Sometimes, he’d latch to my breast, and I’d close my eyes and try to imagine I was somewhere else. I was terrified of bonding with him, but I was also anxious that I would see his biological father in his features. Every now and again, I became fixated on trying to remember what each of my attackers looked like. Was Anatol’s father the younger one? Was it the one with the bulbous nose? Or was it the oldest one?
“Emilia, do you think you could watch Anatol for a few minutes while I run out to look for fresh vegetables for dinner?” Truda asked one day, and I looked to her in alarm.
“Can’t you take him?”
She shot me a confused look and pointed to the freshly installed windowpane. “It’s raining.”
“I’ll go, then.”
“I’ll only be five minutes. You’ll be fine.”
She fixed a scarf over her hair and left before I could raise another protest. I sat Anatol down on a blanket in the corner of the room and moved myself to the other side of it, dusting some shelves that didn’t need dusting. After just a moment or two, he started to grizzle. I knew he didn’t need milk—I’d only fed him an hour earlier. I ignored the sound for a while, but that felt cruel, and so I impatiently crossed the room to pick him up.
He settled immediately in my arms, looking up at me with such curious wonder that I caught myself looking right back at him.
“Don’t be like them,” I whispered to the baby. “Please be good inside.”
He stuffed his tiny fist in his mouth, drool rolling down his chin. I sighed and jiggled him a little, turning my attention to the window.
Perhaps it was better that I felt wariness with Anatol. Perhaps that was better than the alternative, of bonding too strongly and struggling to let him go.
* * *
I knew that Roman and Mateusz were working on plans for a new business. Mateusz was anxious about what else Roman might be working on, especially with the referendum looming.
“He’s obsessed,” he told me, brow wrinkled with concern. “Every time it comes up, I feel like he’s ready to explode. I’m worried he’s going to get himself killed.”
“So am I,” I admitted. I hated the Soviet presence in Warsaw, too: every time I saw that uniform, some part of me wanted to revolt. But just as I taught myself to focus on rebuilding rather than the rubble, I learned to focus on the relative peacefulness of this new occupation, not the occupation itself.
Some days, I missed Roman so much I fiercely regretted pushing him away. But I knew I never could have dealt with Anatol’s arrival if I was distracted by Roman working ever closer toward blowing up his life.
“And how are you doing, Emilia?” Mateusz asked me suddenly. It was Sunday morning, and we were walking to Mass, Truda two steps ahead of us, pushing Anatol in a stroller we’d found and restored.
“I’m okay.”
“What will you do with your life?”
“When Anatol is older and Truda doesn’t need me as much, I’m going to find a job. I don’t know what exactly, but something creative. Uncle Piotr once told me that art is generous, and I like the idea of putting things out into the world to inspire people.”
Mateusz smiled softly, then slid his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close for a hug.
“That sounds pretty good to me.”
It was a warm summer morning, and the sky was a vibrant blue, the sun just beginning to bite. I was alive, and I felt alive. The future rolled out before me, a long and lonely road, but I wasn’t afraid of it. I was almost ready to move on to the next chapter.
43
Roman
Two days before the referendum, I was working in the abandoned storefront with Mateusz, trying to make the money he’d borrowed stretch as far as we could. There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for an invitation, a man opened it.
“Can I help you?” Mateusz asked, cordial as ever, but my heart began to pound. I looked around the storefront, trying to find a way out, but then the man stepped inside, and three more men entered behind him.
There were no uniforms, and they didn’t identify themselves as members of the Polish Communist Secret Service—the Urza˛d Bezpieczen´stwa, known as the UB. They didn’t have to. It was evident in the hard set of their gazes as they looked between Mateusz and me. It was evident in their aggressive stances.
As for me, I had faced death more times than I could count, but I had never been afraid like I was in that moment. If they had approached me in the pitiful excuse for a room I was renting, I’d have raised my fists, ready to fight. If they’d pulled up alongside me as I walked home from the office, I’d have taunted them. If they’d raided my meetings with the AK insurgents, I’d have relished the confrontation.
But those men were in our makeshift office, and Mateusz was right there beside me. In a heartbeat, I understood that Emilia was right to push me from her life. If I’d had my way, we might have been engaged by now. It might have been her watching my arrest.
“I’ll go willingly,” I said, hoping to defuse the situation before Mateusz tried to defend me. “This has nothing to do with him.”
One of the men grabbed me, twisting my bad arm behind me until I felt my shoulder pop out of its socket. One of the other men dug his hand into my hair as they dragged me toward the door. I didn’t care one bit about my capture or that I was likely about to undergo an interrogation. All I cared about was that behind me, I heard fists beating against skin and Mateusz crying out in pain, pleading for his life.
“Please, leave him alone,” I gasped. “He has nothing to do with this.”
As if they hadn’t heard me, the UB officers pushed me into the back seat of one of their two cars outside our shop. I looked out the window as the car began to move, only to see Mateusz raising his hands over his face, hopelessly trying to deflect the blows of the two men who remained behind.
44
Emilia
Out on the streets, the city was adjusting to the news that almost 70 percent of the country had voted yes to all questions, just as the Communists had asked them to. But in our apartment, Sara, Mateusz, Truda and I were sitting around the dinner table, the results the last thing on our minds.
My parents and Sara were drinking vodka like it was water—but while my visceral reaction to the scent of it had faded, I still couldn’t bear the taste. I nursed my third cup of tea instead. Anatol was sleeping in a Moses basket under the table, oblivious to the tense conversation above him. We had electricity as of the previous week, and the bulb that burned above us cast a yellow glow around the room—a novelty after months of getting by with candles.