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Magda grinned. "It is not his age, you know; it is tha
Polish. If one does not play games, then there is too much about. Is that not
so, Josef Potocki?"
"That is so, lovely Magda." He kissed his hand at her the
"But you asked about truth, young ones. 'What is truth? sai
Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.'
"We stay," said Magda.
"We stayed," corrected Becca.
"And I told you more of the truth than I have ever told
I gave Ksiginiczka the breath of life and she in turn gave
How could I not tell you the truth of that?"
"You said you were not a hero, that there were no hero
Becca. "But I think you were a hero. And so was my Ge
He smiled. "Your own American writer Emerson said:
is not fed on sweets but daily his own heart he eats.' If definition you can
accept, then I will tell you I have dined hard on my own heart. And it is
bitter."'
Almost on cue the housekeeper brought in the dessert, in individual dishes.
"But no more talk of heroism. Let us eat Madame G
cr6me caramel while it is still fresh. I taught it to her year now that I can
no longer cook it myself, she does the hono must admit-better than mine."
As they were leaving the house, Becca took Potocki's hand honestly think she
remembered. Not you, not my grandf
Briar Rose
181
any of it consciously. It had all become a fairy tale for her. She must have
told us the story of Briar Rose a million times. But it was all there,
buried."
"Just as well it was buried, my dear. I am glad she did not have my dreams."
He bent over and kissed her hand. "Write to an old man now and then. I think I
am your step-grandfather, in everything but name."
"Do you want your ring back?" Becca asked. "Or your photo-
graph?"
"Oh no. I gave it to her as corroboration for her story. And now it belongs to
you for yours." He smiled slowly. "Your grandfather was the real hero, you
know. He dived into that pit of hell and brought her out of it alive. I can
think of no one braver."
Magda stood on tiptoe and kissed him quickly on the cheek. "I
can," she said. "Sometimes living takes more courage than dying."
And they left.
The next morning Becca drove them back to the field by the Narew.
They got out, closed the doors quietly, and walked along the muddy road.
"Was it here, do you suppose?" Becca asked.
"Here-or close by."
They stared over the embankment down into the flat, grey water, then crossed
the muddy road to stand in the field.
"Listen," Becca said.
Magda listened. "What is it?"
"Trees in the wind. The river going by. Birds."
"And you expected what? Screams? Cries? The chatter of ma-
chine guns?"
Becca shrugged. "I didn't expect it to be so ... so quiet ... so peaceful."
"A grave is always quiet. Always filled with peace."
Becca nodded.
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"Unlike dreams," Magda said.
They got in the car and drove away.
They drove back to Warsaw without speaking, both lost in the story. The rest
of the day in Auntie's apartment their conversations were full of the
inconsequentials of planning the trip home.
I
182
Jane Men
"You found what you were looking for?" Auntie asked
Only once.
"I found what I was looking for," Becca answered.
"She found more," Magda said.
"And less," Becca said. For the first time she realized that s not really know
how Eve became Gitl, or if Gid had bee grandmother's real name. And she
realized, too, that she kn that her grandfather's name had been Aron
Mandlestein and had been a medical student. "And a hero." She hadn't meant it
aloud.
"Poland is fdled with heroes," Auntie Wanda said. "S
deep."
"Auntie you read too many of the western books," Magd laughing.
That was the last they spoke of it.
VA,ile they got ready for bed, Becca. turned suddenly to
"Your Auntie is wrong, you know."
"Wrong? About what?"
"You snore," Becca said. "A little. I thought you should
"She snores, too," Magda said, an impish smile lighting h
"That is why we do not share a room. But it is not polite say to strangers.
Especially Americans, who expect everyone t each in a single room. Yes?"
"My older sisters shared a room," Becca said. "And secret were jealous that I
had a room to myself, even if it was the s room in the house, not much bigger
than a large closet."
"Smaller than this room?" Magda said, gesturing.
Becca smiled sheepishly. "A little."
Magda climbed into the bed and pulled the covers up to h
Hesitating a moment, Becca sat down on her bed. "I neve know any of my
sisters' secrets and thought I was missin,~
thing. And now I know my grandmother's-and I'm not sur to know. Should I tell
them even/thing at home? Do you
Potocki would want me to? Is it better to let some things
"Let sleeping princesses lie?" Magda laughed. "We are a ing princesses some
time. But it is better to be fully awak you think?"
Becca considered for a moment. "Better for who?"-
~e did
1 her only at he
p say
feet
Isaid,
Igda.
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Briar Rose
183
"For whom? I know this grammar. But I do not understand the question," Magda
said. "Perhaps my English is not so good after all."
"Good grammar, bad English. Or rather, it may be your American that's
lacking," Becca said.
"Americans do not want to be awake?"
"Oh," Becca said, "we like the truth all right. When it's tidy."
"Truth is never tidy. Only fairy tales. This is a very Polish notion.
And you are Polish, you know."
"I know now," Becca said. "Good night, friend Magda."
"Good night, American princess." Magda turned over and was soon asleep but
Becca lay awake and thinking until nearly dawn.
The plane ride back was more than two hours late, but Becca slept almost the
entire way. The Potocki ring nestled between her breasts on the gold chain
Magda had insisted she buy. Even in her sleep her hand went to it.
Customs in New York was slow and she almost missed her connection to Bradley,
but with some quick footwork she managed to make it just before they closed
the doors on her flight.
She sank gratefully into her seat and got immediately into a deep
conversation with the man across the aisle about late flights. It quickly
turned into a discussion of her trip to Poland.
"Is it pretty?" he asked, "I've never been there."
"Not pretty," she said. "Not to me. But ... well ... haunting."
He nodded as if he understood. "Lots of old stories buried in those cities and
towns, I bet."
She thought about the mud-colored street running past the ruins of the castle;
about the old woman pointing them away from the men in the cloth caps who had
threatened them. She thought about the burnished cheeks of the middle-aged
priest and the way Po-
tocki's hands shook on the silver-headed cane. She thought of the names of the
camps as Potocki had spoken them-Sachenhausen, Dachau, Chelmno-like a horrible
poem. She thought about a pit filled with corpses and a young hero bringing [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
