Emilia
Roman was in traction for months, stuck in a hospital bed, reliant on others to care for him, with little to do but think. When he was finally released, Sara took him in. Her new apartment was a few blocks from City Hall, two Spartan rooms on the third floor of a hastily repaired apartment block. Roman was using a wheelchair while his legs further healed, and the stairs that led to Sara’s apartment were impossible for him to navigate. She worked irregular shifts at the hospital, and he was often at home alone all day, with only a radio and whatever books we could source to keep him company.
“Remember when we had libraries?” he said wistfully. “Entire buildings filled with books—all gone now. It seems crazy that I never stopped to appreciate that before.”
“The libraries will be rebuilt,” I promised. “We will rebuild them ourselves if we have to.”
At home, money was tighter than ever—Mateusz was struggling to pay off the loan he’d taken and to support us at the same time. He was resilient: he’d found work again on a construction crew and remained philosophical about our situation.
“I saved Roman’s life, and I have a hunch that might be one of the best things I ever did,” Mateusz said, shrugging. Truda was less forgiving.
“He better not let us down,” she warned, shaking her head. “It’s going to be a long time before I trust that boy again.”
Anatol was gradually weaning, down to only a morning and a night feed as he learned to eat solid food, and my days were at last my own. I found a job as a receptionist for a newly reestablished newspaper. The pay was terrible, but I knew that every zloty helped my family, and for the first time in a long time, I felt useful and independent. Every evening, on my way home from work, I called in on Roman to bring him a copy of the newspaper.
At last there was no curfew, and the streets were safe again. I could stay for hours, as late as I wanted to, and we would parse the newspaper, discussing the news as the country reformed. I knew it still pained Roman to see the Communist regime in power, but his venom eased. He was refocusing on eking out a new life, instead of raging as he had done for so long.
“I’ve been thinking about what you said to me in the hospital that day, about finding another way,” he said. “I think politics is the answer. It won’t be easy, but if we take all of the principles we learned in the Uprisings—mobilizing, organizing, finding a common ground—and we put those skills into lobbying for change, maybe one day we could free this country peacefully.”
“I like that,” I said, nodding excitedly. “What does it look like? How do you start?”
“Well, first I get better,” he said wryly, motioning toward his legs. “Then I wait for the universities to open, and probably study for a law degree.”
“Following in your father’s footsteps.”
He smiled as he nodded.
“Just like I always wanted.”
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he greeted me one day. He was in the kitchen, his wheelchair just behind him, leaning heavily on a cane with one hand as he stood at the stove, looking flustered and out of his depth.
“What on earth are you doing?”
“I’m trying to cook dinner for Sara.” The kitchen was a scene of destruction—sausages burning in a frying pan, potatoes cut into inconsistent pieces on a chopping board, and he’d even managed to hack unmanageable slices from a loaf of bread. I surveyed all of this, then looked back to him, and he slumped hopelessly. “It’s terrible, I know. Please help?”
Laughing, I joined him in the kitchen to repair the meal. He dropped back into the wheelchair to watch.
“I need to be better at this,” he muttered. “I never learned.”
I paused, suddenly realizing why he had no idea how to cook. Confined to the ghetto, his family had been forced to rely on rations. He probably couldn’t even remember a time when his mother had cooked normal meals for him.
“Don’t worry,” I said lightly. “I’ll teach you.”
He struggled to adjust to his lack of independence, and he struggled to heal, but I could see him making great strides emotionally. It was evident in the way he spoke: the sharpness and the aggression had faded from his voice, leaving room for vulnerability. And this new version of Roman was a man I knew I could trust. Our relationship had been strictly platonic since I had welcomed him back into my life, but every day we edged closer to something more.
“We should have a Sunday lunch here,” he said one day. “You and I can cook.”
I laughed softly. “I’m not sure you’re up to anything fancy yet, but I’ll help.”
“We should plan it for a day when Sara can be here.”
“That sounds like a great idea.”
“And...” He drew in a deep breath, then said, “Emilia, I need you to invite your family.”
