exposed flesh that stretches across my body. When he runs his fingers over the scars, the simple gesture slows the pounding beat of my heart. Once he re-covers me, I turn to face him. He draws me closer, and I lift my head, following his sharp jaw to the bow of his lips and slope of his nose until I reach his eyes. Such deep blue eyes. He’s always seen the girl, not the prisoner.
When his lips meet mine, I abandon myself to everything except the gentleness of his touch. Somehow he quells the hectic flurry inside me.
Between kisses, he whispers my name, whispers for me to come to America with him and leave all of this behind. A familiar longing pierces the comfort of his embrace and the tingling warmth his fingers send across my skin. Longing for him, longing to be something other than what I’ve become, a thing created by that place. The loud voice interferes, telling me to ignore the little voice, and I’m tempted to listen to its deafening cries. But the little voice knows best. So much of me remains scattered, a jumble of chess pieces on a board where strategy has come apart, leaving confusion and chaos in its wake. Sorting through the mayhem is a challenge only I can overcome.
Once more, I rest my head against his chest and close my eyes. How I wish things could be different.
“You know, Maciek,” I murmur, “I think Americans have post offices.”
A chuckle rumbles in his chest and vibrates against my ear. “Is that so?”
“I can’t be certain, but it’s a strong possibility.” I lift my head to look at him. “Maybe I’ll write to you someday. But if I do, and if you receive my letter and don’t respond, that’s rude, and you should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll write back. It’s rude to disrespect a girl’s wishes.”
I pull his lips to mine once more. The loud voice makes one final attempt, reminding me how easy it would be to never let him go.
I gently release him. Instead I cling to this moment and the promise that, someday, perhaps I’ll find the next.
Once Mateusz is gone, I stay where I am, looking at the letters tucked into the corner of my valise. He really isn’t a stupid boy after all.
Chapter 37
Warsaw, 7 May 1945
IRENA WARNED US that Warsaw wasn’t the same, but no warning could have prepared me or Hania to return to what’s left of our city. Buildings that were once grand and ornate lie in crumbles of dust, ash, brick, and glass while other ruins have been cleared, leaving gaping holes. The emptiness reminds me of the hollow spaces in our bunks following selections. The streets, once thriving, are all but abandoned—the result of countless civilian deaths, deportations, and escapes. Warsaw has bee
n almost obliterated.
Of course my city is beaten, bruised, nearly destroyed. Even if I had found the justice I’d sought, finding it would not have buried the past as I had hoped; now I face my past and present. Those who made Warsaw beautiful—made it my home—lost their lives. My actions ripped the beauty from my life and left me in ruins just as bombs, bullets, and blood ravaged my city. The home I left no longer exists; it has become a reflection of the life I created.
Despite the hopeless state of the city, Hoża Street is still beautiful. As Hania and I stand on the corner, it reminds me of the times I traveled up and down this street to the convent. Each fond memory is a small comfort, though tinged by the ache in my chest, so familiar to me now, one I no longer expect to ever fully leave me.
“Four years,” Hania murmurs, more to herself than to me. “It’s been four years since I’ve seen my sons. And I never imagined I’d face this day without my husband.”
I place my hand on her forearm, but I’m not sure she notices. “You’re certain you’d like me to stay?”
She nods without pulling her eyes away from the convent.
Our heels clack against the cobblestones as I lead her down the street. When we ring the doorbell, a sister takes us into the courtyard, where birds chirp and a breeze rustles through the trees. The tranquil atmosphere is a sharp contrast to the nerves raging within me. We wait near the Saint Joseph statue while she fetches her superior.
Hania stands beside me, face lined with worry, hands clasped, as pale and motionless as the Saint Joseph statue. She looks far older than she should. Old, tired, hopeful, petrified. Four years of unspeakable suffering have brought her to this moment. I extend a hand; she latches on to my arm and doesn’t loosen her grip.
When Mother Matylda appears, alone, Hania’s grip tightens.
She clutches me for an instant, then releases me, rushes to meet Mother Matylda, and grabs her hand. Her grasp looks so strong that I’m afraid she’s hurting the elderly mother provincial, but Mother Matylda clings to her just as tightly.
“Tell me they’re safe,” Hania says, the words sharp and urgent despite the break in her voice. “Please, they can’t be—”
“Oh, my dear child, forgive me. I didn’t intend to frighten you,” Mother Matylda replies, placing a soothing hand on Hania’s cheek. “I wanted to share what my sisters and I have learned since Maria contacted us. Maria’s mother, Natalia, brought your sons to us. Adam and Jakub were transferred to our orphanage in Ostrówek.” She offers her a small smile. “And they are alive.”
For a moment Hania looks too stunned to react, then with a sob, her knees buckle. Her head droops under the weight of the news, and she presses her lips to the mother provincial’s wrinkled hand. With surprising agility, Mother Matylda kneels with her, head bowed, eyes closed, cradling Hania as if she’s one of the children the sisters have saved.
I close my eyes, returning to my family’s living room, where Mama and I had so many whispered conversations, imagining moments like this, helping to reunite families that had been torn apart. We cannot imagine what they have suffered, but we must do our part to ease it. The advice she had always given. As I whisper a silent thanks to her for her tireless efforts, her enthusiasm, her compassion, I sense her relief and joy as surely as my own.
When Hania has calmed herself, the mother provincial wipes a lingering tear from her cheek. “Would you like to see your sons?”
Hania takes a moment to find her voice. “They’re here?”
