White Picket Fences (35 page)

Do you remember that job I had after Manhattan? Remember we were in Nashville and I was shoveling horse crap and you were so sad because I wasn’t driving Mell’s fancy cars anymore or drinking her expensive wine or wearing silk shirts? Who could’ve guessed that time in Nashville would fix me up for right now? Anya was in Warsaw same time I was, trying to convince her brother to come back to Ukraine and help her. Her ranch hand had just quit. But her brother didn’t want to go. I met her at the train station.

Tal, I’ve been helping Anya at the ranch this last month so I can earn money for a plane ticket home, and I’m thinking we could make a go of it here for a little while if you want. It snows here—we’re talking gobs of it. You’ve always told me you wanted to live where there was snow. I thought we’d stay here a bit and then poke around the Grocholskis’ backyard some more and see what turns up. You can do that mail-order school thing like we did when we went to Switzerland.

I’m sorry I wasn’t better about writing. And that I never could reach you by phone. I didn’t think I’d be gone as long as I have been. I hope you’ve had a great time with your grandma and that you won’t mind leaving Arizona behind. Oh, hey, by the way, you can tell your grandma about the box I’m trying to find. I know I asked you to keep it a secret, but it’s not like I found it or anything. And I probably should tell you, not that it matters, that the woman I thought was my grandmother was really someone else. It’s a long story. It’s all in Grandpa’s letter, which I’m sending to you so nothing happens to it. I think your aunt Amanda will want to read it. I know she will. We should maybe stop in and see your aunt and uncle before we head out of the States. I know she’d love to see you again. You were just a kid last time she saw you.

Not sure when you’ll get this, but I’m planning on arriving back in the States on October 20 or thereabouts. Start saying your good-byes, Tally-ho!

I’m coming for you.

Love, Dad

P.S. Hold on to Grandpa’s letter for me. I sent it with this note. And, hey, the butterfly pin wrapped in tissue paper is for you. I know it needs some TLC, but I think it will clean up nice. Those little blue stones are sapphires, I think. It is the only piece of jewelry I’ve been able to find.

Fresno, California
June 2007

Dear Bart,

Unless you miraculously show up in the next couple of weeks, I don’t think I’ll have a chance to talk with you again. I know you don’t want to hear any apologies or reprimands, and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to write any. So rest assured that’s not what this letter is for.

As I lay here counting off the seconds, I know that I’m getting close to the end of my life. There are a few things I want at least one person to know before I die. You can decide if you think anyone else needs to know what I’m going to tell you. For some reason it seems important that someone should know.

I always appreciated that you and Amanda never pressed me to talk about the war or what happened to my father or what happened to your grandmother and me after we escaped the ghetto. It meant a great deal to both of us that we could start new lives here in America and that we didn’t have to go traipsing about in the past.

But I need to tell you that the woman you knew as your grandmother was not really my mother. Not in the physical sense. By the time you came along, she was very much my mother—and had been for many years. My real mother died in the ghetto giving birth to my sister, Sabina. I have never told anyone what I am going to tell you. Bear with me.

A few days after my mother died, my father learned that he and I were scheduled to be on the next transport to Treblinka. People who were transported to Treblinka were never heard from again. There were rumors that most of the Jews sent to Treblinka were gassed within hours of arriving. I, of course, did not know that until I was older. My father knew enough of the horrors of Treblinka to want to get me and Sabina out of the ghetto. He arranged for me and my sister to be smuggled out of the ghetto through the sewers. There were smuggling operations all over the ghetto for getting things in and getting things out.

I don’t recall the names of the men who helped us inside the ghetto. But the names of the two women outside the ghetto were Sofia and Katrine. They were both nurses. Sofia had arranged for a family to take me and Sabina. Katrine was there to help Sofia get us to the meeting place.

