Rape. I was raped. Lots of my countrywomen have been raped, too. Do they also wish they were dead? Will there be a whole generation of Polish women who will find themselves unable to look in a mirror because the shame is too great?
“This may be hard to believe right now, but you will be okay.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. She had been so kind to me, and I didn’t want to tell her that I already knew she was wrong.
* * *
There was a tap at the door an hour later. Maria grabbed the rifle before I even had time to react. There was something so reassuring about that pint-size woman approaching the door with a rifle in her hand, as if she could take on the whole Soviet army.
“Who is it?” she demanded.
“It’s me,” Wiktor said gruffly, then a little lighter, “Please don’t shoot me, dear.”
Maria unlocked the door, and then Wiktor and Truda and Mateusz all rushed inside. I thought I would feel better when I saw them, but I didn’t. All I felt was shame and guilt, especially when I saw that Truda was crying, and even Mateusz’s eyes were red-rimmed.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted. My lips were so swollen that the word sounded distorted. “I’m so sorry. I lost you in the market and then when I couldn’t find you, I tried to walk home and—”
“Don’t,” Mateusz gasped, visibly horrified. “It’s my fault. I should have waited longer for you, I looked for a little while and then I... I thought I would find you walking home but...” He blinked, and a tear trickled onto his cheek. He swiped it away so quickly I thought I might have imagined it. He and Truda sat on either side of me, but I couldn’t look at them. I covered my face with my hands and began to sob.
“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
We were all saying it—them to me, me to them, and the worst thing was none of us had anything to be sorry for at all.
34
Emilia
Mateusz and Truda were the kind of people who ordinarily had no tolerance for self-pity, but in the weeks that followed, they seemed bewildered about how to help me and opted to give me space, which allowed me to wallow. I spent days in bed, physically recovering from the trauma, emotionally retreating into a kind of coma. I ate when Truda forced me to. I couldn’t bring myself to look in the mirror in the small bathroom we shared, and so I had taken to covering it with a towel when I went in to use the toilet. I couldn’t imagine ever feeling an emotion like joy again. At one point, I spent a whole afternoon trying to remember the steps between amusement and laughter.
It was as if those soldiers had reached inside me and removed my soul, leaving behind a broken shell. My bruises and my wounds slowly healed, but I still viewed the world through a haze of sadness and confusion. Once upon a time I had been so interested and concerned about the Soviet occupation and what it would mean for my nation. Now, I couldn’t bear to see that uniform, so I didn’t leave the factory at all. And I couldn’t bear to hear them spoken about, so I avoided conversation. I couldn’t focus to read. Mateusz had purchased a wireless radio, and one day, the Lodz station played the Polish national anthem. Prior to the attack, this would have brought me tears of happiness and pride. Instead, even at the lowest volume, the music seemed too loud, and it hurt my ears. Neither Truda nor Mateusz raised a protest when I got up and simply turned it off.
Days ran into one another. It might have been less than a week; it might have been months. One evening, I was lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Truda and Mateusz approached me.
“Emilia, we need to go back to Warsaw.”
Not so long ago, those words would have sounded like music. But I couldn’t bear music now, and the thought of facing Sara and Roman filled me with dread. I missed him desperately, but I couldn’t imagine even looking Roman in the eye. I shook my head.
“I can’t.”
“We must,” Truda said firmly. “We need to find word of our friends, and besides, sooner or later, industry will begin to rebuild, and someone is going to help themselves to this factory. We need to build a proper home, and there are grants for those who return to the city.”
“Grants?”
“Five hundred zloty each,” she said. I gave her a blank look, and she conceded, “I know. It is not a lot, but it will help with the cost of finding food and shelter even if the damage is as bad as people say. Besides, Emilia...we are slowly but surely running out of things to sell here at the factory. Soon we’ll have no money and no way to earn more. We really have no choice but for Mateusz to try to find work, and there will be plenty of work in a city that needs to rebuild.”
“No. I can’t.”
“Don’t you want to leave this city, Emilia?” Truda asked me gently.
I stared at her. Truda’s gentle side was a novelty, but not one I enjoyed. I missed brash Truda, honest and authentic Truda, the version of Truda I had always butted heads with. This careful woman was a stranger to me.
“I won’t go,” I said flatly. I wanted to enrage her. Instead, she just looked away.
“Okay, sweetheart,” Mateusz said softly, and they both rose. But just a few steps from my bed, Truda hesitated, then returned to sit beside me.
“I don’t know how to help you,” she admitted, then she looked at me again, and this time there was deeper concern in her eyes. “I’m going to be honest with you, Emilia. We need Sara. She can help you recover, and I think we will—” She broke off, then cleared her throat and stared at the floor as she said weakly, “We just need Sara.”
“She probably isn’t even alive,” I said bitterly. “She’s probably dead. Or in a camp somewhere.”
“We have to at least try to find her. And Roman, too.”
“I don’t want to see him,” I said angrily. Her eyes widened in surprise, and I felt my face flush beet red. God, the shame was overwhelming. How was I ever going to learn to live with the shame? “I don’t—I can’t. I don’t want either one of them to see me.”
“Emilia,” she whispered, gently touching my forearm. “Surely you know that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“You don’t know that. You weren’t even there.”
She drew in a sharp breath, then her hands tightened around my wrist.
“I wasn’t there for you, and I will never forgive myself for that. But I’m here now, and I insist that you explain yourself to me—how could you possibly blame yourself?”
Her voice shook, with fury or frustration, I wasn’t exactly sure why. But her rage felt good anyway, and I let it wash over me, as if it was directed at me.