“Why?” I asked, then held my breath. This was the moment I had been waiting for, but this gesture had to come from his heart.
Roman’s gaze was steady.
“Mateusz has come to visit me, and I’ve thanked him in person, but I haven’t seen Truda, and I need to meet Anatol.”
“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”
He leaned forward and cupped my cheek in his palm, staring at me with such tenderness, my heart contracted in my chest.
“It’s the next thing, love,” he whispered. “There are a whole series of things I need to do, and this is the next thing.”
The following Sunday, Roman and I made a simple meal of roast potatoes and vegetables. Sara baked an apple cake for dessert.
Mateusz entered the apartment first, shaking hands warmly with Roman, then embracing Sara and me. When Truda stepped in behind him, Anatol on her hip, she cast her eyes over the room, then her gaze settled on Roman. He crossed the room slowly and looked between her and Anatol, who at ten months old was already squirming and ready to be put onto the floor to scoot around this new and exciting space. But Truda just paused in the doorway, staring at Roman, her expression unfathomable. He let out a breath, then extended his hand. Truda shook it warily.
“Your family saved my life,” Roman said steadily. “I will never forget that, and I will never let you down again.”
Truda raised her chin, then cocked an eyebrow.
“Good,” she said abruptly, then she sat the baby on the ground and walked around Roman to the kitchen. “Let me see these potatoes. Emilia always undercooks them. I want to make sure you’ve done them right.”
After the stilted start, lunch was relaxed and easy. I looked around the table at the people I loved most in the world, alive and strong and healthy. Piotr was missing, but just as this thought struck me, Mateusz suddenly raised a glass of wine and said, “To Piotr.”
And I felt my uncle there in spirit as we echoed the toast and tasted the wine. After a moment of silence, Roman caught my eye and smiled quietly.
“I never thought we’d be lucky enough to sit around a table together like this, to share in a meal of delicious food and wine, in a nice apartment in a city at peace.”
“Delicious is a bit of a stretch, but I’ll toast the rest of that,” Mateusz laughed, nodding toward his undercooked potatoes. We all laughed, and to me, that moment of shared laughter sounded like music.
While Truda and Sara washed the dishes, Roman and I sat on the floor. Anatol was wary of strangers, but over lunch, he’d gradually warmed up to Roman. Now, he was sitting near us, trying to mouth Roman’s cane.
“He’s all you,” Roman murmured quietly.
“He does look a lot like me,” I admitted.
“I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t a tiny version of you,” he said, then he looked at me. “Do you regret asking Truda and Mateusz to raise him?”
I shook my head hastily.
“I don’t know how to explain it, but I don’t love him as my son. He’s my brother.” My throat tightened. “If I could go back and change it, I’d have clung to Mateusz that day at the market, and none of this would have happened. But I can’t, and so I choose to see Anatol as a miracle. God gave Truda the child she’d always wanted, and he gave me a brother to replace the one I lost. That’s all. That’s the only way I see it.”
“Then, that’s how I’ll see it, too,” Roman said softly, and he reached out a hand toward Anatol, who tentatively reached out and touched his fingers. “Hey there, little boy. Want to change the world with me?”
“I think you should let him learn how to walk and talk before you get him involved in politics.”
“It doesn’t hurt to start him young, Emilia.” He grinned. “Poland is going to need this next generation to be smart.”
“Then, that’s how we should raise our children,” I announced. Roman’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, and a broad smile transformed his features.
“Our children,” he repeated, as he reached to take my hand. “It’s going to take me some time to pay Mateusz back. And I need to earn my degree, to set myself up. But I promise you, Emilia, I will work every day of my life to make you as happy as you can be.”
I felt light—free and hopeful in a way that I hadn’t in years, maybe since before the war.
“And I will do the same for you,” I promised.
The road behind us was paved with tragedy and loss, but the future stretched before us—full of challenge, yes, but also endless possibilities and hope.
At long last, Roman and I were ready to fall into step together and see where life would lead us.