I remember getting up when it was still night and watching as my father gave Sabina medicine to make her sleep. He tried not to cry when he said good-bye. He told me I was going on a little holiday with Sabina and that he would join us later. He kissed us both and waved good-bye, smiling all the while tears were sliding down his face. I believed I would soon see him again. A runner took us inside the sewers, where it was very dark and stinking. Sofia and Katrine met us on the other side, and the runner went back to the ghetto. Katrine wrapped Sabina in her cape and handed her to Sofia. Then she took my hand, and we made our way out.

We didn’t see the Gestapo until it was too late. Soldiers had been tipped off by someone inside the ghetto. Sofia and Katrine ran into the streets, Sofia with my sister and Katrine with me. They separated to better their chances of escape. The Nazis missed this and only went after Katrine and me. As the soldiers got closer, Katrine lifted a sidewalk grate and lowered me inside, telling me not to make a sound and that she would come back for me. But she lost too many seconds securing my safety. The Nazis rounded a corner and came upon her. I watched from the grate as they shot Katrine as she ran. It was more than an hour before Sofia found me. I was still under the grate. I had not moved or made a sound. For many months after that I hardly spoke a word.

Sofia was unable to go back to her own apartment or the secret meeting place, so she asked me if I knew where my house was. I remembered I lived near a church with a cross. After hours of hiding and walking and looking for steeples, we did finally find my house. It had been looted and was empty but still standing. We were lucky there were no squatters.

The only item of value we had was Katrine’s butterfly pin. It was pinned to the cape she wrapped Sabina in. Afraid looters would be back, Sofia asked me if I knew of a good hiding place for it. I told her where I had hidden the key to a strongbox of jewelry and gold I’d buried in the backyard. My father told me to bury the box when we knew the Nazis would be coming to take us to the ghetto. I had placed the key on a ledge in the crawlspace between the second and third stories—it was a pocket too small for an adult to get into. I put the pin there with the key.

We made one risky trip back to her apartment to get some clothes, some personal belongings, her photographs, and Katrine’s engagement ring to use as a pretend wedding ring. Despite her best efforts to care for my baby sister, Sabina died two weeks after our escape. We attempted to keep a low profile, living out of only one room and not using any lights at night. But Nazi soldiers learned we were there, and before we managed to escape Warsaw, Sofia let the soldiers abuse her in exchange for letting us live. I didn’t understand the sacrifices she’d made for me until I was much older.

When we finally secured our escape to England via her smuggling contacts, we had weathered several months in that house, enduring the most demeaning of circumstances. She and I never spoke of those months in the house again. Never.

When the war ended we came back to Warsaw to look for any of my mother’s family. And any of Sofia’s. But she could find none, and even if she had found my aunts and uncles, I didn’t wish to leave her. We emigrated to the United States, she as Marta Bachmann. My mother.

After five years using the name Marta Bachmann, she had no desire to take back her own name. She’d ceased to be the girl she once was a long time before that, starting with those months in the house with the Nazis. I let her be who she wanted to be. This is who she was to me, anyway.

So now you know. You can decide who you will tell, if anyone.

I never went back for the strongbox of jewelry and gold that I buried in the backyard. It is under the third pine tree on the north side, out twenty paces or so. I was only six when I hid it. I have already told you where the key is.

My parents were quite well to do when Poland fell. I would imagine the contents of the box are worth a small fortune. It is yours if you want it.

I am tired, Bart. Tired and old, and I can’t write anymore.

I want you to know I have always admired your capacity to see the glass half full. Always. There were so many years I could not even see the glass.

I hope you find all that you are looking for,

Kocham cię,

Edward Bachmann

forty-four

S
pent wisteria vines dangled on the slats of the patio roof at La Vista del Paz, speckling the concrete below and the four people underneath with ameba-shaped shadows.

Chase and Tally sat in matching plastic lawn chairs across from Josef and Eliasz. Afghans were tucked about the old men’s waists as they sat in their wheelchairs. A cool, early October breeze hinted of subtle changes to come.

“I am very sorry about your house,” Josef said, and Eliasz nodded. “Eliasz and I know what it is like to have everything you own snatched away from you. It can leave you feeling off balance.”