“After locating them, we brought them here as quickly as we could. I’ve explained the situation to them, so they realize they’re Jewish. And they are Jewish,” Mother Matylda adds, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. “No one who has come to us has been baptized against his parents’ wishes.”
Hania blinks, seeming too overwhelmed to process everything she’s heard. Another tear rolls down her cheek. She’s still clinging to Mother Matylda, as if releasing her would take away everything the mother provincial has returned to her.
“Before you see your children, Hania, you must remember they were very young when you were separated, and they—”
“They don’t remember me.” She dips her head in a small nod even though her voice wavers. “I understand, Mother. Please bring me my kinderlach.”
Mother Matylda beckons me. Once I’ve joined them, she coaxes Hania to her feet and disappears inside.
Hania’s shaking hand finds mine—hers a rich olive, mine as pale as Mama’s porcelain tea set. I imagine my mother holding Jakub’s hand, leading him through the sewers while cradling Adam in her arms, and I picture them here, in this very spot, filthy and exhausted but alive. The sisters would have cleaned and fed the children while Mama changed and bundled up her filthy garments to mask her work and then hurried home before my siblings awoke.
If only Mama had known that those children she rescued belonged to a woman who would one day rescue her own daughter.
When Mother Matylda returns, she leads two dark-haired boys by the hand. A small gasp emerges from Hania’s lips while her tremor reverberates in me as strongly as if it were my own. Jakub’s dark eyes evaluate us, first Hania, then me, then back to her, while Adam’s are large and curious. She takes a few steps closer to her sons, stops with apparent difficulty, and waits. Mother Matylda guides Jakub’s hand into Adam’s. Both wait for her direction, so she gives them an encouraging nod.
Slowly Jakub leads Adam across the courtyard. When they reach their mother, they pause while she sinks to her knees. I imagine she’s longing to wrap them in her arms and smother them with kisses, but she’s waiting for permission, afraid of overwhelming them. I watch with bated breath, praying Jakub will reach into the depths of his memory, will recognize the poor woman who has lost everything and has spent four agonizing years dreaming of this moment. Surely he’ll recall something, anything, about the mother who loves him so much.
Hania studies the little boys who emerged from the toddler and infant she once knew, drinking in every detail. “Do you know who I am?”
“Your name is Hania, and you’re our mother. That’s what Matusia Matylda said,” Jakub replies, and I smile at his use of the endearing title. “She said my name is Jakub, not Andrzej, and Henryk’s name is Adam.”
Hania nods and fights to contain a fresh wave of tears while she murmurs in Yiddish. Jakub’s eyes narrow, and he looks at Mother Matylda for an explanation. The mother provincial casts a sympathetic glance at Hania; again my heart twists into a painful knot. None of the sisters could help Jakub retain knowledge of the language. The one Adam hasn’t had the chance to learn.
The same understanding must come over Hania, and she pauses midsentence. She swallows hard and produces the family portrait she kept throughout our time in the camp. After handing it to her sons, she points to their faces. “That’s me, and that’s you.”
Her sons consult the image, then Jakub assesses her. “You look different.”
She chuckles. “So do you. This photograph was taken four years ago. And this is your father, Eliasz.”
“Where is he?” Adam asks.
“We’ll see him again someday,” Hania says softly, but her voice wavers. She takes their hands in her own. Adam takes a trusting step closer to her, and though Jakub still looks uncertain, he doesn’t pull away. “You were so small when your father and I sent you away to keep you safe. We missed you terribly, but Matusia Matylda could protect you in ways we couldn’t. Even though we weren’t together, I kept you with me each day because I thought of you, I missed you, and I loved you. Do you remember the day you left?”
Jakub shakes his head. Adam shakes his head, too, as if he feels left out. I expected the response, but it’s still disappointing.
“That’s all right, because I remember it. Adam, you were a baby—”
“Like this?” He points to himself in the photograph.
“Yes, exactly like that. Jakub, you were hardly three years old, but you promised to be a brave boy. I can
see you’ve kept that promise. Will you continue being brave?”
After considering the query, he nods.
“And Adam, will you be brave, too?”
Adam wraps his arms around Hania’s neck in an exuberant embrace. “Yes, Mama!”
* * *
I allow Hania to get reacquainted with her sons, promising to return after I visit Bałuckiego Street. I’m not sure our apartment building survived the destruction or if there’s anything left of the home I once knew. But I need to find out.
Outside the convent, I reach the end of the street and catch sight of Irena, on her way to meet us after introducing Franz to her mother.
“I’ll join you in a little while,” I say as I walk past, but she grabs my forearm, pulling me to a stop.
“Don’t.”
Startled by the urgency in her voice, I turn toward her. From the look on her face, she knows exactly where I’m going.
“Is it gone?” I whisper, though I’m not certain I can bear the answer.
“Yes—well, the building stands and the apartment was pillaged, but to answer your question, yes, it is gone.” She relaxes her hold, and I meet her eyes, brimming with sympathy. “It was gone the moment the Gestapo invaded and took you into custody.”
A lump rises in my throat. Of course it’s been gone. They have been gone. But to hear Irena say it makes it final.
I need to go back. To face what I’ve done. Confronting Fritzsch was supposed to bring a semblance of peace, but Warsaw is nothing more than another reminder. Every happiness I once knew here has been erased. Why should I be spared the consequences of my actions?
Bałuckiego Street and its loose cobblestones that always tripped my sister. The tap of my father’s cane on the stairs leading to our apartment. My brother begging to go to Park Dreszera. My mother picking geraniums from her little garden on our balcony, arranging the pink and white blooms in her favorite crystal vase. My beautiful Staunton chess set in our living room.
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