The labor was so fast I barely had a chance to catch my breath between contractions. It was my labor—but it was also our labor, because Truda was with me for every moment. When I was in pain, I saw that pain in her eyes. When I rested between contractions, I saw her relax, too, even just briefly. And when I cried, she cried, as if she couldn’t bear to see me suffering alone.
I always thought of her as a harsh woman, and she could be. But that night, we were as close as two women could be—mother and child, laboring together to bring life to the world. And as the sun rose over the snow-covered township below us, Truda’s son at last made his way from my body into the world. Sister Teodora wrapped him in a blanket and moved to pass him to me, but I shook my head.
“No. His mother should hold him first.”
When I saw new love dawn on Truda’s face, and when I saw the gratitude in her eyes, I realized that although I would always suffer for what had happened to me, I would heal through knowing that something so glorious had come of it.
Truda had been patient and kind and generous and brave, and she had prayed and waited, and through war and grief and heartbreak and tragedy, God had finally granted her a miracle.
41
Roman
June 1946
Mateusz won a small grant from the city toward his new textiles business. It wasn’t nearly enough to get up and running, but it was a start, and he applied for a loan to get the rest of the funds he needed. I would be his right-hand man until he was more established, but after that, we agreed that I would look for another job. I liked paperwork, but I didn’t have a clue where to start with the actual textiles.
He and I were trying to find a suitable building, but commercial real estate was all but impossible to find. The rebuilding effort was focused on housing. While we searched, we worked out of an abandoned storefront. My desk was a singed door stacked on bricks, and when it rained, ash and muddy concrete dust dripped from gaps in the roof. A much more sensible solution would have been for us to set up in Uncle Piotr’s old office in Mateusz’s apartment, but he didn’t suggest it, and I didn’t ask.
Every moment of every day, Emilia was on my mind, but I hadn’t seen her since that day at the convent, and I hadn’t met baby Anatol, though Mateusz talked about him constantly. He didn’t seem to notice that every single time the baby came up, I stiffened and tried to change the subject. He was so besotted with his son he couldn’t help himself. I heard about Anatol’s first smile. That he’d rolled over already, and that Sara said that was early for a baby to roll so he must be advanced. And then the baby was babbling, and Mateusz was sure he’d heard the sound tatus´, Polish for Daddy. I just couldn’t understand how that family welcomed that baby, knowing what Emilia had been through. I was glad that I’d never met Anatol Rabinek. I couldn’t imagine feeling any affection toward him whatsoever.
As chatty as Mateusz was in those months, I was reserved. I was nurturing something new, too—something I was immensely proud of. I’d joined with a small group of returned AK insurgents, and we’d begun to execute a series of acts of sabotage. We were trying to stir the spirit of our city toward a broader resistance, even if all we could do with our limited resources was to paint prodemocracy slogans onto whatever walls were standing or distribute crude propaganda in support of a rebellion.
I was still bewildered by how hard it was to rally support for the underground within the general population. I had participated in two uprisings, and each time, those around me rose in support of the rebellion without any prompting. Now, Warsaw seemed resigned to its fate.
“The people’s referendum is coming,” Mateusz remarked cheerfully, as we inspected a potential factory one day in May. “You see? We will get a say in our future.”
“The people’s referendum,” I scoffed, kicking a burned brick with the tip of my boot. “It will be a farce, Mateusz.” The referendum would ask a series of questions about the senate, the border and the nationalization of property, but it was a codified referendum that could almost have been one question: Do the people welcome the Communist regime? Pro-Communists cheered the people to vote in support of all questions. Democratic groups campaigned for Poles to vote no.
My underground unit felt certain that before a single vote was cast, the outcome of the referendum had been decided. Stalin was the puppet master, working to embed the local Communist factions so deeply that we’d never unseat them, and while the Kremlin controlled our leadership, Poland would not be free. Emilia would not be free, whether or not she knew it. I felt certain she would never heal until the Soviets were excised from our land.
“We must work toward sovereignty,” I said, although I knew Mateusz had already conceded defeat. “The war will not end until the Polish people govern our nation.”
Mateusz smiled sadly and pointed out toward the street. Men and women were demolishing ruins and removing the rubble, and new buildings were shooting up. The sounds of hammers and nails had replaced the sound of bullets and bombs.
“We are rebuilding,” he said simply. “It is over.”
“We are rebuilding a version of Poland with a Soviet veneer,” I said, voice tight with fury. “It will never be over until we chip off that veneer.”
“Again we must agree to disagree, my friend,” Mateusz said sadly. He looked at the gaping hole in the roof of the factory and sighed. “This place isn’t going to work, either, is it?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “The search continues.”
42
Emilia
There were good moments and awful moments in the first few months of Anatol’s life. One day, I came downstairs for a drink of water and found Truda sitting in the lounge just staring at the baby in her arms. Mateusz was on the sofa next to her, staring at her face. They both wore looks of sheer adoration, so pure and so intense that it brought tears to my eyes.
A few weeks later, Truda was holding Anatol in one arm, singing quietly as she stared down at him. I didn’t see his smile—but I saw her reaction to it. Her entire face lit up, and she looked at me with tears in her eyes.
“Did you see that? He smiled at me! It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!”
“It was,” I agreed, although I knew we were talking about different smiles.
In moments like that, I forgot I had had any part in Anatol’s conception and birth. He was my baby brother and a gift from God to the parents I loved.
The worst moments were more difficult to navigate. I had to breastfeed Anatol—there was no alternative. Truda did not have milk, and it was difficult to get fresh food, let alone baby formula. The act of breastfeeding became physically easier with time, but it was emotionally challenging.