“Yeah, a little,” Chase said. “I actually haven’t minded that much. Other things were given back to me.”

“Yes?” Josef looked hopeful. “What things?”

“My dad and I—we had pretty much stopped talking to each other before the fire. And it’s different now between us.”

“I understand. I was a boy your age once. So it is going well now with your father?”

“We’re talking to each other again. And I’m learning things about him I didn’t know before.”

“Such as?”

“Why he gave away everything he made in the woodshop.
He’s always been a numbers guy. He’s always felt this need to tip the scales in his favor. You know, give more than you take so you can somehow make up for the things that you can’t make right.”

“Ah, now there’s an exercise to keep you hopping. No wonder he had no time for conversation. I am glad for you, Chase.” Josef nodded. “What else was given back to you? Anything else?”

Chase knew what Josef hoped to hear. “My memory of the other fire. I got it back. The part I couldn’t remember? It was given back to me.”

“What other fire?” Eliasz said.

“Hush,
przyjaciel,
I told you about the other fire. You never listen to me.”

“I listen. I just forget.”

Josef turned to Chase. “So! Did God give it back to you?”

“I think maybe he did.”

“And you were satisfied with what you remembered?”

“It wasn’t me, Josef. I didn’t start the fire that killed that baby. The other kid in the room with me was the one playing with the lighter.”

“What baby?” Eliasz said.

Josef ignored him. “So it wasn’t you.”

“No.”

“I wonder why you were unable to remember that all these years, if it wasn’t your fault,” Josef said.

“I don’t know. But I do know I
felt
like it was my fault. In some ways I still do. I saw that cigarette smoldering on the bed when we left the room. Somehow I knew it was wrong to leave it like that. But I didn’t want to get caught sneaking around in Keith’s room. I didn’t want to get into trouble. And when flames
came through the heating vent into our room, I knew we were all in terrible danger. And I couldn’t reach Alyssa in her crib.”

“So you chose not to remember. Set a guard around it to keep the memory hidden away?”

Ghost.

“I guess so.”

“There is no shame in that, Chase. You were very young. Many in the ghetto, in Treblinka, had to do what you did. That is what all survivors must decide. We have to decide how much we will choose to remember and how much courage we are willing to expend to do so.”

“I suppose.”

“There is no supposing. It is the simple truth. We are the ones who know the flaws of the planet, yes? Who but us has the audacity to admit we are no match for a world in need of redemption? We choose how much we will carry away with us from the fire. Everyone else pretends they can’t even see the ashes.”

“Josef, what is all this serious talk?” Eliasz leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I’m getting all worked up, and my massage therapist doesn’t come on Tuesdays.”

Josef waved a hand toward his friend. “This is good. I am indeed happy for you.” He turned to Tally. “And you? Do you have good news? Have you heard from your father?”

Tally nodded. “He’s coming home next week. I’m going to meet him in Tucson. Then he’s taking me back to Warsaw for a few weeks, maybe a few months. We’re spending Thanksgiving there.”

“Oh! Then you will be leaving us. I should be happy for you. You will be leaving right away, then?”

“Yes.”

“And how do you feel about spending some time in Warsaw? Does this excite you?”

“Well, my dad doesn’t usually stay in one place very long, so I’ll be okay with however long we stay there,” Tally said. “But I’ve liked it here. I’m going to ask my dad if we can hang out here in San Diego when we get back. I only have two years left in high school. This would be a good place to spend them. I like having my family around me, even though everything isn’t always perfect.”

“Here, here,” Eliasz said lazily, eyes still closed. His voice sounded like he was teetering on the verge of slumber.

“And then Eliasz and I would have a chance to meet your extraordinary father, no?”

“Sure.”

“I like that plan. Don’t you, Eliasz?” But Eliasz had drifted off to sleep.

Tally looked over to Chase and he nodded. She reached down into a bag at her feet and withdrew a photograph and a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. “Actually, Josef, we didn’t just come here today to tell you I’m leaving for a little while,” Tally said. “I came across something the night of the fire that I think you should see.”